PROLOGUE
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
Huge globules of rain hammered against the shop window and checking my watch, I let out a long sigh. I looked to the heavens. ‘Well you can’t say I didn’t try, Gran.’
Imagining her looking down at me, her short legs dangling over one of the sky’s big black clouds, her white wash-and-set, bright blue eyes and kind expression were as clear to me then as they’d always been. She wagged a bony finger my way, as if insisting I gave up far too easily.
‘It’s all right for you,’ I said. ‘You’re not the one waiting around.’
When I’d decided to form The Knitting Nook’s first crochet group, I’d envisaged a room full of fun and laughter. Wool crafters sharing tips and learning new skills. I’d imagined chatter galore as we completed community projects such as post box toppers and baby blankets for the hospital maternity unit. Instead, I was left questioning why, out all the evenings Father Weather could have set the scene for Noah’s Ark, he had to choose that one?
I glanced around the peopleless room, disappointed my efforts had been for nothing. Dragging my feet as I went, I gathered up all the needles and yarn I’d laid out in readiness.
The shop doorbell rang and pausing in my actions, I looked over to see Joyce, a volunteer at the local charity shopCompassion Corner, on the threshold. My spirits lifted and telling myself that one attendee was better than none, I again glanced upwards. As usual, Gran was right. I should’ve had more faith.
Piquing my curiosity, Joyce glanced both up and down the hight street. She came in and shut the door behind her, appearing to breathe a sigh of relief, and she wasn’t the only one. My crochet group might well be a success after all! Vindicated, I too could relax.
‘Where is everybody?’ Joyce took off her sodden rain mac and without even looking for somewhere to put it, handed it straight to me. ‘Although I shouldn’t be surprised. No one in their right mind would venture out in this downpour.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a towelling face cloth to dry her short grey hair, while I hung her coat on a hook behind the till.
‘Maybe everyone’s just running late,’ I replied. Laying the tools of my trade out for a second time, I indicated that she should take a seat. ‘Why don’t we give it a few more minutes? You know, in case.’
Joyce smiled as she made herself comfortable. ‘Happy to. It’s not like I’m in any rush.’ She glanced around the shop, as if taking in every detail. ‘You’ve done a great job with this place.’
Appreciating the compliment, I scanned the room. I’d worked hard to bring Gran’s wool shop into the twenty-first century and it was good to know I’d done her proud. Every inch had been decorated and modernised. The only thing I’d kept was the shop’s name. I’d updated stock and created a seating area for customers to browse patterns at leisure. I’d dotted around knitwear made with my own hands, as examples of what they, too, could achieve. Having extended the range of haberdashery, I’d installed a rail of fabrics to go with numerous small sewing items such as cotton threads, buttons and zips. The whole space had gone from dark and dingy to bright and airy.
Many a Settledown resident had kept an eye on my progress. Calling the fruits of my labourstunningandnecessary, they’d welcomed the changes. But with only Joyce turning up for my crochet group, their praise could have been lip service.
‘Have you crocheted before?’ I asked.
‘Nope.’
‘How about knitting?’
‘Yes, I’ve done that.’
I was pleased to hear this: at least Joyce understood yarns.
‘But I was rubbish at it,’ she added.
The shop door sounded again, and I jumped up from my seat. I didn’t recognise the woman entering, but my heart went out to her. Less prepared for the weather than Joyce, she looked like she’d been swimming with her clothes on.
With not even a jacket let alone an umbrella, her wide-leg linen trousers were saturated, and her cotton shirt soaked through. Her clearly expensive sandals were ruined, and I hastened through to the back. ‘Here you are,’ I said, returning with a towel.
‘Look at the state of me.’ Accepting my offering, the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, dried her shoulder-length hair. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have listened to this morning’s weather man.’
Joyce scoffed. ‘Don’t talk to me about men.’
Ignoring Joyce’s quip, I gestured the newcomer forward. ‘Glad you could make it.’
She stared at me confused. ‘Make what?’
I indicated the workbench. ‘Our session.’
Eyeing the tools of my trade, the woman chuckled. ‘Do I look like I crochet?’
‘I don’t know,’ I replied in earnest. ‘What does a crocheter look like?’
She took in my delicate granny-square cardigan, raising an eyebrow as she turned her attention to the floral blouse and skirt combo that covered Joyce’s ample figure. ‘Like you two, I suppose. Comfortable.’
