An English Boy in New York Read online

  I’ve made them delete all the rude words they added to the dictionary.

  ‘I play Scrabble with Molly sometimes,’ I pointed out to Mum. ‘I don’t want her pressing the Hint button and having it suggest she adds J-O-B to the word HAND.’

  Mum looked a bit sheepish then, and she promised she wouldn’t do it again, but Dad was cracking up in the kitchen, so I don’t trust them one iota.

  ‘It looks like Megan can’t come to New York,’ I said as Dad came back in, breathing weirdly and with a red face.

  ‘Have you broken up already?’ Mum asked, a bit too quickly. I looked at her in hurt surprise.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But thanks for immediately jumping to that conclusion. ‘

  ‘So why isn’t she going?’ Dad asked.

  I explained about her gran, that she hadn’t been well for a while and in any case thought my name was Simon. I didn’t say that I thought it was a poor excuse but maybe they picked it up from my tone.

  ‘When I get old,’ Dad said. ‘Put me on a flight to Switzerland. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.’ He says things like this a lot. But I suspect when it comes to the crunch Molly and I won’t be able to prise his fingers away from the boarding gate at Heathrow.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he’ll squeal. ‘I don’t want to go with dignity.’

  I’ll have to get something in writing.

  I’m joking.

  Monday 22nd April

  You know how in fly-on-the-wall documentaries the producers often have to inject some artificial tension into the story? They might be filming some B-list celeb learning how to do something for the first time, like baking a cake, or recording a song, or performing open-heart surgery and there’ll be a phone call they’re nervously waiting for where they find out if the cake rose, or the song got to number one, or the patient survived.

  ‘This is the big moment,’ the voice-over person (usually Dermot O’Leary) will say. ‘If things have gone badly, it could mean the end of (insert B-list celeb’s name here)’s career in baking/singing/cardio surgery.’

  Well, my whole life is like that. A series of moderately dramatic episodes and a constant, low-level anxiety. There’s the occasional properly exciting moment, of course, like when I won at the All-UK Knitting Championship. But mostly it’s minor triumphs or, more often, slight disappointments.

  I popped into the school office at break today.

  Lloyd Manning was sitting outside Mrs Tyler’s office looking thunderous.

  ‘What have you done this time?’ I asked. I was full of courage knowing that he couldn’t very well start gouging my eyes out here in the office.

  He ignored me.

  ‘Don’t talk to him,’ called Miss Lucie the receptionist. ‘What do you want here, anyway?’

  ‘Is Mrs Tyler free?’ I asked.

  She was, as it happened, and Miss Lucie told me to go straight in.

  ‘Hi, Ben,’ she said brightly. ‘What can I do for you?’ Mrs Tyler’s been a lot happier since I won the knitting competition. I’m not saying it was entirely down to me, but a week after the win, Virilia announced a new three-year sponsorship for the school. We’re now the Virilia Academy of Excellence in Mathematics and Agriculture. The sports hall is getting a new roof and has now been renamed the Virilia Academy Stadium of Dreams.

  ‘You know how I won that knitting competition,’ I began.

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I’ve been given two tickets to go to KnitFair USA. In New York.’

  ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘But it’s in term time. In a couple of weeks, as it happens.’

  She frowned and paused.

  Dermot O’Leary popped up in my head and started speaking in a quiet, concerned voice. ‘Will Mrs Tyler allow Ben to travel to the US? If she doesn’t, it could mean the end of Ben’s hopes.’

  ‘How long would you be going for?’

  ‘A week, just a week,’ I said. ‘And a day, because I’d fly back on the Monday.’

  ‘And you said you had two tickets? Will your mother be going with you?’

  ‘Er … ’

  ‘Another student?’

  ‘Possibly … ’ I said slowly, trying to gauge her reaction.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I replied. ‘I have a few options.’

  ‘I’m happy for you to go, Ben,’ she said. ‘Mr Hollis from Virilia will be delighted to hear you are pursuing your knitting interests. You know they are very keen for us to develop our entrepreneurial focus. I am however less sure about allowing two students to go. I’d have to be reassured that it would be in the long-term interests of the other student as well.’

  Oh God. Looks like it might have to be my mother after all, if I don’t think of something quick.

  * * *

  Dear Ms Gunter,

  Thank you for your letter dated 19h April, requesting my attendance at a Waypoint Assessment Conversation on the 4th May. I am emailing you today to ask if it would be possible to re-arrange the date for that appointment as I will be in New York at that time attending KnitFair USA.

  Sorry about this. I am free the week before, or the week after. Or indeed any other week. My calendar is almost entirely empty right up until the SuperStitch Eisteddfod in Wokingham on the 24th June.

  Best wishes,

  Ben

  So about five seconds after sending that email I get a call from Ms Gunter.

  ‘Hello, Ben? It’s Claudia Gunter here from West Meon Probation Services.’

  ‘Hi, Ms Gunter, I just sent you an email!’

  ‘I know you did, Ben. That’s why I’m calling.’

  ‘Good news about KnitFair, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well … ’

  ‘Top male knitter Fabrice Gentile is going to be there. And there’s a demonstration of a new system for shearing a sheep, treating and dying the wool and knitting it into a jumper all in a hundred and twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s going to be a blast, Ben,’ she said. ‘The problem is that you can’t go.’

  The incidental music swelled and Dermot piped up again. ‘It’s a crushing blow for Ben. And completely out of the blue.’

  ‘What?’ I spluttered. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re on probation, Ben! One of the terms of your probation is that you don’t leave the country.’

  The room swam and I felt a bit sick.

  ‘But you were there when I won the prize,’ I protested. ‘Why didn’t you tell me then?’

  ‘I thought it was next year’s KnitFair they were talking about.’

  ‘I was just getting back on the straight and narrow,’ I said. ‘A disappointing setback like this could force me back into a life of crime.’

  ‘You shoplifted a bottle of Tia Maria from Tesco,’ Ms Gunter said in a withering tone. ‘You’re not Tony Soprano.’

  ‘It was Martini Rosso, actually,’ I reminded her. ‘From Waitrose.’

  ‘Couldn’t you phone them up and ask if you can attend next year’s show?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve already got e-tickets!’ I said. ‘They’re not going to want me next year. Especially if I have to tell them I’m a hoodlum.’

  ‘You’re hardly a hoodlum, Ben,’ she said patiently.

  ‘So why can’t I go to America?’

  Ms Gunter sighed. ‘I’ll make some calls. See what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Ms Gunter,’ I said, hope surging again.

  ‘I’m not promising anything, Ben. The Home Office doesn’t tend to make exceptions.’

  I was so wound up after that roller coaster of a phone call that I couldn’t even concentrate on my knitting. The Hoopie I was working on now has a noticeable sag to the left. I’m not even sure how I did it but the hem on the left is two to three inches lower than the right.

  I’ve decided not to tell anyone I might not be going to America. This is the New Ben. Positive Ben. Focused Fletcher. If I pretend everything’s OK, maybe it will be.
<
br />   Tuesday 23rd April

  I’m a little concerned about Molly. She came home from school on Friday to tell us she has a boyfriend named Finlay. I was alarmed to hear they’d had what Molly called ‘a romantic moment’ on the buddy bench. This turned out to be nothing more worrying than a quiet chat and an exchange of Moshi Monsters which isn’t as disturbing as it sounds. Mum and Dad just laughed at the whole thing but I don’t think it’s right that children of seven should be having relationships. More to the point, what if Finlay and Molly outlast me and Megan?

  I caught up with Joz at lunch today and asked him about New York. ‘Another knitting fair?’ he asked, looking pained. ‘I thought you were over the knitting thing.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I replied. ‘Look, the fair itself is only on the weekend, the week before is just sightseeing and … ’

  ‘ … and what?’

  ‘And the occasional knitting-related media event.’

  ‘So I’d be like your assistant?’

  ‘Yeah, like in the Tour de France. My support team.’

  ‘I drive after you in a car with spare needles on the roof rack?’

  ‘Yes, and inject me with performance-enhancing potions in the team bus.’

  ‘Potions?’

  ‘Tea,’ I said. ‘And Hobnobs.’

  ‘And will we get the chance to go to a bar?’

  ‘Mmm, not sure about that. You have to be twenty-one to drink in the US.’

  ‘You’re not selling this to me.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re considering turning down the chance to go to KnitFair USA,’ I said, agog. ‘They have a monkey there who can crochet. A crocheting monkey!’

  He shrugged. ‘Also I don’t really want to leave Amelia just at the moment. She’s pretty vulnerable.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ I said. ‘Don Joz the ladykiller. Author of Fifty Shades of Graham. International playboy, turns down a chance to go to the US because of some girl.’

  ‘She’s not just some girl,’ he said. ‘What we have is special.’ He underlined this point by hawking a huge, phlegm-filled lugie onto a tree stump a few feet away.

  ‘She’s one lucky little lady,’ I said, trying not to be sick and wondering how to change the subject. ‘Any luck with the manuscript?’ I asked after some thought. Joz has finished Fifty Shades of Graham and has sent it off to a few publishers in London.

  ‘Couple more rejections,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said. ‘Maybe erotica is dead.’

  ‘No chance. Erotica has been around for centuries. I’ve been researching it.’

  ‘I bet you have.’

  ‘I mean literary erotica. Anaïs Nin, Marquis de Sade. It’s all free on Kobo.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’ve been reading Marquis de Sade?’

  ‘Well, dipping in.’ He leaned towards me and whispered. ‘Did you know he used to eat people’s poo?’

  ‘Really?’ I cried. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘He used to make his lovers eat marzipan so the poo wouldn’t taste so bad.’

  ‘If he doesn’t like the taste, then why’s he eating it?’

  ‘I know. He should just eat the marzipan,’ Joz said. ‘Cut out the middle man.’

  ‘I’m having a horrible flashback to that night at your place when you made me watch The Human Caterpillar,’ I said, shuddering and laughing at the same time.

  It’s a shame Joz can’t come to America. He’s revolting, and a bit weird, but he’s funny.

  Well, that’s three people off the list. Who’s next? Oh yeah. Freddie. Sigh. At least he won’t turn me down. He has no girlfriend, no job, no literary pretensions and, as luck would have it, all his grandparents are already dead.

  Saturday 27th April

  I’ve actually been spending a bit more time with Freddie recently. Today I rode my bike out to Hampton FC’s ground for my guilty displeasure. I may have mentioned this before but I hate football. Dad calls it the beautiful game, but sitting in an ice storm watching twenty-two badly tattooed smokers run through heavy mud and failing to score is not the classic definition of beauty, as described by the poets.

  So why am I still going to watch Hampton FC even though Dad isn’t there? I think there’s possibly been some behind-the-scenes discussions between my subconscious and my psyche that acknowledges that although the whole knitting thing is completely cool and we’re all fine with my sexual identity and my being able to flange my selvages in a delightfully cheeky way doesn’t mean that I’m effeminate, nonetheless it’s important not only to remember my masculine side but also to exhibit it in public from time to time. Hence, the odd appearance at a manly football match.

  So there I was, sitting between Freddie, wearing a huge Puffa jacket, and Gordon McGavin from McGavin’s Electrical Solutions, who was wearing a Russian hat and a sheepskin coat. I had a 4-ply merino wool tank top under my roll-top cable-knit sweater plus a beanie I’d knitted over the weekend and I was still colder than I’d ever been in my life.

  ‘They say they’re building a new stand next season,’ Mr McGavin grunted. ‘Hopefully it’ll be made of concrete. Cut out some of this sodding wind.’

  ‘They could build it out of ice,’ I suggested. ‘Like that hotel in the Arctic.’

  Hampton were playing Liss and neither team had much zip about them. It was heavy going in the mud, the weather was freezing and with no exciting Joe Boyle, there was also no ravishing Jessica Swallow sitting in the stands, so no one to show off to.

  At half-time I staved off boredom by reading Freddie’s dad’s copy of the Daily Mail. There was an article about deep vein thrombosis which you get if you sit still on a plane for too long. Apparently this granny had to have her leg amputated after a flight to, you guessed it, New York. She then had to sell her house to pay the medical bills.

  So that’s something else to worry about. Yippee.

  ‘So, Freddie,’ I began, as Milford kicked off the second half. Hampton’s left back slipped in the mud and lay helplessly, watching the ball trickle over the line.

  ‘Corner!’ someone shouted.

  ‘How would you like to go to America?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘America. New York. Remember I won those tickets?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Remember at the Knitting Show in London?’

  ‘Oh right. You won?’

  I paused. Had he really forgotten already?

  A Liss centre-half booted the ball randomly into the melee before the goalmouth. The exhausted players watched it plop into the churned mud and sit there. For a moment, nobody moved. Then the goalie stepped forward in a manner which said, ‘Well, if no one else can be bothered, I suppose it’s up to me,’ and banged it back down the pitch. The rest of the players set off after it with a collective sigh.

  ‘Yes. I won. Famously,’ I reminded him. ‘I got a trophy. Joz broke his arm. Gex disguised himself as a sheep and had to go into hospital with blood poisoning from the dye. Remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Freddie laughed.

  ‘So I won some tickets to go to another knitting show in New York,’ I went on patiently. ‘And there are two tickets. So I wondered if you wanted to go with me?’

  ‘To New York?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On a plane?’

  ‘Or we could walk?’ I suggested.

  ‘I can’t walk. I have an infected verruca.’

  ‘OK, let’s fly, then.’

  ‘Well … ’ Freddie seemed to be thinking about it.

  ‘I’ll come if he doesn’t want to,’ said Gordon McGavin. ‘Always wanted to go to New York.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr McGavin,’ I said. ‘I’ll put you on the reserve bench.’

  He took me at my word and made me punch his number and email into my phone.

  The ball had become bogged down in the far corner of the pitch. The players huddled around it, seemingly in no hurry to bring it back. Possibly they’d realised we couldn’t see what they
were up to over there and were having a quick smoke break.

  ‘So you’ll come?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, s’pose,’ Freddie said.

  ‘Don’t get too excited, will you.’ I slumped back in my seat.

  Why do I bother? I should have just sold the bloody thing on eBay.

  Monday 29th April

  Ran into Ms Swallow at school today. She was struggling with some boxes of essays for marking and I offered to help carry them to her car. She was wearing her hair up in a ponytail and I was so busy watching the smooth skin on the back of her neck that I forgot to listen to what she was saying.

  ‘ … Ben?’

  ‘What? Sorry.’

  She’d stopped to turn around and had a half-smile.

  ‘I said, I hear you’re off to New York next week?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Did Miss Tyler tell you? She gave me permission to miss the classes as long as I take some work with me.’

  ‘Yes. It sounds amazing. You’re so lucky. You don’t happen to have a spare ticket, do you?’ she laughed and carried on towards the car.

  I laughed too. In a slightly strained way.

  ‘Are you taking Megan?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘She can’t go.’

  ‘Oh, shame,’ she said. ‘It would have been fun to take a transatlantic flight with her.’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘So who are you taking?’

  ‘Not sure yet. There are a few people interested; someone’s going to be disappointed.’

  ‘I know, I could go as your chaperone,’ she said. We both laughed again at the thought.

  ‘I’ll add you to the list,’ I said weakly. Then I nearly collapsed as she bent over to rest her box on the ground.

  She’s so beautiful. Imagine if she did come to New York with me. She might drink a little too much champagne on the flight over and fall asleep on my shoulder. Or maybe she’d be scared of flying and I’d have to put my arm around her in a comforting manner.

  And once there, maybe the man from Priapia would offer me a top job thinking up knitting patterns and I’d turn it down and Ms Swallow would ask me why and I’d say, ‘Because you’re my muse, Jessica Swallow, and I couldn’t design so much as a table mat without you by my side.’ And she’d say, ‘Why have you never told me this before?’ And I’d say, ‘It was my secret. But I can’t lie to you any more.’