SPLIT CHAIN STITCH
To cast on make sure you have a slip knot on the left hand needle. Place the point of the right hand needle into the slip knot and make a knit stitch. Whatever you do, do not slip it off the left.
Rachael found small towns had a gravity to them like some dense star lay hidden under the marketplace cobbles. Held people in place. Held time in place. She passed through like a comet. There was a skill to prizing herself away from the weight of these little communities. For now though she needed to collapse into the centre and let it consume her. Burn everything else away. She opened the café door, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
Six women sat around on comfy chairs, each headrest protected by a fine lace antimacassar. The only light came from old lamps balanced on rustic wooden shelves, a small constellation of spotlights above the café’s kitchen, and single mobile phone. Under the low hum of conversation the sound of needles sounded like claws clattering on tiles.
They all looked up, hands still dancing.
“Can we help you?”
The café air reeked of stewed tea and furniture polish. Rachael looked for the woman who had asked the question. She sat close to the door, lap obscured with a half finished cable knit jumper in thick peacock coloured wool.
“I’m here for the Knit and Natter group,” Rachael said, brandishing her sewing bag like a membership card.
“Knit and Natter? Plenty of both here. Apart from Sally. Always on that phone of hers.”
Sally looked up from the screen and scowled, dropping her glasses back around her neck on their purple cord.
“I’m trying to find that pattern I mentioned, but the Internet keeps fading in and out.”
“Get it for next week,” one of the other knitters said, reaching behind her for a cup of tea.
“I wanted to start tonight. Otherwise I’ve got nothing else to work on. I’ll go outside and pick up a signal there.”
Rachael watched her stand up and stride across the room. “Sorry, can I just get past,” she said.
“Sorry,” Rachael echoed, moving over to let her through, shivering in the draught from the open door.
“Don’t stand there letting the cold in. Some of us have arthritis. Come and get yourself a cup of tea. Sit down. I’m Joan, this is Liz, and this is Mags. Over there is Jan. Charlotte is in the corner. By the radiator. You’ve already met Sally.”
“I’m Rachael,” she said taking a seat next to Joan.
“Hello, Rachael. Now show us what you’re working on.”
Opening her bag, she took out her needles and the ball of wool.
“I’m not really working on anything, but I want to make something with stars on,” she said, putting them down on the chair arm.
Joan smiled.
“Let’s start at the beginning then.”
By the end of the night Rachael knew how to cast on, cast off, how everyone drank their tea, which ring on the cooker took ages to light, whose husband had been seen with the wrong person, whose son had been arrested for fighting, and the exact place in the near deserted café to get a good WiFi signal. At home she opened the door and shut out the town again.
When attaching the sleeve, match the notches as you pin it in place. When starting the round ensure the stitches of the underarm are put on hold.
Joan was making a sweater for her son, though he never really appreciated them. Jan crocheted toys for the local charity shop. Rabbits and mice. That sort of thing. Liz knitted scarves for anyone who sat still long enough. Charlotte owned the café and knitted jumpers for penguins. She’d been making them for years to send out to the Falkland Islands. Mags mainly did cross-stitch, but they let her come along anyway. Sally was always starting the next thing. The next project. The next idea. None of them lasted until the following meeting. And Rachael?
“I just want to knit a scarf. Maybe a hat?”
“With stars?”
“With stars,” she said.
Joan nodded, and smiled, her hands never stopping. Needles always clacking.
“Good place to start, a scarf. We all started with scarves didn’t we?”
No-one looked up from their projects, but they all nodded. Sally clicked her phone off.
“I think I saw yours in the museum, Joan.”
The older woman smiled and put her jumper to one side, taking Rachael’s work to check the tension of her stitches.
“Sally likes to make fun of old people. Sally likes a lot of things that aren’t normally polite in civilised society, but we overlook that. Probably better to stick to crafts though. Might prove useful one day, that,” she said, handing the five completed rows back to Rachael. “You’re almost there. Might be an idea to use smaller needles until you get a bit more practiced. Don’t you think Mags?”
Mags leant across, peered through her glasses and nodded her head.
“If you want the scarf to keep winter out, needs to look a lot less like a dog’s chewed it.”
“Did you hear about Michael? Jenny Morgan’s son? The one caught shoplifting?” Charlotte said. Mags shook her head and leant back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “More than one place too. A few burglaries as well.”
Joan nodded, though she didn’t lift her gaze from the ball of yarn down the side of the chair.
“More than a few. Well, they gave him bail.”
“And he disappeared?” Rachael made it a question even though she already knew the answer. “I read it on the sandwich board outside the newsagents.”
“Good riddance,” said Liz. Holding her latest scarf up to the light, she tugged the edges to check the tension. “Town could do without him.”
“That’s not very Christian, Elizabeth.”
“He broke into our Arthur’s shed and stole his tools. My Christian charity only goes so far.”
Rachael stared down at her knitting and concentrated on her stitches.
“So you’ve never knitted before, Rachael?” Charlotte said.
Rachael shook her head. Tried not to lose count.
“What brings you to a knitting group if you can’t knit?” Charlotte continued.
“Let the girl alone,” Jan said.
“I’m just curious. She doesn’t mind, do you Rachael?”
Rachael looked around the room. Everyone was waiting for her to answer.
“When I move to a new place I like to get a handle on the local gossip.” She’d known the question was coming and had rehearsed the answer. Even with her preparation it still felt stilted in the dryness of her mouth.
“And where better than a gathering of old fogeys, who sit around knitting jumpers for the underprivileged,” Jan said.
“Helps me get my bearings,” Rachael said, Jan nodding at her answer.
Some of the basic stitches you should master are:
Knit into the back of the stitch The purl stitch
To purl into the back of the stitch
The garter stitch
Stocking stitch
Reverse stitch
Ribbing
Locking the door, Rachael dropped her knitting bag in the corner. Her notebook was still open on the dining table. She flicked on the overhead lamp and started writing.
“Most recent disappearance. Personal connection? Anger from Liz ...”
She signed the bottom of the page, writing the date. Out the window the clouds blew away, leaving stars spattered across the sky.
Make sure you have a set of stitch markers to hand. They make life so much easier.
The next few weeks went by in a bit of a blur. Her days consisted of nothing beyond staring out of the window or staring into the computer screen. Every Wednesday she took the short walk into town with her latest project, sat on the comfy chair in the corner and found her way around the latest pattern while listening to the other women talking.
In no time at all Rachael’s scarf was wearable, and soon after she completed the set with matching hat, gloves, and fingerless gloves. She wore all of them, often. As time went on she sometimes met the other women for coffee during the day. Listened to them talk about their families and neighbours. Those who went missing. The needles moved in her hands without any effort. She held people’s gaze and still looped the wool around itself. This did not go unnoticed. Now her constellations were flecks of colour in balls of wool.
“You’ve been coming on well, Rachael,” Jan said, holding up the back of the jumper Rachael was working on.
“Thank you,” she answered, taking the piece back and settling into her chair. “Where’s Sally tonight?”
“That’s sort of what we wanted to talk about,” Liz said. “You know that we have another knitting group. A little more formal.”
Rachael nodded.
“The Yarnbombardiers. How could I miss your work? It’s all over town.”
It was true. Half the town centre was wrapped in wool. Cartoon characters and scenes from local life. Local personalities.
“Your knitting has come on so much. We wanted to invite you for a while, but there are only so many places. We had to wait for Sally to go.”
“To make up her mind,” Jan said.
“To make up her mind,” Liz repeated, correcting herself. “Very indecisive. We’re not. We needed to ensure you were ready to take her place.”
Rachael smiled at every woman in the room.
“I’m ready,” she said.
To start the balaclava cast on 130 stitches using a circular needle and join up to work in the round.
“The Yarnbombardiers work in a completely different location than the Knit and Natter group. An isolated hut on property belonging to Margaret Travis. The building is approximately one mile from the road with no easy public access. The phone signal is nonexistent. Any communication will be before and after sessions.”
Rachael closed the notebook and shivered. She walked to the car and sat staring out of the window at the newspaper posters in the shop opposite. Sally’s husband was quoted as saying the children were missing their mother. Rachael closed her eyes. Started the engine.
“You found the place OK then?”
Rachael nodded. Mags wore old stained tweeds, wellington boots, and a housecoat, pockets stuffed with lengths of wool and unfinished embroidery.
“Bit of a walk, but makes sure we have privacy. Top secret this work.”
Rachael tapped her foot to shift adrenaline rippling under her skin.
“Top secret?”
“We can’t have people seeing the designs before they’re installed. Ruins the surprise,” Mags said smiling. “You like your stars. You’ll love it out here.”
They walked in silence through the farmyard, out past the barns and a small wood. In the distance the hut stood by itself, electric light leaking from each window to rob Rachael of her night vision.
Mags kicked her boots against the wooden plank wall and opened the door. Inside, the women sat in a circle, each with the side of a large panel of wool. Loops of yarn ran around the wall, tied into angled patterns, held in place by long carpenter nails. Taut as guitar strings.
“Welcome to the Yarnbombardiers,” Jan said. “You’re just in time to make the tea.”
Rachael made the tea, and she got the biscuits, and picked up the short lengths of wool, and helped Joan to the small outside toilet. Most of all she listened. Listened to the gossip.
Cast on 25 stitches onto the first needle, then distribute those stitches onto three needles.
By the third week Mags no longer met Rachael at the road and she could walk through the farm by herself. Knowing that the Yarnbombardiers might time how long it took her, she ran for a stretch, giving herself time to examine the small stand of trees.
The covert was only ten silver birch, branches intertwined above her head. She ran a hand over the trunks. Small lengths of wool were caught in the bark. Kneeling, she sorted through the mass of leaves around her feet. The diamonds were knitted from different colours. Some red and some purple. She pocketed two to get them tested for any residues and carried on walking the rest of the way to the hut.
At significant points in the creation use more pins than you expect.
“We’ll start you on flowers this week,” Charlotte said, passing Rachael several balls of wool and two needles. “So much like the stars you love.”
“You know that there’s a small astronomy club in town. Did you not think about joining them?” Liz said, sipping her tea, pouring a spill from the saucer into the cup.
Rachael dropped a stitch and swore.
“Can you help me with this?” She said, holding the knitting to Joan. “Surely you can sort that out?”
“Hands a bit cold tonight.”
“Rubbish excuse, but give it here.”
The best way to fix a dropped stitch is to use a crochet hook.
Sat in her car, Rachael turned on the inside light and rubbed her eyes. She scribbled down everything she remembered before the memory faded with fatigue from tracking stitches. No-one had given much away. They were too careful, even now she was taken into their confidence, but she could track friendships. Rivalries. Add to the cascade of inter-relationships, leaving space to write in spouses and siblings. Children and cousins. Time consuming. Necessary. She signed the last page, dating her evidence and dropped it into the door pocket.
Begin by turning the jumper inside out. If the pulled thread has caused the fabric to bunch, as carefully as possible stretch it back into the original form.
“Not something we can do anything about,” Mags said, tapping cigarette ash into a small foil ashtray. “It’s my hut. I’ll do what I like,” she said to the disapproving looks of the other women.
“What about this spate of windows getting smashed? Cars. Shops,” Charlotte said, standing to stretch out her back.
“Do we have a name?” Jan paused to look up, then carried on knitting a cartoon mouse dressed as a cricketer while waiting for an answer.
“We have a suspicion.”
“Need more than a suspicion,” Jan said, standing up and walking across to the door. She dropped the lock. Metal against metal too loud in the small hut. “For example if I only had suspicions about Rachael I couldn’t do anything. Finding the notes she’s been keeping on us? That’s not just suspicion anymore. That’s evidence.”
The two knitting needles went through Rachael’s upper arms, points far sharper than she expected. She started to fall forward across the room and Jan guided her to topple onto the large panel of knitting still lying in the centre of the room.
To make this item you can use three different stitches. Either garter stitch, moss stitch, or twisted rib stitch.
Rachael woke. She was outside but not cold. Her arms were strapped to her sides, held in place by the woollen strips wrapped around her torso. Needles pinned through the palms of her hands. She opened her eyes. Saw other figures around her. At least three. Each one bound to a tree and cocooned in wool. Faces obscured by multicoloured balaclavas. Their heads all tipped forward. Flies crawled between the tightly knitted rows.
Rachael tried to shift her weight. Every other stitch of the blanket enveloping her passed through her skin. The movement re-opened a hundred raw wounds, fine fibres of wool dragged away from scabbed skin.
“It’s the lanolin. Wool fat. Delays the healing. Helps the wool slide through the wounds as you move. Very delicate work.”
Jan walked into Rachael’s eye-line and pointed at the other bodies amongst the trees. In the distance Rachael saw others. Older. Wool rotted through and bones tipping out into the roots. She stared at the closest victim. Tried to focus. Through the sodden stitches something caught the light. A pair of shattered glasses on a purple elastic cord.
“Back in my grandma’s day it was harder to make people disappear. No-one really moved out of town, but accidents happened. Drunken farmers tried to cross the moors and got lost. Young women escaped their shame. Labourers fell into fast flowing rivers, their bodies swept out to sea. These days it’s much easier. People move around a lot more.” She paused and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. “Deserve it more.”
The knitting hut glittered in the distance, the empty farmhouse beyond. Even further away the spire of the town church visible like a dropped needle upright in the carpet.
Rachael went to speak, but the movement tugged several stitches passing through her neck and she lost her voice. Jan continued speaking.
“Sheep die and families starve. Need to keep the ewes and tups healthy.”
The herd around Rachael’s feet were all dirty, fleeces clagged with mud and heather.
“Sacrifices are necessary for good quality wool. It’s been that way for a long time, and we are a very traditional community. A bit of meat and blood in their diet doesn’t hurt either. They have sharp teeth. I’m sorry about that, but if you will come and poke your nose into our business. Thinking you can ingratiate yourself and ‘expose’ us. Who to? We’re respectable ladies of the community. Our families are well established. On the Chamber of Commerce and the Church Flower Committee. Even the Parish Council.”
Jan walked the short distance to the tree and held Rachael’s head back. With a set of short needles she knitted a panel into place across her eyes.
“Goodnight PC Lewis,” Jan said. The stars disappeared from sight and Rachael flinched as raw fleece brushed against her feet. Out of sight the sheep began to gnaw.