I am lurching into the kitchen in search of a Kit Kat when I hear a familiar voice.
‘Aha, the very woman,’ Gran says.
This could be bad news for me if I am the ‘very woman’ she’s referring to. If Gran is interested in me* she’s looking for something: fact. I look around and discover that I am the only other person in the room, let alone the only other woman, so it must be me.
‘Come down to the studio and tell me what you think of my latest paintings.’
EEK! There are no correct answers in these situations. For example, I can’t say I hate something, even if I do,† and I wouldn’t. And if I do say I like something, I’ll be stuck answering questions as to why for five and a half days or years.
‘Well, I have a lot on,’ I stammer, desperately searching for what.
‘Is it knitting?’ Gran asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, too quickly and without thinking it through.
‘Sure, you can bring that with you and we’ll have a lovely chat while you knit away.’
I’m so busted.
There’s nothing for it but to go grab some knitting and proceed to the shed. On my way back through the kitchen I snag a back-up Kit Kat in case I need a sugar rush to keep my strength up during my interrogation.
Gran has a whole series of paintings propped up against the wall.
‘So,’ she says. ‘What do you think?’
‘Erm, great, yeah.’ I give my knitting a look as if to say, Jeepers I really should be getting on with this.
Gran ignores it and asks, ‘Which one do you like best?’
I point at one of the less hazy ones and say, ‘That’s good … isn’t it?’ Actually, I do like the patterns in it.
‘Great,’ she says. (Phew for Jenny Q.) ‘On my last trip we visited France and that’s about Chartres Cathedral.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes, the architecture.’
I know it’s going to sound totes mad but I do think it is – oh, Dear Lord, I’m being sucked into her world of nuttiness.
‘Jennifer, I was thinking that you could help me with something.’
Uh-oh, what’s going down now? I try not to look in any way encouraging or even to make eye contact.‡
‘I’ve decided to try putting people into my work. So, I was wondering if you’d pose for me. You could sit there knitting, I’d paint you and we’d both be getting on with our projects.’
I make a kind of ‘unk’ sound that even I don’t understand. Gran must think I’m bargaining hard because she says, ‘Oh, all right, I’ll pay you for your time.’
Ker-ching!
‘Done,’ I say, and settle into a comfy chair. I am nothing if not mercenary.б
We’re each going about our business in silence then Gran starts to chuckle.
‘Knitting,’ she says, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Never thought I’d see the day that came back into fashion.’
‘Dixie says it’s as good as meditation,’ I tell her.
‘I always hated the feel of a hand-knitted sock,’ Gran says. ‘Mind you, the stuff we were using was aul scratchy wool. Rope would have been better.’
For a moment I am tempted to knit her a pair of socks made of string for Christmas.
