interview.
When I’d done that, I did have a sort of thought about Googling Clayton Silver, to find out more about him, but one of the family history mob was making noises about how he’d booked the computer to start at least ten minutes ago…Anyway, what would be the point? Inspired by the sampler about ‘ Wine is a mocker ‘, I was drinking an elderflower and ginger cordial and watching Becca knit.
‘I don’t understand how you can just pick it up and knit a few stitches, put it down and then pick it up and know exactly where you are,’ I said, remembering my few hopeless attempts at knitting as a child.
‘Practice,’she said. ‘My mother’s the same, knits every spare minute. Not that she has many. So did my grandmother. And my grandfather. Couldn’t stand to be idle. Once upon a time, everyone in the dale used to knit—men and women and children. That was a hundred years or so ago, of course, but it still carried on.’
Whenever I could, I would clear any tables, to give her a bit more knitting time. I’d only been coming here a few days, yet already I felt part of the pub, part of the family. How could my life change so much in just a matter of days? I stacked up the plates left behind by a family with two very messy children and, as I was coming back with a cloth to wipe the table, the door opened and a small Asian guy came in. He went up to the bar and said politely, ‘I come to buy scarf please.’
Dexter looked baffled, both by the man and by his request. ‘Scarf ?’ he said, rather helplessly.
‘Scarf made by Becca,’ said the man firmly.
Becca leapt in. ‘Right, well, I only have one here with me now. I have more at home, or you can buy them at shops in Hawes, Alston, Allendale, Richmond, Durham—’
‘Must have one now please. Mr Santini asked specially.’
‘Alessandro?’ Becca’s face lit up. ‘He wants one of my scarves?’ Then her face fell a fraction. ‘He’s not coming to get it himself ?’
‘No. He must be back in London, to play football.’
‘Never mind, next best thing,’ said Becca happily, and found the scarf she had shown Alessandro two days earlier. It was still carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Becca rummaged down below the bar and into her hessian bag, from which she produced a card. ‘High Dales Designs. A twist on tradition by Becca Guy.’ It had her email address on. She quickly added her phone number too.
‘Nothing to lose, is there?’ she grinned as she saw me watching.
‘Anything can happen.’
She handed over the parcel and the man took it carefully and then produced a bundle of notes.
‘No, no!’ said Becca, before peeling off two and pushing the rest back. ‘Forty pounds is plenty, really.’
‘You’re missing a trick there, girl,’ said one of the cyclists in the bar who’d been watching with some amusement. ‘If he wants to give you hundreds, just you take it.’
‘No. Forty pounds is the price and that’s it.’
Alessandro’s messenger shrugged, pushed the rest of the notes back in his pocket, thanked Becca again, made a small bow and left.
Becca and I stood either side of the bar and grinned at each other. All in all it had been a pretty good day.
The next day I had to tend to my life. I snaked back down the dale to a small town. After the track up High Hartstone Edge, the road that had seemed so perilously narrow when Jake and I drove up a few days ago now seemed like the M1. When I got to the small town it took me a moment to realise what was odd about it: there was no supermarket; in fact not a single chain store or national name at all. Every shop was independent and individual. Wonderful. I joined the queue at the baker’s, relishing that bread smell as I dithered between a crusty cottage loaf and an enticing small square loaf full of seeds and nuts. In the end I chose them both. ‘Best way. Spoil yourself,’ smiled the assistant as she deftly wrapped the loaves in sheets of tissue paper and popped them in a
When I’d done that, I did have a sort of thought about Googling Clayton Silver, to find out more about him, but one of the family history mob was making noises about how he’d booked the computer to start at least ten minutes ago…Anyway, what would be the point? Inspired by the sampler about ‘ Wine is a mocker ‘, I was drinking an elderflower and ginger cordial and watching Becca knit.
‘I don’t understand how you can just pick it up and knit a few stitches, put it down and then pick it up and know exactly where you are,’ I said, remembering my few hopeless attempts at knitting as a child.
‘Practice,’she said. ‘My mother’s the same, knits every spare minute. Not that she has many. So did my grandmother. And my grandfather. Couldn’t stand to be idle. Once upon a time, everyone in the dale used to knit—men and women and children. That was a hundred years or so ago, of course, but it still carried on.’
Whenever I could, I would clear any tables, to give her a bit more knitting time. I’d only been coming here a few days, yet already I felt part of the pub, part of the family. How could my life change so much in just a matter of days? I stacked up the plates left behind by a family with two very messy children and, as I was coming back with a cloth to wipe the table, the door opened and a small Asian guy came in. He went up to the bar and said politely, ‘I come to buy scarf please.’
Dexter looked baffled, both by the man and by his request. ‘Scarf ?’ he said, rather helplessly.
‘Scarf made by Becca,’ said the man firmly.
Becca leapt in. ‘Right, well, I only have one here with me now. I have more at home, or you can buy them at shops in Hawes, Alston, Allendale, Richmond, Durham—’
‘Must have one now please. Mr Santini asked specially.’
‘Alessandro?’ Becca’s face lit up. ‘He wants one of my scarves?’ Then her face fell a fraction. ‘He’s not coming to get it himself ?’
‘No. He must be back in London, to play football.’
‘Never mind, next best thing,’ said Becca happily, and found the scarf she had shown Alessandro two days earlier. It was still carefully wrapped in tissue paper. Becca rummaged down below the bar and into her hessian bag, from which she produced a card. ‘High Dales Designs. A twist on tradition by Becca Guy.’ It had her email address on. She quickly added her phone number too.
‘Nothing to lose, is there?’ she grinned as she saw me watching.
‘Anything can happen.’
She handed over the parcel and the man took it carefully and then produced a bundle of notes.
‘No, no!’ said Becca, before peeling off two and pushing the rest back. ‘Forty pounds is plenty, really.’
‘You’re missing a trick there, girl,’ said one of the cyclists in the bar who’d been watching with some amusement. ‘If he wants to give you hundreds, just you take it.’
‘No. Forty pounds is the price and that’s it.’
Alessandro’s messenger shrugged, pushed the rest of the notes back in his pocket, thanked Becca again, made a small bow and left.
Becca and I stood either side of the bar and grinned at each other. All in all it had been a pretty good day.
The next day I had to tend to my life. I snaked back down the dale to a small town. After the track up High Hartstone Edge, the road that had seemed so perilously narrow when Jake and I drove up a few days ago now seemed like the M1. When I got to the small town it took me a moment to realise what was odd about it: there was no supermarket; in fact not a single chain store or national name at all. Every shop was independent and individual. Wonderful. I joined the queue at the baker’s, relishing that bread smell as I dithered between a crusty cottage loaf and an enticing small square loaf full of seeds and nuts. In the end I chose them both. ‘Best way. Spoil yourself,’ smiled the assistant as she deftly wrapped the loaves in sheets of tissue paper and popped them in a
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