KNIT ONE SLIP ONE

She sits waiting. Alone in a bright pool of artificial light. Separated from the world, isolated on her own island of hope. She sits waiting and hoping. A radio plays in the background, what it broadcasts is of no consequence, enough that it keeps her own personal ghosts from the door of her consciousness. Spread out around her feet is an ocean of colour, in stark contrast to the monochrome tints of the outside world.

It is midnight, the witching hour, the time when all good souls should be ‘abed’. A cloudless, silver midnight. Frost has spread in lustrous swathes over all, glinting and twinkling in the light of a full moon. Those unholy folk who dare risk the perils of this hour hurry past like wraiths and are swallowed up into the darkness. Their breath, a trail left behind, a witness to their mortality. They know not, nor care about her existence. They want only to escape from this midnight world into one of light and colour, warmth and companionship.

She has light, colour and warmth but she is alone. She is not lonely. She has learned to be satisfied with her own company.
Or is she?
Things have changed.
 
And so she waits.

She waits for him.

Her name is Katherine. Katherine Josephine Duggan. Katherine for her maternal grandmother and Josephine for her paternal. A secret smile passes over her lips whenever she thinks of this, a smile that lights up her face. She is not ever Kathy or Katy or Rene, her mother insisted that anything other than Katherine was too familiar, too common. But she does have a secret, special name.

She was born thirty years ago, her parents Jo and Amanda. Jo loved her from the minute he saw her. Amanda resented her, said she had robbed her of her beauty, her youth, her life. Granny Jojo was given the task of looking after her whilst Amanda pursued her career.
 

She is of average height; her hair is an average brown colour; her features are average; her proportions are average her clothes are nondescript although today she has made some effort and some of the colours in the ocean at her feet are reflected in the sweater she is wearing. She has one remarkable feature, her eyes. They are green with tiny golden flecks, which seem to sparkle and shimmer at times of emotion. They are doing so now. She has only ever allowed one person close enough to observe this quality. It is him for whom she waits.

Granny Jojo died when she was seven and most of the happiness in her life had been crammed into those seven years. Her father died in a road accident a year later and Katherine and her mother were left alone. If it had been possible Amanda would have had Katherine adopted, or if she had been younger would have left her on a doorstep somewhere. She did not have a maternal bone in her body and when Amanda met and married Simon, Katherine was given even less attention.
 

To onlookers Katherine had the perfect life. She was dressed beautifully, she had foreign holidays and Amanda dutifully attended parent’s evenings. Amanda was very concerned about appearances and made sure that others saw her as the caring parent.
Katherine had always been a nervous, timid child. To her mother she had no endearing qualities and had certainly not inherited her mother’s looks or talents. Amanda would have liked the perfect child who would have reflected her own beauty and life style.
Katherine was not ill-treated physically but her mother constantly found fault with her, with her looks, with her abilities and with her attitude. As a result Katherine grew up with very little self-confidence and with a basic education. She did, however, have one talent. She was an accomplished knitter, which to her mother was no talent at all. It was a hobby for old ladies not for the daughter of a successful businesswoman.

Katherine sits and waits. She listens for the sound of his arrival. Her hands busy knitting. The slight sound of the needles seem to keep time with the beat of her heart. It is difficult to tell what it is she is making, she no longer has need of patterns and knits from memory. The colours seem to have taken on a life of their own as they move and shift and change between her fingers. She is almost giving life to this inanimate object. She has chosen subtle shades of green, colours of the sea and the grass in early morning light. She is knitting it for him.
She has not been able to lose herself in this occupation today; she is anxious and has a strange feeling of something she has forgotten. She tries to bring it to the forefront of her memory but it is very elusive.

She thinks back to when she was seven years old and smiles. She can see herself sitting on Granny Jojo’s lap. It is warm and cosy in that room. It is full of furniture and alive with colour. There are ornaments and framed family photographs occupying every available surface. She can pick up and touch anything she wants, unlike at home. Home is cold and sterile, an advert for a homes magazine. Katherine feels safe in this cocoon of warmth and love.

‘Come on Kitkat, I’m going to teach you how to knit,’ she can hear her granny say. Granny is holding her hands in which is a pair of large knitting needles. She guides Katherine’s fingers into making a loop and then another, and another. Katherine remembers those lessons, given with patience and much affection. The smile fades from her face as she remembers the first thing she made completely on her own. It was a scarf in bright primary colours with many stitches missed and holes and knots. She had made it without any help, but with much apprehension. Granny was full of praise but was surprised when Katherine said she was giving it to her mother for her birthday. She just knew that her mother couldn’t fail but to like it.
 
The golden flecks in her eyes begin to sparkle and shimmer as she remembers her mother’s reaction. One of complete and utter indifference. Katherine found the scarf in the dustbin along with the potato peelings and the baked bean can.

A month later her granny died.

Katherine stands up so that she can see through the window.
He is very late.
She is stilled for a moment; she has a strange fleeting memory of something but can’t quite pin it down. Then she is attracted by the beauty of the night.
 
The next thing she makes will be in colours of midnight.
She sits down again and continues her labour of love.

After the death of her granny Katherine was given into the care of baby sitters and child minders. Her mother declaring that she was not going to ruin the rest of her life. Katherine devoted more and more of her time to knitting – a solitary occupation that suited both her and her mother. She loved the feel of the wool and the way it grew, the weight of it on her lap as it took shape. It made her feel closer to her granny.
 

As she grew older she became more and more reclusive. She had few social skills and did not make friends easily. When she left school, with very few qualifications, her mother pulled strings and got her a job as a filing clerk in an office. She was a good and efficient worker and the job suited her. Her colleagues found her pleasant but very shy and difficult to hold a conversation with. She watched them and envied their easy relationships with each other.

When she was twenty-five her mother and stepfather died in a boating accident. She inherited the house and quite a large amount of money. For a while she thought her life might change, that without her mother’s constant putdowns her confidence might improve and she would find it easier to be in the company of others, but things stayed much the same.

She fell in love with him the minute she saw him.
He had blue eyes, which sparkled and danced whenever he smiled. He had masses of dark curly hair, which framed his face perfectly. He was not handsome in the movie star category but he had the sort of face that made you want to smile and the most wonderful, soft Irish brogue.
He was a rep and was paying her office a courtesy visit. He was new to the job and was doing the rounds of his company’s clients. It was lunchtime and she was on her own, not wanting to go out and lunch with the others. When he came into the room the whole place seemed to light up. She had tried, half-heartedly, to put him off and asked him to come back later but he made himself comfortable and began to charm her.

‘Sure, you must be from the Emerald Isle with eyes of that colour. They have the looks of the mountains and the shamrock and the deep, dark mysteries of the lakes. Has no one ever told you before what wonderful eyes you have?’
 
Katherine blushed to the roots of her hair but did manage a shy smile.

And that was how it had begun.
He visited the office about once a month and made a point of arriving at lunchtime when he thought she might be alone. He made her laugh; he told her stories of the ‘auld country’; he made her feel special and he made her feel safe. He admired her knitting skills and said he would call her his ‘Lady of Shallot’ but said he knew her ending would be much happier than that of Tennyson’s sad heroine.

He was gentle and he was kind and when the inevitable happened and he booked a hotel room she knew that she had at last found happiness.
 
After their first lovemaking he looked deep into her eyes and noticed the golden flecks, ‘Your eyes are truly remarkable, they have the colour of my home and the gold flecks are the joy I feel at being with you!’

She smiled again when she thought of that first time, and the other times they had been together. But today would be the first day he had been to her home. The first time she had ever asked anyone to spend time with her here.

He is late!

She puts her knitting down and goes to look out through the window. She is once again struck by the beauty of the night. The moon fills the sky and it is almost as bright as day. The stars are pinpricks of silver in an ink black sky and everything is covered in a gossamer veil of white.
Her veil would look just like that.
 

Suddenly a shudder runs through her whole body, she feels sick and faint and has to sit down. She glances at the floor and is aware of the brightness of the colours, surely much brighter than she remembers them. For a moment she wonders why her life’s work is there spread out around her feet and then she remembers, she’d got it out to show him.

She shudders again.
 
What memory is it that keeps evading her?

She picks up one of the garments and holds it against her cheek. It is so soft and delicate, soft enough to be next to the skin of a baby. She looks at it and smiles and imagines her own baby wearing it. She would love her baby no matter what; she would not resent it as her mother had done. She would devote her life to its well being.
 
He had been shocked when she had shown him these tiny, delicate objects. She frowns and shakes her head.
No. He’d not arrived yet so she must have dreamt that. He would be here soon. He wouldn’t let her down.

She is not a very accomplished cook.
She can still hear her mother’s voice,
‘What is the point in your going to evening class and learning how to cook? It’s most unlikely you’ll ever marry and you have no friends to cook for!’
 
But she has made an effort tonight. It is only a buffet, mostly bought from M&S, but it looks very good. There are the china plates and antique crystal glasses inherited from her mother, an old cream lace tablecloth trimmed with golden threads that her granny had made and a beautiful vase of pink and white roses.
The room is full of the dancing light of candles, which seemed to have burned down very quickly.
The flickering candles producing dark and almost menacing shadows in the far corners of the room.

As an afterthought she had bought a bottle of expensive champagne.
Surely one glass would do her no harm.
 
She laughs when she remembers how the bubbles had tickled her nose.
 
She shakes her head to clear her mind.
Her memory is playing tricks with her tonight; he has not yet arrived so she can’t have had any champagne.

She hugs herself when she thinks of that weekend.
He had booked a hotel room. It was an old manor house deep in the Cotswold countryside. She had bought a new dress in shades of green that matched exactly the colour of her eyes and in her ears she wore her granny’s golden earrings.
He called her his ‘little emerald goddess’ and his very own ‘Lady of Shallot’, and declared that he would love her for all eternity. She had never felt so loved and had never been so in love.
When she discovered that she was pregnant she knew it had happened that weekend. A child conceived in love and one that would live its life surrounded by love.

She wanted to tell him immediately but then decided to wait and make it a very special occasion, and tonight is the night she is going to tell him.
 
Where is he?

She daydreams again about her future, she now has a future - not just the office and sitting alone at home.

They would be married. She would wear green, emerald green with silver embroidery. He would wear a green silk waistcoat the exact colour of her dress. She could imagine what her mother’s reaction would have been.

‘It’s the only way you could get a man by sleeping with him, and I suppose you got pregnant on purpose to trap him!’
 
She would sell her house and with her inheritance they would buy a property in County Cork.
He had told her so much about his homeland that she had begun to think of it as her home too.

What was that thought niggling at the back of her mind? She knows that it is important but cannot grasp its substance.

Where is he?

Once again she goes to the window. The brilliant white light of midnight has dissipated and been replaced by grey pre-dawn shadows. There is just a hint of pink blushed clouds on the horizon. The sound of early morning commuter traffic has begun. A few reluctant, colourless pedestrians pass and are soon swallowed up in the gloom.

She looks again at the ocean of colour spread out all around her.
This is her hope, her fear, and her life. Into these miniature works of art she has put her very being. If they could talk they would tell of misery, of loneliness, of rejection, of despair. More recently they would tell of joy, of trust, of desire, of love, of…

She had carefully unwrapped them, dropping the coloured tissue paper onto the floor, and laid them out before him. He had picked up each item in turn admiring and marvelling at their colours and intricacy.
‘Not only are you beautiful but you make things of beauty.’

She had saved the most delicate, tiny, and to her the most exquisite items till last – the baby clothes. He was sitting down and she was kneeling on the floor with her back to him. He was smiling in an indulgent way wondering what treasures she would next bring out.
She stood up and turned to face him, a radiant smile upon her face and the gold sparkles in her eyes shimmering as never before.
She held them up to show him.
He looked and immediately knew what it was she was trying to say. The indulgent and bemused look left his face and was replaced by one of uncertainty. A spot of red highlighted each cheekbone.

Gradually the smile, and colour, left her face. This was not the reaction she had expected. She had told herself that he would be overjoyed.

Everything has suddenly gained perspective and she remembers.
 
The red of his blood is so much redder than anything she has ever made but has so much less life.
 
She sees with perfect clarity now and knows that it is pointless to wait for him.

He had come at eight o’clock as arranged.
‘My own one, mo chuisle, to be sure, you are more beautiful than ever.’ He had said ‘There is something I need to say but it can wait until later.’ She had been intrigued and a tiny thrill of anticipation ran through her body. He was going to ask her to marry him!

They drank a glass of champagne, their arms entwined as she’d seen in the films.
At the office he’d often commented on her skills at knitting so she’d laid out some of her finest items for his approval, begging him to choose one for himself. He had chosen a sweater of fine wool with a complex pattern in shades of green. He had said it would help him to remember her, it reminded him of her eyes. She felt slightly puzzled by this remark but was too excited by her news to give it much thought.
 
And then she had shown him the little jackets and the boots and the mittens. All in purest white as befitted something that would be so perfect and innocent.
A myriad of expressions had crossed his face and none of them the joy for which she had been looking.

‘I should have told you sooner.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I thought we were both having fun, enjoying each other.
I expected the people at the office to tell you.
I’ve been transferred back to Ireland.’

Joy re emerged. ‘I’ve planned for that. I’m selling my house; I’ve got the money my mother left. We can buy a house in Cork. I’ve heard so much about it that it already feels like home.’
She could see he was shaking his head.

‘No. I’m going back home to my wife. She’s pregnant.’

He looked at her like a lost abandoned puppy.
 
The feeling of joy and anticipation she had felt was replaced by one of devastation and quickly upon that came the feelings of rejection and worthlessness that she had felt as a child.

Rage that had been subdued for so many years bubbled up from within her and overflowed.
She ran at him and kept hitting him until he fell to the ground surrounded by a spectrum of colours with red being the dominant one.
In her hand a pair of scissors.
 
She looked at him and at the scraps of clothing in all the colours of the rainbow that surrounded him. She saw that those tiny, pure white objects, into which she had put so much love and all her hopes for the future, had been stained red with his blood.
 
The shutters of her memory once again closed.

She picks up her knitting, and sits in a pool of artificial light waiting for him. Surrounded by an ocean of colour. Her green eyes dull and lifeless.

He is late.
She goes to the window.
The sky is a deep blue on this early spring morning.
 

Everything looks washed clean and fresh.