Stitch in Snow

When I brought the finished Arran in to her boutique, her reaction substantiated my guess. She was looking extremely well, with a certain smugness in her manner and a warmth in her eyes. She was as sharp-tongued as ever as she took the sweater and began folding it to display in a plastic cover.

'You just brought one in… about ten days ago. Don't tell me you did a 42 in… Well, who is he?' We were alone in the shop but she glanced around anyhow. 'Anybody I know?'

I shook my head.

'Ah, c'mon, Dana. Who is it?'

'When I was in the States…'

'You do pick 'em,' she said with an exaggerated sigh of disgust. 'Go on…'

'I got grounded in Denver by a blizzard.'

'I remember the late news about unseasonable blizzards but then the weather everywhere this year had been unreal. So, tell me…'

'All planes were grounded…"

'Him, too…'

'And so the airlines put us up in the airport hotel…'

'And…'

'We got bored and went swimming…'

'Is that what they call it in Denver?' Her mock innocent expression was malicious.

'If you are swimming in a pool full of water…'

'I thought you said you were grounded by a blizzard…'

'That stayed outside.'

'And you were inside… swimming. Waste of bloody time, you ask me.' She snorted in disgust. 'I've given you more credit than you deserve.'

'At least I wasn't just knitting.'

'Should hope to God you weren't. Nothing quicker to put a man off, I'd say, than you quietly knitting. Zzzzhya!' Various parts of her twitched to emphasise her disgust. She'd always vowed she wouldn't knit short of a booby hatch: made her nervous, she said, but she used to watch me for hours in silence if she was troubled. 'I see now why it only took you nine days to do this.' She patted the Arran and then flipped it into the display basket.

'You don't suppose I knitted my frustrations into it?'

She glanced diffidently at the sweater. 'If I get complaints I'll let you know. Who knows? It might guy the wearer up to tremendous performance…'

'Better not sell it to the Irish then…'

'Oh ho, we are in a state, aren't we? Haven't you heard from him?'

'He doesn't know my address.'

'Ssshyoo.' She punched the sweater. 'Sometimes, Dana, I've no patience with you at all. What was wrong with him? Or was he married?'

So I told her, delighting in the stunned, shocked, surprised and incredulous expressions that floated across her mobile face. 'You don't fool me, Dana Jane, with your self-sacrifice. You're gone on him. You wouldn't have sent him the sweater otherwise. You'll hear from him.'

'No.'

'You sent him the sweater, didn't you…'

'Yes, but…'

'Well, he'll write to thank you.'

'I didn't put my address on it. I put Tim's.'

'Tim's? You clown, you cow, you idiot…'

'Look Mairead, the last thing I want is to tie a man up in knots of gratitude…'

'That's as good a beginning as many I can think of.'

'He's not likely to come here again.'

'He's been to Ireland?'

'Something to do with oil.'

'Something? Is he an engineer?'

'I think so. I don't know. I don't know that much about him…'

'You knew enough to know he didn't murder anybody. Whadd'ya do for three mortal days and nights? Don't answer. I know. But you'd have to talk sometime…'

'We did, but not about us.'

'Aw, don't get your knickers in a twist…' Just then a customer came in the shop which got me off the hook.

Discipline was still the operational word. I disciplined myself to the typewriter by nine-thirty each morning, even if I didn't manage to write much. I caught up on all my correspondence, my filing, my bookkeeping which was a bit of a headache with all the translation of pounds into dollars and back. I could have wished for Tim's calculator or did you call something that sophisticated a pocket computer?

I wandered around the Spring Show, looking dutifully at all the exhibits and seeing most of the pony classes, because of the children. I get some interesting insights at such events, into the kids and the parents. And the ponies are so gorgeous, all dainty stepping and Thelwellian. Of course, DJ was a snow bunny, but I wondered if he'd be pony-crazy if he ever got to Ireland.

Discipline your mind, Dana Jane. DJ! I caught sight of my face in the mirrors backing one exhibit. Objectively I'm not unpretty. My face bones are good, my complexion has improved with these years in a misty, moisty climate. But, face it, Dana Jane, I told myself cruelly, guys Dan's age would look at gals Mairead's age. Then I envisioned a confrontation between those two and decided they would probably fight like hell. Yet what did I have that would recommend me to someone like Daniel Jerome Lowell?

What was that old New England saying? 'The Cabots speak only to Lowells, and the Lowells speak only to God.' No, I probably had the family names mixed up. But I'd always been amused by the scene evoked: tiered levels with fewer and fewer seats higher up, until the highest two levels where sat the primly clothed Cabots speaking in quiet Back Bay tones to the Lowells above them. And the loftily enthroned Lowells turning with well-bred, but not obsequious, courtesy to the misty-faced figure of the Almighty. Of course, you had no clue as to God's opinion of this chain of command.

My whimsy restored me and I applied conscious discipline to enjoy the rest of my outing that day. There'd been one lad in particular, on a black Welsh pony with bright inquisitive eyes and a curious nose. The lad had had a shock of blond hair and bright inquisitive eyes and the expressions on pony and rider had been so much alike that I marvelled at the match. They'd won a fourth in the working hunter pony and well deserved I felt.

Chapter 10

Tim got home! The house was full of noise. Mairead and I met him at Dublin Airport - so did his best friends. I'll never know how the seven of them fit into the Mini. He was tired from the trip for he can never sleep on planes. He was jubilant at his reception. So was I!

He'd lugged home twenty-five of his favourite records as much because he wanted to have his friends hear them as because he didn't want his cousins (he stored his things between terms at my sister's) to scratch his albums. He'd his guitar in the patiently and wildly tape-mended card-board original case. I ought to buy him a proper one for his birthday this year. He'd only one suitcase and his portable typewriter.

'I was overweight, Mom,' he announced joyfully after hugging my ribs in and rubbing my face with whiskery cheeks. 'Trish's coming in ten days. Just ten days! Mom, and you know what, I got away with 15 kilos overweight for only $15. And,' Tim chortled, 'here…'

He threw me his ski jacket and I nearly dropped it. It weighed a ton.

'What on earth?'

I felt the lining, crammed with objects that felt like an aerosol can, shoes, a huge wad of something soft that turned out to be a pair of trousers and two pairs of socks, the calculator in one pocket and two packs of playing cards in another…

'You must have had twenty pounds in this alone!'

'Right!' and he turned with some urgent questions to Eamonn and Tich. Demanded a kiss from Sheevaun and Mary and Meg and Babs, and socked Pat on the chin. Then he made a big thing of catching Mairead and kissing her.

'One! I told you one was all you'd get from me. You've got other girls here to salute. Bother them!'

'Say, Mom, can I drive home? I got my license.'

'Not yet. You're in Ireland, remember?'

'Thank God, thank God!' And he salaamed.

'And… you haven't slept all night by the look of you… you drive later… when I've had a chance to change my insurance coverage.'