James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘Here,’ I say, handing it to her. ‘It’s really heavy.’ I can’t keep the pride from my face.

Amber interrogates the blanket with confident, intelligent fingers. Funny how a slight difference in movement or poise can tell you about a person’s talents. ‘Look at this—’ she holds the blanket up to herself, talking to herself almost ‘—the hexagons. Really unusual. It must have taken for ever.’

‘She went for hexagons because they’re a bit more gentle, I think, than squares.’

‘Who was it who made it?’

I hesitate a moment, unwilling to admit to ever having had a girlfriend, in case — in case what ? Amber might be interested ?

Jesus.

‘My girlfriend,’ I say. ‘Ex.’

Amber looks up at me with sudden sympathy.

‘She could do a lot better than me,’ I say, to deflect any questions.

‘It’s beautiful quality wool, must have cost a fortune.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, totally. She definitely must have thought you were worth some trouble.’

‘Heh — yeah.’ I smile, and then my face must fall a little, because Amber looks concerned.

‘Are you OK? Sorry, I don’t mean to—’

‘I always used to get roped into her big schemes. Always some plan to carry out some random creative act somewhere. She used to do yarn-bombs. Is that a known thing in textiles, yarnbombs?’

‘No … what’s that?’

‘She used to plan to go to these places in town at four in the morning and decorate them with crochet hearts or daffodils or whatever else it was she was making.’

‘Oh wow, that sounds amazing.’

‘Yeah, little snowflakes at Christmas, little chicks in the spring. Just random acts of kindness, but executed to an insanely high standard. She was totally meticulous about it.’

‘And you had to trail along after her?’

‘Yeah, well, I never wanted to look at it like that. People used to say to me, Oh God, I bet you hate getting up in the morning, don’t you? But I never wanted to be the person who hated getting up in the morning. It was hard, but it was never bad. It was really really good. Maybe that’s how proper projects should be.’

‘Didn’t the crochet just get nicked?’

‘Oh yeah, they were hoovered up. But that’s absolutely not a reason not to do it. People will be how they’re going to be. You’ll never be able to control that.’

‘Yeah—’ Amber looks unconvinced.

She hands me back the blanket, and I pat its thick form. It looks like a flag they fold up at military funerals.

‘Would she come and visit you? Even though she’s an ex?’

The question takes me by surprise.

‘No,’ I say. ‘No.’

Fingers

‘What’s this? It looks like a bumhole!’

Mal jabs a finger through one of the holes in the stitching of the blanket, and his fingernail raps the wood of the pub table beneath. The burnt-down rolly pinched between his knuckles drops a flake of ash.

‘Mal! Fucksake.’

I flap at him.

He withdraws and snorts me a chastised smile.

I see it straight away. Where his finger touched the blanket there’s a grubby mark. I look quickly up at you, but you haven’t seen it — you’re busy battling back the bags and wrapping that are sliding off the seat beside you.

I’m not going to point it out. It’s my birthday and my present, so I’m not going to take the rap for screwing it up. It’ll probably scrub out anyway. I might have a try in a bit.

‘Oh, look at that, it’s gorgeous,’ says Laura, reaching across and turning over the edge to look at the back. ‘You made this?’

‘Yes,’ you say, finally karate-chopping the discarded wrapping paper into cooperation.

‘For him?’

You look at me and break into a warm smile. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what,’ I say, ‘I think it’s the first time anyone’s ever made anything for me.’

‘That’s why I wanted to make it,’ you say. ‘It’s made with love.’

I’m ashamed to realize I dart my eyes around to see if anyone’s registering their amusement at the word ‘love’. Becca is whispering something in Mal’s ear and laughing. He laughs too. A nice, private little joke.

‘Ah, Ivo, you always get the best stuff!’ says Laura. ‘How do you always manage to land on your feet? How many stitches are in this?’

‘Oo — I don’t know,’ you say. ‘About — fifty, sixty thousand?’

‘You’re mad,’ says Laura. ‘Sixty thousand stitches? For him?’

‘Is that mad?’ you say, straightening the blanket, checking for imperfections, tutting when you find a loose end.

‘I don’t know where you find the time for everything you do. You’re like a cottage industry or something, with all the guitar-playing and song-writing and crochet as well as training to be a nurse.’

‘Ah, you can find the time for the right person,’ you say. ‘He’s worth it.’

‘Well, I’m glad you think so,’ says Laura, pulling an incredulous face. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone on the planet I’d do this for. Or I haven’t met him yet, anyway.’

I catch a brief cloud cross Mal’s face as she says this.

‘I’ve enjoyed it. I had all those bus trips to work, and I used to fill up any quiet moments on night shift: I could pick it up and work on it, and it made me feel like we were together.’ You look up at me. ‘Think of it as an apology if you like, for being away on nights all those weeks. This blanket is made up of all those hours when I was thinking of you, and when I wanted to be back with you.’

‘Aww,’ says Laura, turning to me. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘And whenever I got stuck with anything, there were a lot of the older patients who still had all their crochet skills — I learned hundreds of little techniques.’

‘Do you love it?’ Laura asks me.

Your eyes switch slightly shyly to me, and the pressure of expectation immediately swells.

‘Yeah, it’s really— I like it a lot.’ I feel myself scratching around for the kinds of words I want to be using, now the whole pub seems to be watching. ‘It’s really — really heavy .’ I weigh it impressedly in my hands.

‘It’s only a blanket. All you want to know is, is it warm?’ says Mal. ‘Is it going to keep those frail little knees from knocking together or not?’

Maybe there’s a twitch in my DNA, a switch flicked in my middle, but I look at Mal now, and I think what a child he seems. How puerile can he get? Surely he can do better than that.

I know I can.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I say, deliberately and decisively. ‘I love it.’ And fuck you, Mal.

‘Well,’ you say, turning to me, ‘as far as I’m concerned it’s just something someone thought enough about you to spend a lot of time making. And that’s what I wanted to do for you,’ you say. ‘Happy birthday.’

I’m touched. I’m genuinely touched.

‘Well, here you go anyway, fella,’ says Mal, reaching around inside a plastic bag he’s got with him. ‘Happy birthday, yeah?’ He lands a packet of twenty-four Kit-Kats on the blanket, and a packet of twenty Benson & Hedges on top of that.

I look up, and he’s primed and ready for my laughter.

‘Aw, what’s not to love about that,’ you say, semi-quietly. ‘Perfect for a diabetic.’

‘Cheers anyway, fella,’ says Mal raising his glass, and encouraging others to do the same.

Then, he says: ‘Sorry, Mia, I forgot you weren’t drinking.’

‘I’m not not drinking,’ you say. ‘I just haven’t got a drink.’

‘Oh, right, I thought because of your dad and everything.’

‘What about him?’

‘Being an — sorry, was I not supposed to say? — an alcoholic?’