Yarn Bombers

Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash

The door swings open. Harry pops his head into the office and clears his throat.

‘All done, Ms. Goddard. I’ve given it a wipe.’ He stuffs a cloth into his overalls and grabs the door handle.

‘Thanks Harry. Leave it open, would you. And please call me…’ She gets up from her desk, but he is halfway down the corridor by the time she reaches the threshold.

Turning to face the door, she exhales, surprised to discover she has been holding her breath. At the third time of asking, the sign on her door reads Sammi Goddard, not Samantha or Sammy. I am Sammi with an i. Her new colleagues have not got the hang of it yet; she has been Samantha, Miss Goddard and sometimes – good old Harry – Ms. Goddard, which she likes to think of as halfway correct. Sammi pulls a rucksack from under her desk and fishes a strip of coloured stickers from a packet. One by one, she places eight yellow dots around her nameplate. She leaves the door open and returns to her chair. She hears laughter from one of the break out areas, but when she looks to see what is happening three heads swivel away from her gaze and the laughter ceases. She shuts her eyes and repeats You can do this You’ve got this You own this between ten deep breaths. Letting her palms rest on her desk, she wafts them left to right, focussing on the grain.

Despite her open door policy no one has yet entered in search of guidance or advice or to share a bit of gossip. She has watched the other directors laughing and joking with each other and their teams, but so far they have only sought her out her when there is a problem. She hoped that visitors to her office would remark upon the ribbons wrapped around her coat stand, but no one has said a thing and the ribbons have been shoved in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet.

She reminds herself that she isn’t the only one going through a tough time. Not long after she started her new job, she had spotted that something was going on between Charlotte Christie, the Accounts Payable clerk and Ricky Billington, a Financial Analyst who she had heard describing himself as up and coming. She had to admit that his work was good, but why did he have to walk so many laps of the office, making connections and bestowing upon his colleagues the gift of his point of view? One morning, she had watched him trail a finger along the length of Charlotte’s desk and two days later Charlotte had tried to snag his foot with hers, which Sammi had thought out of character for someone so timid. He had stumbled, but had managed to arrest his fall in a manner that made everyone notice he was trying not to make everyone notice. The same day Charlotte had followed him into a meeting room, even though there had been nothing scheduled. After that, she had favoured him with mugs of coffee, chocolate biscuits and what Sammi imagined were what Charlotte thought of as naughty winks. And then it was over: Ricky kept his hands in his pockets or clutched a folder to his chest whenever he passed Charlotte’s desk. For her part, when he approached she made sure he saw her looking the other way, leaning forward to squint into her screen or grabbing the telephone to make an urgent call. His exclusive supply of drinks and cookies was cut off at source. Two months after Sammi had concluded that the great office romance was no more, Charlotte was absent for a fortnight. On her return, Sammi could not help noticing that she had lost weight and her face was as pale as the office walls. At any moment she would run to the bathroom, holding both hands to her face. Ricky, who had taken to lingering by the workspace of a fresh-faced intern, retreated to his end of the office and acted as if coming anywhere near Charlotte would lead to him catching whatever it was that had taken hold of her. Sammi stepped out of her office one afternoon and followed Charlotte into the Ladies.

‘Charlotte. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. ’ Charlotte leaned over a sink and splashed water onto her face. ‘I’m sorry Samantha. It won’t affect my work, honest.’

‘Won’t you call me Sammi? Do you think you might have come back too soon? You don’t look well.’ She moved forwards to hold Charlotte’s hair away from the water, but the younger woman flinched and stepped away from the sink. Sammi stood back, rubbing her hands on her skirt until it crackled with static.

‘I’ll be fine, honest, Ms. Goddard. Please don’t say anything...’

‘To Ricky?’

‘To anyone.’ Charlotte plunged her head into her hands and sobbed. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’

Sammi stood in front of a mirror, straightened her shirt and checked her hair. As she walked into the corridor, two of the temps from Marketing swivelled on their heels and hurried back towards the office. She stuck her head back into the bathroom, but Charlotte had disappeared into a cubicle.

‘Pop in to see me whenever you like. I know what it’s…’ She put a hand on the cubicle door as the sobbing within subsided. ‘I can be a good listener.’

*

Three months after moving into her new home on Beatrice Street, she digs her running gear from one of the crates in the garage, ready to explore the streets. A black beanie hat shoots out of the bottom of her leggings. If she wears it at an angle above her forehead and holds her chin up when she runs, it won’t slip off. She keeps it close to hand, perhaps because running had been their thing, and try as she might she cannot separate running from the memories: early mornings along the river; weekend runs through parks and commons; across golf courses; and around rugby pitches. The hat has a small pocket where Andrew liked to store his key and a note – always a twenty – which they would use to pay for coffee and pastries from a van in the park or at their favourite café in Wimbledon village. They preferred a pavement table, leaning against the window to face the street; and she loved the way steam rose from his head whenever he took off the hat to fish out the note. He moaned about her running too fast, but had not complained when she had ripped the end from his croissant and dunked it in her coffee.

The house on Beatrice Street needs plenty of work, but it has potential and is close enough to the office for her to cycle or run to work. She stores her bike between stacks of crates in the large garage; and as soon as she can find the time, she will sort out that garage once and for all. On weekday evenings she takes classes: spin; Zumba; intermediate Italian; Mandarin for beginners; The Food of Greece. The community centre is a good starting point for getting to know the area and making new friends, but when the classes end, people hurry away and she pedals home to finish off a box set or make notes in her scrapbook. Every room in the house needs decorating, but she wants to live with it for a while and let the rooms tell her what they need, even though she knows what they need is colour. She has locked all of Andrew’s crates and two suitcases in the box room next to the bathroom. At some point, she will tackle his stuff, but not before she has the house how she wants it. She has the beanie and for now and that will have to be enough.

*

The Sunday morning streets are quiet. Paperboys and girls – she hasn’t seen either in years – abandon their bikes or trolleys in the middle of the pavement, and on one corner she dodges out of the way of a milkman dashing back to his van. As the cold air reaches her lungs and the blood quickens through her arteries, she feels strong and fresh and ready to face whatever appears around the next bend in the road. She runs through the wrought iron gates of Victoria Park, skirts a boating lake filled with swans, ducks and crisp packets, and sprints through another set of gates into a street lined with bars and restaurants. She takes a breather outside a shop called Vintage Booty and ten minutes later, when she stops to consult her phone for the best route home, she cannot resist a large notice board in front of a row of granite headstones which belong to an impressive sandstone church sparkling in the morning sun. She feels steam rising from the hat and as she gazes up at the sun she loses her breath in a fit of sneezing.

‘Can I get you some water?’

Her cough subsides and she turns to face a man in his forties. He is dressed in black shirt and trousers, with white running shoes. His black hair is peppered with grey like the beard which can be no more than five or six days old. She tries to answer, but sneezes again.

‘Come with me.’ He takes hold of her elbow and guides her towards the church.

‘Oh, no, I can’t...’ she coughs. ‘I mean, I don’t...’ but she lets him lead her through the wooden doors.

‘It wouldn’t be a good look, me letting you expire outside the church.’

He unlocks a smaller set of doors and seats her at a table in a room redolent with decades of polish. He disappears into another room and she looks around. It could be any time in the last fifty years. The man reappears with a glass beaker, takes it to a huge Belfast sink and lets water run through an ancient tap. After a minute, he fills the beaker.

‘Drink.’ He hands her the water as though making an offering. ‘My boss likes me to do as many good deeds as I can.’ He takes a seat opposite Sammi.

‘My boss doesn’t even know my name.’ She winces as the words escape her lips.

The man stretches out his hand. ‘We might have that in common. I’m Martin.’

‘Sammi.’

She shakes his hand. His palm is warm and soft. He looks up at the wall behind her. She turns to face a large clock, and takes another sip of water.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll get going.’

He holds up a hand. ‘The door’s open. I’ve got three quarters of an hour before I’m on.’

What does he mean, on? And what kind of boss sets a good deed quota?

He removes a strip of white plastic from his pocket and fixes it under his collar.

‘Oh God! Sorry Reverend, or is it vicar?’ She stands to leave. He takes hold of her hand. Her legs buckle at his gentle grip.

‘Father, but it’s Martin. I didn’t mean to confuse you. I’m really sorry. I just thought,’ he says, looking around the room, ‘that it was obvious. Who else is out and about on a Sunday morning? Apart from runners, of course.’

‘And paperboys and milkmen. I saw a milkman. On a Sunday.’ She lets go of his hand and sits back in the chair.

‘Give us this day our daily brew,’ he offers, examining the table to avoid her look of confusion. The silence is broken by a clink and oof as an early arrival pushes through the church door.

‘I really must go,’ she says. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Father.’

‘That’ll be Kathleen. Martin, please. Come back and see us, Sammi. If you need anything.’

‘Oh no, I’ll be fine, Martin.’ She waves a hand in his direction as she leaves the room.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he says as she escapes into the darkness. He grabs a sheet of orange paper from a rack and runs after her, catching her at the door. He presses the leaflet into her hand and senses the presence of Kathleen Noonan keeping watch in the shadows.

‘We have something for everyone,’ he says, backing away. ‘Enjoy your day.’

Sammi hesitates, heads for the exit and stops. ‘If you report someone missing and they’re not found, how long is it before…?’ She presses her lips together, aware of a person breathing in the gloom.

*

Four days pass before she rescues the leaflet from the pocket of Andrew’s running hat. She sits on her bed and reviews the activities at Blessed English Martyrs’ Parish Hall. Parishioners are invited to bring soup or sandwiches – ‘or just yourself’ – to a midweek shared lunch, while parents can deposit youngsters at Brownies on Monday evenings, Cubs and Scouts Tuesdays and Thursdays and Guides on Fridays. The Walking Group meets every third Saturday, and this month they are heading to the Lakes to take on The Old Man of Coniston, come rain or shine. There are several fitness classes for older members of the congregation, but what catches Sammi’s eye is Knit and Natter, held every Tuesday evening after Cubs, for two hours from seven-thirty. As is stated with every activity, all are welcome, especially new members.

In her office the following morning, she lingers over the phone, the orange leaflet on the desk. Half a dozen colleagues are standing in a semi-circle near the coffee machine. Ricky Billington, unable to resist an audience, nods towards her office door and says something out of the side of his mouth. When the group collapses into laughter, she stabs a number into her phone.

‘Yes.’ An older voice.

‘Hello. Is this, er, English Martyrs?’

‘No this is not Blessed English Martyrs.’

‘Sorry?’ Bloody hell. Why had she bothered?

‘This is The Wool Shop. This is Miss Kathleen Noonan. To whom am I speaking?’ She sounds like Mrs. Levinson, the only teacher ever to make Sammi cry. This echo of the teacher’s strident and cruel tone returns Sammi to a cold classroom. She rubs at her calves, which sting with the memory of a stainless steel ruler.

‘This is Samantha, Sammi, Goddard,’ she says, tightening her fist around a pencil. ‘I’m calling about Knit and Natter.’

‘Well why didn’t you say, child? Tuesdays, half past seven. As soon as they’ve tidied up after the Cubs.’

‘Yes, but I...’

The phone goes dead. Sammi decides she will either turn up with some wool and needles, or no wool and needles, but she will be there the following Tuesday, at half past seven, after Cubs. Miss Kathleen Noonan, with her unique attitude, will not dissuade Sammi from trying out Knit and Natter. Now she knows that somewhere there is The Wool Shop, she can kit herself out if she so wishes, and meet the grumpy gatekeeper in the process.

*

Above a double fronted window a simple sign announces in thin block lettering, The Wool Shop. Behind the glass, a display of balls of yarn (blues, greens and reds) is bookended by vases brimming with silk flowers. Paper packs of needles sit in front of the yarn and in the right hand corner a slim oblong of card, propped against a small block of wood, informs interested parties that the shop is the domain of Proprietor Miss K. Noonan. The wooden window frame and the door glow with matching royal blue paint, upon which a speck of dirt or dust would not dare settle. Sammi dismounts her bicycle, but it does not feel right to lean it against the window. She would lock it to the bench opposite, but for the men swigging from cans and bottles and swapping what appear to be hilarious stories. One of the men, whose beard is knotted three times as it tapers towards his waist, lifts a hand in her direction as she balances the bike against a downpipe. She nods at him as she walks towards the door, and flinches as she comes face to face with a white-haired woman squinting at the drinkers. Miss Kathleen Noonan – who else can it be? – unfolds her arms and delivers a smile as Sammi enters. As she drifts from one display to another, Sammi listens to the older woman’s heavy sigh and wonders if she has come at a bad time.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, miss?’

‘I’m enjoying looking around,’ says Sammi ‘but I would love a beginner’s set, if such a thing exists.’ She watches as the proprietor makes no attempt to disguise her examination of her Lycra cycling outfit.

‘Have you done any kind of knitting before?’

‘I’ve done some sewing: buttons; holes in pockets; a dropped hem. Although I tend to use those iron-on strips...’

Kathleen Noonan holds a hand in the air.

‘Actual knitting? No. I read about Knit and Natter and I thought I might have a go. It was me on the phone a couple of days ago.’ Sammi sweeps an arm around the shop. ‘You have such beautiful colours. Some of those patterns are wonderfully retro. Did you make those?’ She points towards a shelf filled with dolls, each one of which seems to be a facsimile of a specific human being: a mum; a gran; a brother; and several babies swaddled in white blankets.

‘I’ll put something together.’ Kathleen disappears into a room behind the counter.

*

Standing under a tree, hidden from the sweep of headlights, Sammi watches uniformed children explode from the church hall and into the hands and cars of waiting parents. When the goodbyes and the see-you-next-weeks subside, she hears the sound of chairs and tables scraping across floorboards to form whatever arrangement suit a knitting group. Women drift into the hall, some in pairs, some with toddlers and a few on their own. Kathleen Noonan stands at the door, counting them in. Holding her bag tight to her chest, Sammi follows a woman pushing a wheelchair. The occupant of the chair holds her knitting in swollen fingers, but is fast asleep. Kathleen moves aside to let them in, and pulls the door shut behind Sammi. The tables have been pushed together in the middle of the hall. At one end and on a separate table, a Baby Burco simmers alongside a large metal teapot, a jar of sugar and a jug of milk. Cups, saucers and plates of biscuits cover the rest of the table, where Kathleen Noonan now stands, an apron around her waist. A woman in a knitted cap beckons Sammi to sit with her group at the far end of the table. She introduces herself to the group which calls itself EMYB.

English Martyrs Yarn Bombers is an informal crew of parents, parishioners and friends who respond to appeals for blankets, jumpers, hats, scarves and gloves. Last Christmas, they made two patchwork blankets and presented them to Father Martin and Miss Noonan. They also made a tiny one for the crib in church, which the children used to keep the baby Jesus warm during the Nativity. They tie scarves to railings for the homeless and send packages overseas for earthquake victims. As well as Knit and Natter, they meet as many as three times per week, holding the extra meetings in each others’ homes. Sammi notices, as she says hello to each of the group, that they all wear knitted caps.

‘Can you teach me how to make one of those,’ she says to Cathy, the woman who called her over.

‘First things first,’ says Cathy, moving closer, ‘tell us your story.’

Not even Sammi’s mother has any idea why her daughter boxed up her life and moved north. But as if from nowhere, and aside from the moment Kathleen Noonan comes to take drink orders, words tumble from her mouth as she shares the last six months of her history with these strangers, all of whom choose straight away to call her Sammi. She doesn’t manage a single stitch, but after this first evening at Knit and Natter she drops Mandarin and Zumba in favour of stitching and bitching. After two months, she has her cap. One month after that she convenes her first meeting in her living room. She has a proposal for the EMYB.

‘There isn’t enough colour around here. The houses are all the same red brick; the streetlamps aren’t painted; the buses are a dull blue; and at this time of year there are no flowers. I walk around and all I feel is grey.’

She looks around the group and turns to take a polythene bag from her upcycled sideboard. She drags something over her head and swivels to face her friends.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What is that?’ says Cathy.

Sammi crouches as though poised to leap forward, hands in the air and ready to grapple. Her head is adorned with a red and gold balaclava, or something like it. Her eyes and mouth are visible through three large ellipses. The rest of her face is covered by the knitted mask.

‘Nacho libre: a Mexican wrestling mask. It’s crochet. Isn’t it great?’

‘Did you make it yourself?’ asks Emma Howard, a nervous young woman dressed head to toe in black. ‘Was I supposed to make one? I didn’t know…’

Sammi shakes her head. ‘There are tons on Etsy,’ she says, to murmurs of approval. She abandons her pose, removes the mask and lets it rest on the sideboard.

‘But what’s it for?’ Cathy shakes her head. ‘I thought you ate nachos.’

Sammi moves around the room, between armchairs, the sofa and in front of the coffee table. ‘To hide our identities.’

‘Why would we want to do that?’ Sandy Gibney, a little older than the rest, fiddles with her handbag.

Sammi hops from one foot to the other. ‘What are we? We’re yarn bombers.’

Cathy walks to the sideboard and picks up the mask. ‘Well, we’re knitters. We stitch and bitch. We’re not out to cause any trouble and besides, my Pete is a policeman.’

‘I’m sixty three,’ says Sandy. ‘I’m not bombing anyone. Not even Kathleen bloody Noonan, although God knows...’

Sammi claps her hands and snatches the mask from Cathy as the room falls silent. ‘You don’t understand. I’ve read all about it. People go out and cover things up.’

‘Like what?’ asks Emma, tugging the mask from Sammi’s hands.

‘All sorts of things. Street signs, bicycles, trees, statues.’

‘Street signs? Is it legal?’ Cathy puts her head in her hands.

‘I don’t see why not. We’d be bringing colour to the neighbourhood. What harm can it do?’ Sammi nods at the women, one by one.

‘Well I won’t be doing any harm.’ Sandy stands and clutches her bag to her chest.

‘I’m sorry love,’ adds Cathy. ‘It sounds like fun, but what with Pete, you know, I don’t think I can.’

‘Well, I’m in,’ says Emma, now wearing the mask and attempting a wrestling pose.

Two days later, Cathy calls on the priest to discuss Sammi’s plan. She accepts a cup of weak tea and sips through her teeth.

‘Think about the parish’s reputation.’

‘I think the parish can survive a bit of guerrilla knitting,’ says the priest, ‘and it’s anonymous isn’t it? Cloak and dagger and all that.’

‘What about Miss Noonan?’

‘Cathy, you know how much I respect and appreciate Kathleen, but if we worried about upsetting her, well where would we be?’

‘But what if they trace the wool back to her shop?’

‘I think she’s safe,’ he says, checking his watch.

*

Sammi and Emma spend two weeks knitting fly agarics: simple white stalks under red caps with white spots. The spots are tricky, but with help from Sandy, who they persuade to help with technique, they manage a dozen woollen fungi. Early one Sunday morning, in full running kit and carrying a bulky backpack, Sammi meets Emma by the gate at the north end of Victoria Park. On the count of three, they don their masks and run to a huge tree known locally as the Northern Oak. They place their treasures in a ring among exposed roots, pegging them to the ground with a rubber mallet. Sammi returns two hours later, sitting on a bench to observe the delight of children heading for the playground. Dog walkers drag their charges away as though they don’t want the scene spoiled by unnecessary sprinkling. Two days later, only five remain and by the following weekend they have all disappeared. Like the Northern Oak, they have an Instagram profile which Emma discovers late one night. They follow the toadstools around town, from shop windows to abandoned telephone boxes to the dashboards of buses and taxis. A storm brews in a teacup when one is attached to the groin of a statue of a Victorian industrialist, but laughter outlasts the outrage when the story makes a light-hearted end to a TV news bulletin.

One Wednesday evening when Sammi is working late, Cathy and Sandy lend a hand as Emma weaves flowers around the school railings. The next week they cover a line of six bollards in a private car park and wrap patchwork blankets around several tree trunks including an extra-large one around the Northern Oak. Emma sets up an Instagram profile for EMYB which attracts more followers than the oak and fungi combined. They respond to requests, sweeping across the town in a blizzard of colour. Sammi wraps green and white wool around her office coat stand. She pedals home at speed, eager to knit and plan and meet up with her friends. People point at her crocheted handlebars and she rings her bell in triumph. She rides home one memorable evening in her mask, after which she stays up all night to finish an orange and russet cape.

‘This is for you,’ she hands Emma a package wrapped in yellow polka dot paper tied with white ribbons.

‘I’m going to save this ribbon. And the paper.’ Emma opens the package and shakes out the cape. ‘What is it?’

‘Don’t you recognise a cape when you see one, girlfriend?’ Sammi cringes, but Emma is too busy with her gift to notice.

‘Help me get it on,’ she says, lifting her chin as Sammi ties the cape around her neck. ‘We’re super heroes, bringing colour where it’s needed, when it’s needed.’ She shrugs. ‘Sorry, that’s the best I can do on the spot. I’ll come up with a better slogan, and you need a cape, I’ll make you one.’

Later that evening, after Emma has skipped into the night in her cape and mask, Sammi opens the door of the small room next to the bathroom. She plucks a plain white postcard from a shoe box and carries it down the stairs to the kitchen.

He hadn’t used writing paper and sealed a letter in an envelope. Nowhere on the postcard had he written her name. I am going away. Do not try to find me. Please don’t blame yourself. She puts a match to the card and lets it burn over the sink. She runs the tap to wash away the ashes. She pours herself a glass of wine, puts some cheddar and crackers on a plate and sinks into her sofa.

‘Samantha. Sammi. Open up.’

Sammi squints into the dark at the bearded face peering through her front window. She spots the collar under the waterproofs.

Father Martin sits opposite her at the kitchen table, holding her hand. Gentle as ever.

‘Cathy’s husband recognised her. He’s been called out to her once before. Cathy says you’re close.’

Sammi dips a quivering finger into the teardrops on the table.

‘She was wearing a woollen balaclava. Cathy said you would know why. But it wasn’t that. It was some kind of blanket. They think it got trapped between her legs and she fell into the road.’