Free Boys Don't Knit by T. S. Easton

broken toilet block.’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said, stopping. Other students jostled me as the stream carried on up the stairs. Why didn’t I know? ‘What does she sell?’
    Freddie, for all his faults, is an excellent mime. He made it pretty clear what services Holly was offering, both of them. I was shocked, and a bit confused. I fancied Holly Osman. I had no idea she was getting up to that sort of thing.
    â€˜How much does she charge for that?’ I asked.
    â€˜What, this?’ he said, miming again.
    â€˜No, the other one,’ I said.
    â€˜Ten pounds.’
    â€˜That’s actually quite reasonable,’ I said.
    â€˜It’s fifteen pounds for this  … ’ he said.
    â€˜Please stop doing that,’ I said, feeling sick.
    â€˜You have to wait to be asked,’ he said as we carried on.
    â€˜Are you sure about this?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said, annoyed that I was doubting him. ‘Everyone knows.’
    15 th September
    For once on a Saturday, the whole family was together and we celebrated by going to Tesco. After we’d done the food shop we packed the bags into the car before walking down the High Street. There are loads of empty shops these days. The butcher has closed now and Mum says the bookshop is on its last legs. Molly and I invented a game called ‘Death on the High Street’. I got a point every time we passed a charity shop and she got a point for every mobile phone shop. I won 9–6.
    There is one shop, though, that has always been on the High Street, and I’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s a sort of hobby shop called Pullinger’s. Not Warcraft or toy soldiers, but they do have model aeroplanes and ships, and they have billion-piece jigsaws in the window. It’s the sort of place frequented by people who live alone, old ladies wearing macs and middle-aged to elderly men wearing anoraks. The thing I like about Pullinger’s is the old-skool sign over the door. They’ve resisted the temptation to rebrand by losing the capital letter or the apostrophe.
    I couldn’t help noticing the display of knitting needles and brightly coloured wool balls and I admit my attention was caught. I stopped to look.
    I was so busy openly looking at a knitting display that I didn’t notice Mum standing next to me until she nudged me with her elbow.
    â€˜Why don’t you pop in?’ she said. ‘You can catch us up.’
    â€˜What does he want in there?’ Dad asked, clueless.
    â€˜He’s looking for a present for Mrs Frensham, aren’t you? said Mum. She clicked her fingers and a £10 note appeared, which she pushed into my hand.
    I love my mum sometimes. I ducked into the shop before Dad could ask any more questions. The bell tinkled and I was in.
    â€˜Ben?’ a voice said, from the depths of the shop.
    I peered back there, my eyes still adjusting to the light. I relaxed when I realised who it was.
    â€˜Natasha?’ I said.
    She came down the aisle to greet me.
    â€˜Do you work here?’ I asked.
    â€˜Yep. Three days mid-week and Saturdays,’ she said. ‘Haven’t seen you in here before.’
    â€˜First time,’ I explained.
    â€˜Welcome,’ she said, bowing and extending an arm like a Moroccan rug-seller. ‘Have a wander round and ask if you need any guidance.’
    I’d been passing this shop for sixteen years and never once entered before. It was amazing. Old-fashioned, with boxes and drawers on high shelves you could only reach with a ladder. The knitting stuff seemed mostly to be at the back, in an Aladdin’s cave full of brightly coloured yarns of a bewildering variety. I spent a long time inspecting a display of hundreds of knitting needles. They had US sizes as well as UK and European.
    In the centre of the knitting room were racks of knitting patterns, new and second-hand. It was just like an old record