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

store that sold LPs.
    I was flicking through them when Natasha came wandering down to see how I was getting on.
    â€˜Retro,’ she said, peeking at the pattern for a tank top I was holding. ‘Very in.’
    â€˜Is it?’ I asked, looking at it. I’d picked it up because it was cheap, it looked simple and I needed a tank top.
    â€˜Yep,’ she said. She said yep quickly, like there was no point arguing with her. ‘You’ll need washable wool for that. Thin strand.’
    â€˜There are so many,’ I said, turning around to look up at the wall of wool.
    â€˜Lambswool there,’ she pointed out. ‘Here’s merino, Shetland, Icelandic, fleece. The novelty wools are on the other wall; we just got some new chenille in. But novelty yarn’s a bit tricky for beginners.’
    â€˜Amazing,’ I said, doing a slow 360º. I loved the way they were shelved according to colour, the way I’d wanted to do my books once, before I panicked and decided to abort. It really worked here. Pale blue graduated into darker blue, to indigo, through violet and beyond into the reds. Here green became yellow via a dozen stages. The blacks and browns ran vertically next to them. I found it deeply soothing, everything in its rightful place.
    â€˜Here’s the washable section,’ she said, indicating a tall shelf in the corner. ‘It’s treated chemically to destroy the outer layers of fibre. Otherwise it’s too fuzzy and it collects dirt too easily.’
    She carried on showing me different varieties I can’t remember now, but she was clearly very proud of her shop. It was like Q showing James Bond a selection of clever gadgets and weapon prototypes.
    â€˜This is sheep’s wool, of course?’ I asked, trying to sound as though I knew anything at all about wool.
    â€˜Yep. We do have goat, and even some angora.’
    â€˜I thought angora was goat?’ I said.
    â€˜There are angora goats,’ Natasha said. ‘Their wool is called cashmere. Angora wool comes from angora rabbits.’
    â€˜I never knew,’ I said.
    As we stood together staring at the many subtle variances of wool, something occurred to me.
    â€˜You know an awful lot about knitting for someone who’s just started a beginner’s knitting class,’ I said suspiciously.
    Natasha shrugged. ‘I do a lot of cross-stitch and crochet, which isn’t as tricky as knitting with needles and I really want to learn to do it properly. The worst of it is it’s my second time around in that class. I tried a couple of years ago, soon after I got this job, but I didn’t have the time to practise. I didn’t even finish the course  … ’
    She leaned even closer towards me and whispered, ‘Boyfriend trouble. Told him to sling his hook eventually.’
    â€˜Sorry to hear it,’ I said.
    â€˜It’s fine, I prefer being single and available,’ she said, and I swear she winked at me. ‘Anyway, point is that I love the idea of knitting, and I read the magazines, and listen to the podcasts, but I’m not really that good at it. Not like you, you’re a natural.’
    â€˜Shut up,’ I said, blushing.
    â€˜You are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got skills.’
    There was an awkward silence for a few seconds until Natasha broke it.
    â€˜Shall we continue the tour?’ she said brightly. She waved an arm casually at a selection of needles in various point sizes. ‘Impressive, huh?’
    â€˜Impressive,’ I agreed, nodding earnestly.
    I hadn’t really planned on buying anything when I went in, but Natasha’s sales technique convinced me and I splashed out on some merino in French navy, along with a couple of balls of chenille, which might come in handy for my grandma. I had just enough money.
    As she handed me the bag with my goodies in, she said, ‘So you’re serious about this,