The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown

and last of the Honey family line, was all for it. On one of his rare visits, on the pretext of seeing how she was, he’d told Hettie he was concerned about her living on her own, that she needed the rest and that ‘it’s not like you’ve got that many customers these days, is it?’ He said he’d make sure she had her own bedroom or at the very least, a twin sharer. ‘And besides, it might be nice for her to have the company of people her own age.’ He’d put forward a strong case and had already contacted the council to enquire about a suitable place. But Hettie wasn’t losing her marbles and she knew that what he was really after was to bulldoze her beloved home – the oast house surrounded by a meadow of pretty wild flowers, and the place where she grew up. There’s her cosy bedroom suite, set upstairs in the roundel with its magnificent view of the valley, the lovely farmhouse kitchen with the walk-in pantry, the sunroom, the snug – it’s got the lot, and that’s on top of all her memories wrapped within its circular walls. Not to mention her beloved little shop, right next door, crammed full of all her favourite knitting and needlecraft goodies.

      Then he’d be able to get his hands on the land for one of his building projects. He’d told her all about the one with ample parking and plastic windows that his company had created in the town where he lived, over fifty miles away. Seventeen months it had taken, he’d said, to fight all the objections from the local residents’ association, and he had puffed on about it for the entire hour of that tedious visit. But Hettie isn’t ready to be written off; to be carted away to an old people’s home like a nag to a glue factory, not when there is plenty of life still left in her sprightly body. Besides, ‘going into a home’ would mean leaving Tindledale behind, and Hettie knows more than anything that this is where her heart belongs. It always has, even when she’d had the chance of a different life, far, far away.

      

       Three weeks until Christmas …

      I stare at the radio mounted in the dashboard of my clapped-out old Clio as I negotiate a particularly icy corner off Lewisham High Road. Jennifer Ford! Did the London FM newsreader guy just say Jennifer Ford had absconded? I wasn’t really paying attention, but I know that name. F-O-R-D, the woman had even spelled it out for me, as in Harrison Ford, that’s what Jennifer had said. It was about a month ago, and I had shuddered, which is hardly surprising given my monumentally embarrassing showdown at the altar of my own Star Wars-themed wedding just six months previously. I’m still cringing. 4 May it was, obviously. Luke, my ex – and for the record, a massive tool, I know that now, it’s just a shame I didn’t know it then – anyway, he thought it would be a brilliant idea to have ‘May the fourth be with you’ in big swirly gold lettering on the wedding invites. He was literally leaping over the proverbial moon when we managed to secure the date with the church. So why then didn’t he turn up?

      Jilted at the altar! That’s me. I’m the woman none of us ever wants to be. Stood there in a floaty neck-to-toe white hooded dress, complete with Princess Leia buns, having opted for the pin-on ones after my unruly red curls had refused to get involved, the realisation dawning that he wasn’t actually going to turn up. A no-show. And that’s when I knew, really knew, what had been going on, because Sasha, my identical twin sister and far more glamorous than me – even her name is bursting with va-va-voom compared to my Sybil – wasn’t there either. To be honest, I think I had known, deep down, in the weeks and months leading up to the wedding that something wasn’t quite right. But I had chosen to ignore it – or perhaps that’s the whole purpose of hindsight: its job is to protect you, to let you be obliviously happy for just a while longer before the reality swoops in to deal a cruel, mean blow.

      I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, which forms a miniature Australia-shaped mist on the windscreen. Sasha, golden and gregarious, the pony club princess to quirky and creative me, hadn’t wanted to be a bridesmaid, citing a desire for not wanting to steal the limelight away from me on my big day. Ha! Instead she stole my husband-to-be. Turns out Luke had always had a bit of a twin fantasy thing going on in his head and had decided to make it a reality – they had been having a secret ‘thing’ for ages. I don’t know all the details, I really don’t want to, and I haven’t spoken to either of them since …

      So, after wrenching the Princess Leia buns from my head, I had flung them into the crowd and run from the church, narrowly managing to avoid body slamming into a late-arriving, over-furry Chewbacca as I burst out through the doors and into the sanctuary of the waiting tour bus. Yes, another one of Luke’s brilliant ideas, a big bastard 48-seater with STAR WARS: May the fourth be with you, love Sybs and Luke emblazoned down both sides for the whole world – well, the greyest part of London and beyond at least – to witness my humiliation. And I’ll never forget the look on my parents’ faces: disappointment mixed with embarrassment. I had let them down in front of all their friends. Even the flower girls were crying because the party was over before it had even started and I had promised them the DJ would do a special One Direction medley during the disco. I felt like an utter failure! And still do, a lot, to be honest.

      I park the Clio and give the door an extra-hard slam with the full force of my left Converse trainer before picking my way through the dirt-stained leftovers from this morning’s sleet storm and making my way down the path to my basement flat, deftly sidestepping the cracked paving slabs and trying really hard to ignore the mounting swirl of unease in my stomach. Maybe I’d misheard the newsreader. Let’s hope so, because the Jennifer Ford I’d dealt with at work wouldn’t take £42,000 in housing benefit wrongly credited to her bank account and blow it on a crazeee trolley dash around Westfield shopping centre, and then be daft enough to post the pics of the shopping hauls across her multiple social media channels, would she? No! Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, as I negotiate the crumbly old steps, push the key into the front door, retrieve the post from the mat and give Basil, my bonkers black Scottie dog, a stroke as he dashes to greet me with an expectant time-for-dinner look on his whiskery face.

      It’s Thursday evening and I’ve just finished work at the housing department of the local council office. I flick the switch to illuminate the miniature Christmas tree on my hall table and read the note from the dog sitter.

      Basil had a lovely time today. Went for a run around the park followed by a long snoring snooze on my sofa lol. Sorry, I know you’re trying to train him to keep off the furniture but he’s just too cute, I couldn’t resist a cuddle during Judge Judy. I’ll try harder tomorrow.

       Love, Pops xxx

      Ah, Poppy is a godsend and I don’t know what I’d do without her. After Luke left (he used to take Basil to work in his electrician’s van) I very nearly had to rehome Basil, because I couldn’t face leaving him on his own all day. Then Poppy moved in upstairs and she loves dogs but can’t have one as she works nights as an administrator at one of the big law firms in the City, so she jumped at the chance to look after Basil when I’m at work.

      I press the button on the landline phone’s answer machine – I actually ventured out last night with a few friends, a bit of a rarity since the 4 May showdown, and then didn’t have time to listen to my messages this morning. We’d gone to a Zumba class – so not my thing. My backside feels as if it’s been pummelled by a trillion pygmy goat hoofs, and I really must get a new mobile, although it’s been rather liberating being without one: no sneaking a peek at Luke’s Facebook whenever the fancy takes me, or sending drunken texts only to agonise over them the following morning. I had hurled my old phone from the window of the Star Wars’ bus somewhere on the M4 on the way back to my parents’ bungalow in Staines when Sasha had called to ‘apologise’ with promises of ‘making it up to me’ and explanations of it ‘just happened’, all of the clichés rolled into one big ball of crushing heartbreak.

      In keeping with tradition, I had stayed with Mum and Dad the night before the wedding and, after gathering up Basil and my special ‘going away’ clothes, I’d beaten a rapid retreat back here to my flat, called a locksmith,