‘Maybe,’ agreed Dixie. ‘For a start, you don’t want to dig up the past. Remember that guy who wanted to be called Hashtag.’
‘Hashtag was a fun bloke though. What number washe? I wonder if he makes the 37 per-cent cut-off,’ she said more to herself than Dixie as she began counting.
‘This is completely brilliant,’ said Dixie picking up her wine. ‘Here’s to the 37 per cent rule solving our problems.’ And they both clinked glasses, even if Nora thought Dixie’s celebrations were a little bit premature.
3
Nora and Dixie were good friends even though they hadn’t known each other that long. About eighteen months ago Nora had picked up a flyer for a new local club, having found it on a table in her usual coffee shop. With nothing else planned, she’d decided she might as well check it out. It had been wintertime and, if she was being honest, she went along purely out of intrigue at the title of the proposed new club rather than anything else, as the flyer promised rafting and cocktails– a combination even she struggled to calculate the odds of danger and death for. But it turned out to be a printing error that Dixie hadn’t spotted. The first few had come out correctly and read ‘Crafting & Cocktails’.
Only three people had turned up. They were Nora, a man called Jay and an elderly lady called Renee. Renee was the most disappointed of all to discover that they were tackling crochet squares rather than white-water rafting as she had been looking for an adrenaline rush that the sheltered housing was not providing and thought rafting and cocktails was right up her street. She’d beena young woman during the swinging sixties and was not how Nora pictured the average eighty-year-old. With short, stylish, light blonde hair, bright red lipstick and a sheepskin flying jacket, she had more than an air of a rebel Helen Mirren about her. Despite Renee’s initial disappointment, after a couple of Porn-star Martinis she had knocked out a number of granny squares that evening, even if some of them had been a little less than perfect.
Jay had also been disappointed, but to his credit he had joined in and with some help from Dixie and Renee became quite the dab hand with a pair of knitting needles. And so the odd bunch had become firm friends and met every Tuesday in the little side room at their local community centre on the outskirts of Melton Mowbray. Renee liked to call it the ‘bloody broom cupboard’ because it pleased her to add a mild swear word to most of her sentences. But the bigger rooms were used by the local Brownie pack and a wellness class, so it all worked out.
‘They’re buggering about with the heating again.’ Renee patted the radiator. ‘What idiot puts the heating on this time of year?’
‘I think the caretaker is doing a check,’ said Dixie.
‘He’s not on the last few rows of a double-bed-sized blanket, now is he?’ Renee lifted one end of the impressive piece she had crocheted. A carnival of reds, pinks and purples with a distinct tulip border. ‘I’m hotter than a Scotch bonnet’s bum crack under here.’
‘Do chillies have bum cracks?’ asked Dixie, looking confused.
‘I love the colours in that,’ said Jay, picking up one end of Renee’s blanket. He was still doing granny squares, although they were getting more intricate.
‘Thanks,’ said Renee. ‘If you could keep wafting the blanket that’s sending a lovely breeze to my—’
‘Anyway this week’s cocktail is…’ Dixie left a dramatic pause to no effect. ‘A Painkiller.’
‘I’m on enough of those buggers,’ said Renee. ‘Bloody arthritis in my knee is playing up again. Go on then, what’s in the cocktail?’ she asked.
‘Rum, pineapple juice, orange juice (from a carton, not fresh), with creamed coconut. It’s meant to have freshly grated nutmeg on top too, but I’ve brought this.’ She dusted the already poured drinks with some ground nutmeg from a little jar.
Renee was first to taste hers. ‘Lovely, but could do with more rum.’
‘You always say that,’ pointed out Nora, and she took a sip of hers before cracking on with her knitting.
‘Three things to update you all on,’ said Dixie, and Jay and Renee froze. Nora carried on knitting her project as she figured she knew what was coming. She was working on a jumper for her dad’s birthday and she needed to get on with it.
Dixie took a deep breath. ‘I’ve got a discount code for the online wool place we all like. I’ve lost my job and—’
‘Oh bad luck,’ said Renee.
‘Dixie, that’s awful,’ said Jay. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you OK?’
Dixie grinned. ‘I am great. Thanks to Nora it’s the best thing that could have happened. I drew up a list and now I am absolutely focused on my next venture.’
‘That’s a splendid attitude,’ said Renee. ‘What’s your new job?’
‘I’m going to be a social media influencer,’ she said proudly, pausing her crochet to watch for their responses. ‘Instagram-focused mainly.’
Nora gave what she hoped was an encouraging nod.
‘Sounds blinking brilliant to me,’ said Jay. ‘All the big brands are reaching out to influencers to spread campaigns. It’s absolutely the future of marketing. Well done you.’
Renee was squinting at Dixie. ‘Sounds like gibberish to me. Who do you work for?’
‘Myself,’ said Dixie, pulling back her shoulders.
‘Hmm. Good luck with that.’ Renee went back to speed crocheting.
