Breaking The Yarn

The seven of them met at the usual time that cold and rainy October night, which is to say whenever Betty had made Angus's dinner and served it to him with a cup of milky sweet tea, and when Blanche had negotiated her walking frame off the Number 16 bus, and when Parampreet, Dot and the rest had left spouses and cats and empty houses, collected their needles and yarn and made their respective ways to the community hall. 

Yasmin was the first to arrive, as usual, at about twenty to six. Letting herself in with the heavy, old-fashioned key that had been entrusted to her as Secretary of the Rotary Club, she immediately turned on the overhead lights, and then spent a fraught few minutes coaxing the old oil-fired central heating system into begrudging warmth before arranging the chairs in the accustomed fashion on the huge, faded Persian rug that was even older than Yasmin herself. It exhaled breaths of lavender-scented dust under her patent loafers as she briskly completed her mental checklist.

There was an ancient tea urn sitting on a pitted and worn mahogany table pushed against the wall at the back of the rectangular room, and this she filled with water from the sink in the tiny galley kitchen, setting it to start heating immediately. The girls all enjoyed several cups of tea a day, with the exception of Annie, who had her own small jar of instant decaf coffee. She had barely done these few mundane tasks when Betty - notably absent a month from their weekly meet - arrived, with Dot and Parampreet in tow. They were early, for once, and Yasmin nodded to herself in approval. The three were engaged in an animated conversation about the relative merits of air fryers, and started to shrug off jackets and hats and scarves with a chorus of greetings, before settling into their usual chairs, the conversation veering off on frequent tangents to cover such diverse subjects such as the shocking price of electricity ('I think I'd rather freeze to death than crank the bloody heating up at 34p a kWh!'), the death of Dot's last remaining goldfish (4 years old; a good age they all agreed) and, most importantly, the latest update about Parampreet's granddaughter, Jasminder. She was causing her father, friends and especially grandmother daily despair by shacking up with an alarmingly shady character they all despised, not even because he wasn't Sikh.

Annie arrived next, frazzled and breathless, her frizzy hair damp and rounded cheeks flushed, and the conversation turned to exclamations of affection. It had been a fortnight since she'd last made it to their weekly meet and she looked tired. Annie, with her sweet face, had a perpetually puzzled expression as though she'd just been told a joke she didn't quite understand. She also looked even rounder than usual, and Yasmin did a double take. Annie unzipped her Barbour waxed jacket and began to pull a comically long, rainbow-coloured scarf from around her neck and upper body. It seemed to be about five feet in length and it wasn't long before the others noticed too.

'What the bloody hell is THAT?' hooted Betty, standing up for a better look, her green eyes gleaming and chin quivering with barely-disguised mirth. The most sporadic attendee, she had missed most of the gentle humour the others had bestowed upon Annie's long-standing project.
'Oh! You finished it?' squealed Dot, clapping her gnarled hands together in childish glee, her iron-grey curls bobbing gently. Param watched uncertainly, torn between amusement and concern and ready to diffuse the situation if necessary. 
'What?' Annie said nervously, gathering the scarf in her arms and shoving it unceremoniously into a Tesco bag.
Yasmin raised a delicately arched eyebrow in the direction of the bag still clutched in Annie's hands.
'Oh! The scarf? Yes, I finished it a couple of weeks ago, I managed to get another skein of the Cobalt Worsted from Knit Happens and it was just enough. It did turn out longer than I was going for but...its so cold and my jacket is getting on so I thought I could wrap it round me a few times. Y'know, keep the heat in...' She trailed off defensively as Betty snorted, coughed and sat back down and Dot and Param crowded round the plastic bag to admire her handiwork. Yasmin looked at her pityingly.
'Warm, no doubt, but as well as being five foot long, it makes you look five feet wide!'
'Don't be such a mean old bag, Yas!' snapped Dot. 'We can't all have your physique. Some of us are built for comfort, not speed!'

Yasmin showed no contrition, and merely gave Dot what Nan had dubbed 'The Look' over the top of her stylish black-framed glasses and, turning her perfectly-straight back, went to fetch the teabags and an ancient butter cookie tin that was kept well-stocked with Tunnock's teacakes and Kit-Kats (the four finger variety; Yasmin was many things, but stingy was not one of them.) The outburst was instantly forgotten, forgiven without words or need. They were a family, of sorts. 

Nan herself arrived just as the tea urn reached its whistling climax, to a chorus of happy greetings, and the shuffle and thud of rubber on wood heralded Blanche's arrival shortly thereafter. Annie scuttled to get the heavy door and Blanche clanked her walker over to the circle of seats and magnanimously allowed Betty to divest her of several layers of outerwear, until she was clad in a peach silk blouse, tailored slacks of navy blue and a fabulous Bernat Cocoon cardigan of a deep magenta. It clashed horribly with her red felt beret and plum lipstick but Blanche simply didn't care, a trait which both exasperated and impressed the others, particularly Yasmin. She would never admit under pain of torture that she admired the older woman's complete disregard for fashion and wearing whatever she wanted, and be damned with the outcome.

As the church clock chimed the hour, conversation flowed, tea - or Decaf Nescafe for Annie - was made and drunk by the cup, and biscuits nibbled (or wolfed in Nan's case; at 66 she was the youngest and still worked practically full time. Coming here straight from her shift at the Spar had left no time for niceties such as dinner.)

The room began to warm, the scuffed wooden floors exuding a faint aroma of beeswax and old dust, and old bones felt refreshed. After this lively domestic ritual, cups and saucers were pushed under chairs and yarn bags and needles were collected and the real work began.

From her chair at the 12' o'clock position, Blanche commanded their attention. She was the matriarch of their little group and, at 94, the oldest. She was also only the second remaining original member of the group, along with Dot. 
'Okay girls, its been a while since we were all here, a full house seems rare these days' Blanche said in her thin, reedy voice. The stroke from two years ago had left her face weakened but still animated. 'Let's make the most of it, I might not last until you can all get your mardy bums here all together again!' She let out her signature cackle and Yasmin smiled wryly while Annie, worried, immediately began to fuss over Blanche. The older woman cut her off with a wave of one birdlike little claw, the skin of her hand paper-thin and blue-white. 'I'm not going to drop dead just yet, Annie dear; I would like to see out my centenary! But its been 5 bloody months since we were all here together so we've been a little restricted in what we can do when we're spread thin. All I meant was...' her lined and creased face softened here '...I know you've all been busy. Betty, you've had Angus's heart attack, Nan has had her job and Param has had the trouble with her granddaughter and the rest of you all have your own lives too. But you are my only family now and I miss you when I don't see you. Even you, Yasmin, you sourpuss!'
Yasmin actually allowed a small smile to grace her perfectly lipsticked mouth. Her breast cancer was, thankfully, in remission these days. 'Thanks. I'm pretty fond of you too, you old bag.' Everyone laughed, especially Blanche, and there was a palpable feeling of anticipation in the air. The seven of them fitted together well as a group, and seven is a powerfully magical number. Annie felt it. Her grey hair, a frizzy corona in the fluorescent lights, seemed to crackle with static, and even Dot, the perpetual fidget, was still. They smiled at one another, and then to a woman, began to pull out their individual projects in various stages of completion. 
'Are we...?' Betty, seated at Blanche's left, leaned in towards her, awaiting instructions.
'Yes' said Blanche firmly. Looking at Nan now with faded blue eyes the colour of pressed cornflowers, she nodded to the other woman. 'Will you do the honours tonight, and start us off, Nan? You can do garter stitches better than any of us.'
'Oh! Of course' Nan, flushed with pleasure, immediately dived into her yarn bag for short needles and Param whistled and threw, underhand, a skein of coarse wool in an ugly beige colour. She fumbled but caught it and looked back at Blanche, awaiting her permission.
'Then let's begin' said Blanche calmly.

Soon the clack and slide of needles filled the hall, and conversation ebbed and flowed as elbows rose and fell rhythmically.
Talk turned, as it recently had, to the subject of Parampreet's teenage granddaughter Jasminder. They had all met her as Parampreet had practically raised her. When she was a small child she had sometimes accompanied Param to her Knit and Natter meetings, her big dark eyes round and serious as she took a KitKat from Yasmin or a peg doll from Blanche. As she grew, however, she revealed a rebellious streak that had culminated in her renouncing her faith and moving into a dingy bedsit with a much older man who had proved to be every mother's nightmare. That was four months ago and although she showed signs of wanting to return home, this man (Was it Leo or Liam? Annie couldn't remember) seemed determined not to let her go and poor Jas, already damaged by the death of her mother Asha, Param's only daughter, at a young age, seemed unable to free herself from him.

'So this boyfriend of your granddaughter's has turned out to be a real wrong 'un?' said Betty to Parampreet, working on a tiny matinee jacket in lemon yellow for a preemie baby.
'The worst' said Param darkly, struggling to master a complicated Brioche stitch she had taken to learning. 'Jasminder hasn't told me outright - I've hardly seen her this last month, its killing me - but she's hinted he's hit her. I've seen the bruises on her wrists, too, although she clams up if I ask how she got them.He's started checking her phone, thinks she's messaging other men. He waits for her after work in case she thinks about going off anywhere, as if she would. She looks so thin and sad, but she won't leave him, or he won't let her. Her father is furious but this man is dangerous, I'm sure, and we can't force her to come home. She's 19 after all. Only 19.'
She lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and Annie, seated to her left, could see the film of tears in her eyes. She reached out a rough but gentle hand and Param took it gladly, taking the comfort that her friend offered.

Yasmin, listening in silence whilst she worked on the sleeve of a stylish - but boring - Merino sweater in a dusky rose yarn, locked eyes with Annie, who in turn nodded and glanced at Nan. Nan, absorbed in her task, must have felt the weight of her gaze, as she glanced up and instantly caught the meaning behind Annie's look and voiced the unspoken. 
'Well, I think I know why you were so keen we all made it this week, Blanche! Is it decided then?'
Blanche, gnarled hands arthritic but still able and knitting something that could have been either a hat or a tea cosy, smiled benignly and nodded in satisfaction. She looked serene. 
'Yes, I think we have no choice. Too many news stories that start with a girl like Jasminder and end badly. There's been enough said over the last few weeks - and tonight especially - to cement the facts, and look at our Param...!' They did. She looked utterly dejected but managed a small smile at her friends.

The sense of anticipation, almost tangible, hung in the air, sharper than ever. Nan, knitting away steadily and humming serenely to herself, called for more yarn and the others shot frequent glances at her as the minikin unfurled from her needles and deft hands as if by magic. Which it probably was. 

About 6 inches tall, it was rough and ugly, just a vaguely humanoid-shaped sack. The body was squat and rounded, the arms and legs, attached with crude stitches, were currently just empty tubes, like lumpy socks, awaiting their stuffing innards. This Annie soon did, taking the nearly-finished minikin from Nan almost reverently. Using a curious mix of herbs, wood shavings, bits of paper and cloth, some other nameless but odd bits and pieces (Yasmin could see what looked suspiciously like a couple of dead flies) and traditional polyfil wadding, she carefully filled the clumsy figure until it sat, plump and surprisingly heavy on her left knee. The torso was currently unstitched from mid-chest to stomach, and the cavity gaped open, the edges of the material fleshless lips from which bits of stuffing oozed.

All pretence at working on their own projects was dispensed with, and all eyes were now on Param.
Standing, she nervously faced her friends. 
'I can't deny I've wanted this, really. I've searched my soul and even my God is silent. If its not Jas, it would be some other woman. There's too much wickedness in this world and I can't bear for any harm to come to pass when we can stop it. She's the only family I have. Except you all, of course.' She smiled, a small sad smile. 'I collected this by way of Jasminder, of course she has no idea why... Thankfully she's working tonight.' Here she reached into her handbag and pulled out a little plastic baggy 'I believe it will be enough.'

She passed it to Annie who took it gravely. Gingerly, she opened it and tweezed out a clump of straw-blonde hair between thumb and forefinger. In the baggy was also a small piece of cloth, perhaps from a shirt, and a folded rectangle of ordinary writing paper. She didn't open this, didn't need to. They all knew what was written on it. The silence, as she gently tucked the clump of hair, the cloth and the little note into the cloth doll's chest, was as heavy as Param's heart. Passing it to Yasmin, she gave a little shiver as the doll left her hands for her friends'. Yasmin motioned for a heavyweight needle and thread. This Dot provided, and she deftly sewed the little dolls' chest closed with thick, black stitches, muttering a long, low string of syllables as she did so in her sing-song voice.

Passing it now to Parampreet, the figure, still faceless, seemed to weigh twice as much as it should. Param eyed it distastefully but continued the work. Taking a thick, curved needle from her embroidery bag, she carefully punctured her index finger, inhaling sharply and thinning her lips as it sank into her flesh. Blood, muted against her dusky skin, beaded on the tip. She firmly pressed her finger over the dolls chest, leaving a crimson smear where its heart would be, if it had one. Letting out a sigh, she leaned back, the doll casting drunkenly to one side on her thigh, its dumpy little body almost comical, except for that bright red smear. 
The very air was electric, supercharged with the energy of the seven women. 

'Betty dear, my walker, if you will.' Blanche, aided by Betty and Nan, rose from her seat. She shuffled her feet (clad, Yasmin noticed, in this season's cow-print Ugg boots) across the worn and balding rug to stand by the tea table whilst the other women sprang into action. Yasmin, Annie and Dot, gathered the chairs and placed them neatly back against the left hand wall, whilst Param hunted out candles, and Betty and Nan rolled back the rug in a cloud of gritty dust.
'It really HAS been a while' Nan coughed. 'I'll vacuum this before we leave.'
Annie, broom already in hand, briskly swept the dirty hardwood floor, and Dot, with a groan for her poor, arthritic knees, knelt to collect the dirt with a dustpan and hand-brush.

Blanche looked on approvingly as the Circle, six feet in diameter, was revealed. Carefully drawn in white chalk with symbols here and there picked out in red (goat's blood, and in need of redrawing soon, Blanche noted with a frown) lay revealed before her. Param, black taper candles in hand, bent to place them in the correct locations and Betty knelt to light them in turn. Dot narrowed her eyes as she watched her use a cigarette lighter to carefully light each wick. 'I thought you'd given up?'
Betty flushed, and bent further over her task. 'I did...for a while.'
'We all have our vices, Dot.' Said Yasmin firmly, and no more was said. They all knew about Dot's light-fingered predilection in the local Asda's alcohol department.

This was all forgotten, however, as the scene was finally set. The harsh, overhead fluorescent lights were turned off, the doors firmly locked and the blinds covering the several windows were pulled down like lids over watchful eyes. The circle, radiating its own powerful, dark energy, was limned by the flickering glow of the candles at its cardinal points. In the centre was a shallow and blackened silver salver with an inch-thick rectangle of pitted and scarred cork lying at the bottom.

The seven took their places, Param holding the doll in both hands before her. Using the guttural language of the Old Ones, Blanche began the spell, and after a few seconds, the others began to join in. Parampreet slowly walked into the circle, head bowed, and gently laid the odd little figure in the salver. She regarded it for a long second, unblinking, before pulling from her cardigan pocket a couple of short, thick - but sharp - wooden needles with cheerful red caps. Taking a deep breath, and then just as slowly, just as gently, she drove the first deep into the unresisting belly of the minikin, before giving it a vicious twist as the needle caught in the thick pad of cork. The second followed quickly, finding it's mark in one stubby little arm. She imagined it finding the sweet spot between the radius and ulna, up where they joined to meet the elbow joint. As a former nurse, she knew that, in a human, the pain would be exquisite.

One by one, the women quickly and efficiently came forward to insert their own needles of varying lengths and gauges, each choosing a different part of the doll. Annie picked its misshapen feet, wincing as she clumsily impaled first one, then the other. She could feel heat on her face as she stepped back. Yasmin's long, thin needle was a vicious acid-green, and she inserted it, unblinking and with considerable force, into the groin of the figure. Betty, in her brisk, no-nonsense manner, drove her pin into what she imagined was an eye socket. The heat grew.

Lying pathetic and pinioned in its tarnished silver bed, with stuffing leaking out from the various puncture wounds, the minikin began to smoulder, as Blanche - the last woman - approached. Her pale eyes blazed and she stood erect and unaided, arms outstretched, cupped palms raised as in supplication. The chant, taken up now more forcefully by the seven, reached a crescendo. Blanche lifted a long steel hatpin from her fluffy beret with one unshaking hand, and as she firmly brought it down into the bloody fingerprint over the very centre of the doll, it burst into bright flame, shocking in its intensity, like a magnesium flare. Stepping back to join her sisters, she staggered a little and was caught by the hand by Yasmin, now standing directly to her left. Holding hands still, they watched the flames die down until nothing but charred fragments remained, smouldering gently, the variously sized pins and needles falling here and there now as nothing remained to hold them upright. The cork pad remained as it was, untouched by flame, but the salver had a new film of greasy, black soot. Annie shot a worried look up at the ancient smoke detector at the far end of the hall but Dot's knowing smile told her there was nothing to fear there. 

There was nothing left to be said. One by one, the women hugged Parampreet, whose eyes glistened brightly in the flickering light, murmuring words of affirmation. 

Briskly and efficiently, they cleaned up, like a gaggle of old women do. The candles were snuffed and returned to their drawer, the dusty rug replaced over the circle ('Sod it!' muttered Nan 'Some other idiot can Hoover that bugger!') The tea cups were rinsed and put away, the blinds drawn up once more and the heating turned off with a wheezing groan and clank of ageing pipes. By the time Blanche was cocooned once more in sumptuous layers of cardigan, gilet, and a North Face puffa, and Annie had wound her ridiculous scarf around her softly rounded body several times, goaded by Betty who was punished by a coughing fit, the church clock was chiming nine. Yasmin, last to leave as always, carefully turned the heavy key in the lock as she shut the heavy old door behind them. As they called goodbyes and finally parted outside the Hall in the damp chill, in pairs or alone, the first sirens could be heard across town.