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Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, as rounded with a little sleep.
--William Shakespeare

Introduction
How I started National Novel Writing Month, 2008.

It was completely unintentional, I swear. One morning I just had a novel jump out at me, out of the blue. As so many of life's great ideas do, it started with tea…

My dad went to the corner shop for teabags, and came back with teabags. My brother went to the corner shop for teabags, and came back with teabags and a bar of chocolate. My mum went to the corner shop for teabags, and came back with teabags, the television guide for next week, and enough chocolate for the whole family. I went to the corner shop for teabags, and came back with a novel. I forgot the teabags.

Dreams are strange things. They pop out at us at night, or even in broad daylight sometimes during bus journeys or long meetings. This one arrived in the long queue to the till. Saturdays are always busy. It slipped into my normal daydreams with a bang. It shouted at me: 'Look at me! Aren't I great? I'm begging to be written, you know I am. I'm plotless but perfect.' A plotless novel, I thought. How strange. I had never written anything without a plan before, so this was a new experience. And it all started with that box of teabags.

In the process of writing this novel, I went through about twice the number of cups of tea that I normally drank. So did my family, since when one makes tea, one makes it for the entire group. That's the ethic of our house (it doesn’t apply to important things like cleaning or feeding the goldfish). This meant more trips to the corner shop, which were surprisingly boring considering the epiphany I had on that first November trip.

So what is my point? Honour thy holy teabags as thou honours thy novel. For in tea great ideas are found, and the perseverance to see them to the end.

Chapter One: Winter

Six thirty am, and the world seems too bright for winter mornings. I think of winter as a time of darkness, a time of cold and rain and messy, grubby pools of slush in the high street. I think most people do. But this morning is bizarrely bright. The snow has been falling all night, and the footprints of a million harried pedestrians have yet to wear it down. The icicles glitter and flash, the raindrops sparkle like diamonds in the orange glow of the street lamps. The lamps are so few, flashing in and out of the darkness, but they seem too bright so early in the morning. Part of me wants to be back in bed, even just sitting in the darkness somewhere, enjoying what still feels like the night. The other part looks forward to the day ahead.

The bus jerks to a halt at my stop (why is it's rhythmic rattle the only sound I hear?). I get off, shivering in the cold morning air, and walk the short distance to my shop. It is a small place, it caters to a small group of people. Compared to the huge, lifeless chain shops littering the high street it is comfortably warm, like the last warm cup of tea on a table littered with empty cups. At least, I like to think of it that way. I hope the people who visit do too.

I fumble in my pocket, looking for the little silver key on it's little silver keyring. I grin fondly as I recall receiving this keyring. A little stocking stuffer from many Christmases ago, this little plastic toy beneath the orange in the toe. A bright green magic eight ball on a silver ring, it has told my future through many stressful times. It was often wrong, of course, but that was part of the fun. Reassurance never even invites honesty, let alone accuracy. The door clicks open and the chime above the door jingles softly as it swings quietly open. I am relieved – the door has frozen shut a few times this winter already. This is hardly the first frost of the season. Fortunately, everything seems fine.

Once inside, I shut the door quickly, trying to conserve what little heat there is. There is not much, the cold has seeped through the whole building, creeping under the door like smoke and sunlight. Like things far warmer, whatever the metaphor. I flick the switch to turn on the lights, they flare into bright fluorescent life over the stairs and small coffee table, and hurried up the stairs to locate the switch turning on the central heating. It seems odd. My shop is lined with insulation, yet it always takes on a fridge-like temperature during the coldest months. I find the little white button and watch the light beside it flare red. My little place will not take long to warm up, it should be perfectly warm by the time the shop opens at nine. I switch on the kettle. Warm the place might become, but right now the whole shop was still frigid. I smile to myself: one day I would arrive to discover a thin sheen of frost over everything, I am sure.

The kettle bubbles, steams, boils, and I pour the hot liquid into the white mug, my shop logo emblazoned across the front. I rummage through the fridge for the last of a bottle of milk. As soon as the supermarket across the road opens, I will go and buy more. Or perhaps send Jamie to do it. He will not mind going straight back out, I am sure. Clutching my tea, I dig the clipboard out from the top drawer of my desk and head back upstairs to the storeroom. We had a large delivery yesterday, but no time to unpack it before the Wednesday afternoon rush. I think they all plan it in advance, all turning up together for the chance to chat and compare before buying. Everyone keeps saying a single formal meeting isn’t enough every week, but I don’t really have the time to organise any extra. People can't come very early during the week, and I don't really want to run two on a weekend. The classes and workshops take up quite enough time.

Which reminds me, I should complete the inventory and plan for this weekend's workshop today. I can't afford to leave it any longer if I am to have everything ready.

I open the first box. Ah yes, the alpaca is here. One hundred balls of fine spun, aran weight alpaca in five colours. People always think that sounds like a lot. 'One hundred balls?' laughed Sarah last time I ordered. 'Who would buy that many?' I was sold out in three days. Think about it. Five colours means only twenty balls per colour. Sweaters can take as many as fourteen balls, more if you're knitting for someone a little bigger. And there are less people than you might think wanting to knit hat after hat, even if there is a bit of variety between them. So if you get the word around that you have new stock of yarn that would be perfect for a sweater… Well, you sell out a lot faster than people might think. So this new delivery is very welcome. I rummage through the box, checking numbers, prices, colourways, then I close the box and stack it on one of the wide wooden cubbyholes along the wall. These holes too are divided up, but by manufacturer rather than by fibre. Fibre would just take too long. I would never find anything! But this way I could find things much easier.

I move onto the next box, and the next, and the next, as my tea cools beside me and the sky gradually lightens through the window outside. Mohair, wool, acrylic, polyester, in every colour and weight that exists. Well, almost. We seem to have a slight absence of lace weight, but so few people around here buy it. We can make do with about fifty balls a year.

I heave the last box onto its shelf, sliding it back and replacing the one in front. It is now half past eight. The shop is warmed and the light shining through the large front window has turned the shop floor a bright and sunny yellow. It looks so welcoming compared to the blank canvas outside. Colour always helps.

I close off the upstairs with the thick red cord. I didn't always close it off, but people started wandering up there, thinking it was part of the shop. Then I prepare the shop itself for the new day. The yarn in it's boxes and baskets, on the shelves and in pots over the walls was fully stocked. I made sure of that last night. The table was bare and polished, the pattern books alphabetically arranged. I unlock the till and check the change. There should be enough to cover the morning's business; there never was much on a Thursday.

The wind chime rang above the door, swaying in the gust of icy wind that accompanied my employee.

'Morning Jamie,' I said cheerfully. He shut the door firmly behind him and brushed fresh snow from his brown hair with mittened hands.

'It's really coming down out there,' he said. 'I take it you got in okay? It only really started about twenty minutes ago.'

'I had no problems,' I confirmed, 'but if it gets really heavy we might shut up early. This isn’t really the place to be stuck in a snowstorm. Alright for a few hours, but we couldn't stay here indefinitely.'

'Well lets not get ahead of ourselves,' Jamie replied with a grin. 'We're not even open yet, and the snow isn't that heavy. Maybe if it hasn't eased up by lunchtime, yeah?'

'Well get your coat off and have a cup of tea before the rush starts,' I joked. 'We can't have you standing there like frosty the snowman, melting all over the yarn.'

Jamie grinned and took his coat off, hanging it on the wooden coat rack by the door. It was one of those old fashioned free standing ones. I used to use the wall ones but it took up too much room, so I just leave this one by the window now, behind the display. I think it looks more welcoming when the people passing by can see that there are others inside. I always feel so intimidated by an empty, quiet shop. I like the chatter.

I put the kettle back on, as Jamie added his blue scarf to the coat on the rack, and filled two cups with hot tea. Jamie took one, added two cubes of white sugar and sighed as he took the first sip. He put the cup down on the wooden table and rubbed his hands together.

'Anything last minute that needs doing?' he asked.

'No, I don’t think so,' I said. 'Although,' I glanced at my watch, 'We should be opening now.'

Jamie went back over to the door and flipped over the sign reading 'Closed'. He tugged the edge of the shawl pinned to the window board, pulling it back up to drape properly. It slipped every night. Job done, he returned to the table and sat down, picking his cup of tea back up and cradling it between his palms.

'So,' he said. 'Anything new since yesterday?'

'Not really,' I replied, settling down opposite him. 'The sock yarn shipment has been delayed because of the snow, and I discovered that we have to order some more stitch markers.'

'Which?'

'Any. We're almost out of all of them. I'll probably just order the stone ones, though. Maybe a few of the clay. They’re the best sellers.'

'Mmm.' Jamie shifted the tea, rolling the smooth pottery between his palms. 'I noticed that too. People aren't as interested in the plastic any more. I was asking more about you. Have you been out anywhere yet?'

'No, not yet.' I replied.

'Holly, you have to get out and meet people!' Jamie insisted, leaning over the table. 'Make some friends, chat, get to know people. You can't live your whole life in the knitting community.'

I bit back a frustrated comment. I had never been much of a social butterfly. 'I--'

I was interrupted by the door opening. I rose to meet the customer with some relief.

'Emily,' I greeted her. 'We've not seen you for a few weeks.'

'Oh, you know how it is,' Emily smiled, hanging up her coat beside Jamie's. 'You just get caught up with the rush of everything.'

'Finished the jacket?' Jamie asked, propping open an inventory list against the teapot.

'Almost,' Emily smiled, sitting down on my other side and pulling a neatly folded pile of knitted fabric from the voluminous depths of her bag. She shook it out and laid it flat on the table. Jamie and I leaned over with interest to examine it. It was a beautiful piece of work. It was dark green, cables moving from the front round to the back and coming together in a celtic knot on the back.

'Looks pretty finished to me,' Jamie said, flipping the jacket back over to look at the front again. 'What do you need?'

'Buttons,' Emily said. 'I was going to use those wooden toggles I bought a couple of months ago, remember?'

'Oh yes, you got those at the craft place in the market, didn't you?' I nodded. 'What's the problem?'

'I can't get them through the buttonholes,' Emily admitted. 'I underestimated a little bit.'

I hid a grin. 'Happens to all of us,' I assured her.

'Amanda blamed gauge,' Emily said ruthfully.

'Amanda blames gauge for every knitting disaster that has ever happened to any of us.' Jamie pointed out. 'Even that time Sarah accidentally put her jumper through the washing machine and felted the whole thing.'

'I asked you not to mention that,' I scolded, head buried in the button drawer. 'Are you still wanting wooden buttons, Emily?'

'Yes, thank you,' Emily replied, distracted. 'You felted your jumper? Which one?'

'The blue.'

'Not the cashmere blend?'

'Unfortunately.'

'What a shame.'

'Hmm. Jamie, we need to have words about your broadcasting my mistakes.'

'I'll bear that in mind,' Jamie said. 'Tea, Emily?'

'Oh, that would be lovely, thank you, Jamie.' Jamie twisted around in his chair and flipped open the top of the kettle. Sighing, he stood up and filled it up from the tap in the corner. Meanwhile, I deposited twelve tubes of wooden buttons on the table.

'I think this is all we have in the wooden buttons,' I told Emily. 'We have more in metal and shell, but not a huge selection.'

The kettle clicked off, and I watched Jamie fill the teapot up. He set a cup down in front of Emily and then turned back for the pot. He caught the last tube as it rolled off the edge, and then set it and the teapot in the centre of the table.

'I like these,' Emily said, opening the tube and pouring a handful of buttons out into her hand. Do you think they'll go through all right?'

'Sew one on and check if you like,' I suggested. 'I have thread somewhere… Jamie, check the bottom drawer, would you? I'll put the rest away.'

Jamie rummaged through the drawer (I really must sort that out), which I put the rest away and Emily waited patiently.

---

'That's great,' Emily said some time later, jacket finished at last. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Umm… Three fifty, I think.' I replied, checking the price tag. 'Yes, that's right.'

Emily dug her purse out and rummaged around, coming out with three pounds fifty pence. 'I'd better get on my way, then. I haven't done the shopping yet.'

'Oh, yes, that reminds me. Jamie, we need more milk.' I said. 'Would you mind?'

'No, of course not. I'll come out with you, Emily.' he said. 'The snow has eased off a bit anyway.'

I opened the till and put the money in, handing Emily her receipt as she and Jamie wrapped up again against the cold winter air.

'I'll be back in a bit,' Jamie said, as the door swung shut behind them. I settled down again, half a cup of cold tea in front of me and started going through the order catalogues, making a list of things we were running short on, things that had been requested (bamboo is becoming more popular, perhaps I should make that a regular purchase) and things that were new but might sell well.

I was just adding up the price totals when Jamie came back in.

'Phew, the supermarket was packed,' he said, placing a new bottle of milk in the fridge. 'I think everyone is getting everything in one go. No one wants to come out more than once this week, I think, with the weather being as it is.'

'To be expected, I suspect.' I replied. 'Would you mind checking these totals for me? Even after four years in this job my maths hasn’t improved any.'

'It's disgraceful,' Jamie joked, taking the notebook. 'Shop owners should know better.' He glanced over the list briefly. 'Carry the two,' he added, putting the list back down in front of me.

'I thought it seemed cheap.' I corrected the mistake and handed it back over.

'All fine,' he said a moment later. 'Now, back to our original conversation.'

'I can't even remember what we were talking about,' I lied, shuffling the catalogues uncomfortably.

'Let me remind you,' Jamie said dryly, letting me know that he didn't believe me for one second. 'We were talking about how you haven't had a night out in heaven knows how long. About how your entire life revolves around this shop--'

'I like this shop!'

'And how that can't be a good thing. No one dedicates every waking minute to a single hobby. You need to meet people who aren't going to talk to you about knitting, crochet, yarn or any combination of these.'

'I still don't see why,' I snapped, suddenly fed up with this constant prodding, regular as clockwork. At least once a week, Jamie would ask again. At least once a week, I would tell him no, and tell him why, and hope that would be the end of it. This is a hope that is becoming more empty with every extra week. 'I am perfectly happy with my life as it is.'

'No you're not.' Jamie said, his normally cheerful face creased into a frown. It looked odd, like Christmas trees in June, wilted and brown, empty of their natural foliage. 'You just won't admit it.'

---

I don’t want to admit that Jamie might be right. Admitting that he was right meant that I would have to follow his advice, go to people instead of letting them come to me. I would have to find something else to talk about than the things that flowed so naturally in the shop, making tedious small talk that tells me nothing about the person I am talking to, and tells them nothing about me. Sure, we might fall into more comfortable patterns eventually, but that first contact is always excruciatingly embarrassing.

But then, I was always more comfortable in a semi-professional capacity. Even Jamie was employee before he was friend. I liked the distance. It prevented conversations like these.

Still, I think, as I lock up, maybe it is time I got out and met people. I must have something in common with someone, mustn't I? I shiver; the snow is coming down heavier than ever. We were lucky to keep the shop open as long as we did. I let Jamie go almost an hour ago, when the little white flakes began climbing the window wetly like soap flakes against the front of a washing machine. He has a longer bus ride than me to get home – almost an hour and a half. I hope he made it back alright. That hill he lives on is a death trap in icy weather.

Burying the unpleasant thoughts and sticking my hands back into my mittens, I start as the lime green bus rattles past. The wheels send a sludgy mess arching up over my shoes, but I don't really have time to worry about that as I chase my ride down the street. Fortunately, the three o'clock rush of kids has started from the school on the corner, and there is quite a queue. I make it in time. Thank heavens.

The bus is much busier now. The whole place is full of screaming, overexcited children (it must be the last day before the Christmas holidays start) and tired adults clutching full shopping bags. I hang onto the slick, frozen metal pole, feeling the bus lurch and shudder beneath my feet as the driver took every curve a little too fast for the icy road. The bus screeched to a halt, allowing two elderly women to stagger out into the cold air, and there was a rush to claim the abandoned seats.

Someone else got there first, and I made a grab for the rail and the metal monster leapt forward again into the dark road. It was a hellish ride home. I felt as if I were being eaten by a great green sea monster diving into the darkness of the ocean floor, it's stomach growling around me like the hum of a great engine.

Mixing metaphors, I know, but it has been a long day.

Most of the kids got off at the high street, leaving me free to claim a seat again. The various passengers sank into the vacated places with sighs and groans of seasonal tiredness. As joyful as the holidays are meant to be, they can be terribly tiring. With the stressful shopping season getting ever earlier too, the grey and bleary eyes were appearing earlier, and were revived less by the bright red and green lights lining the streets and living rooms of the town. So the bus descended into silence, just the squeaking and rattling of the bus breaking the night.

The lights of the pub two streets away from my home flashed suddenly past, startling in the winter darkness, and I pushed hastily down on the bell. 'STOPPING' lit up dimly on the back of the driver's compartment, and I got gingerly to my feet, bracing myself against the sway and lurch of the vehicle.

It was with some relief that I descended into the icy air. At least the ground was steady here, and there was no chance of pressing crowds out here in the dark street. I walked blindly through the blizzard, my scarf flapping behind me like the tail feathers of a bright and tasselled bird. I could see the glittering baubles in windows as I passed, glowing in the light of the twinkling fairy lights. I will be glad to get back to my own warm haven from the cold.

I glanced back over my shoulder at the inviting bulk of the local pub, hunched against the night. Its stomach glowed yellow against the blackness. Maybe I should try shaking up the routine a little… Suddenly resolute, I headed back the way I had come. A gust of hot air billowed out to meet me.

Sliding into a seat beside the bar, I took of coat, hat and gloves, and unwrapped my scarf from around my neck. The bartender turned to me with a smile.

'What can I get you?' he asked.

I gave my order, and accepted the tall glass he pushed in front of me. I paid and glanced about uncomfortably, hoping that someone would approach me rather than me having to hunt about for someone else sitting alone. Fortunately, a man sat down next to me and called the bartender over, placing his own order.

'Hello,' I said, trying to muster up some courage.

'Oh, hello,' he said, glancing at me and then returning his attention to his drink.

'I'm Sarah,' I said, trying again to establish some contact.

'Nick,' he said shortly. 'Hey, can we get the game on?' he added to the bartender. The man tossed him a remote and pressed the power button on the large television behind the bar. Nick went through a couple of channels while I wrestled again with my nerves, settling at last on ice hockey.

'So do you live near here?' I tried again, desperately coming up with questions that would seem neither too intrusive nor too timid.

'Look, Do you mind? I'm trying to watch the game,' Nick grumbled dismissively. Deflated, I went back to my drink.

'Yes, yes! Get the ball, that's great!' Nick's shouting was very distracting, I though. If only I had someone to be distracted from. And he's giving me a headache.

Self pity is never a good look on anyone.

Half time could not have come too soon. When Nick eventually turned his attention away from the television (admittedly only to order a bag of crisps) I tried once again to engage him in conversation.

'So are you a big fan of ice hockey?' I asked.

Nick gave an exaggerated sigh, picked up his beer and crisps and went to sit at a table round the other side. I leaned over. Yep, there was a television there too.

I gave up, finished my drink and went home. I was never listening to Jamie again.

---

Almost half an hour later, I shut the door against the wind and snow. The bar had been a complete flop. No one else had approached me, nor had anyone else been sitting alone. I had spent a miserable quarter of an hour feeling lonely and irritated, watching the little white men in their little white helmets and jackets whack the ball with a satisfying smack from one end of the ice to the other. How I would have loved to vent some frustration that way. Jamie, I blame you.

I take off coat, hat and scarf, tucked mittens into coat pockets, and then headed into the living room to turn on the heating. I shiver – the place had been empty all day. The little room warmed quickly, though, and the red flames dancing in the grate cast hot shadows on the walls, making the place look warmer, if the temperature wasn't quite yet up to scratch.

The Christmas tree stood dark in the corner. I plugged in the lights and watched them spark into life, like little fairies waking from a long sleep. I could almost imagine the wings fluttering fast against the pine needles, creating that little halo bright light always threw out. So pretty.

Tired, I sat down in the armchair by the fire. The heat lulled me and the lights were blurring before my eyes. I was too tired to even think about dinner. Though I should finish the plans for the weekend workshop, in case anyone made it in. Maybe it would be better to cancel in view of the bad weather; it could only get worse from here. Or maybe… Or maybe…

Exhausted, I fell asleep. As the waves of slumber dragged me down, I could have sworn the lights were moving.