The Curse of The Extreme Knitting Club

In his more unguarded moments Orville Quantock sometimes reveals incidents from his past that, one quickly suspects, he would rather have forgotten. Of course, like most of us, once he touches upon a subject it is difficult not to say more.

We were watching the whirling snowflakes pass the partially steamed window of the snug bar during a lull in conversation when Orville mentioned his encounters with the Extreme Knitting Club. A shudder ran through his frame as he spoke.

“Aye, it was on a night just like this when I first came across the Extreme Knitting Club,” he said. “The weather was unexpectedly ferocious and cold with it. I was frankly threadbare. My companion said he could recommend someone who might be able to help me. I was at a low ebb and accepted his offer. He took me to the dark end of a backstreet unfamiliar to me. He told me to knock twice and took his leave immediately. He didn’t want to linger, which I thought odd at the time but which I now thoroughly understand. The door opened with a creak and a bony hand whisked me in through the door.

“I was dragged into a dimly-lit parlour; all I could hear was the rhythmic clacking of massed knitting needles and the odd cackle. Every now and then a flare would shoot out from the fire that burned in the grate, sometimes singeing one of the knitters. Whenever that happened a great hoot of appreciation reverberated around the room. I could not fully make out the mechanism by which the catalyst for these flares, presumably some chemical compound, operated.

“A voice like cracked leather started at my ear. ‘We can’t always join the away teams for the really extreme environments, so we’ve created a little entertainment here at our headquarters.’ I turned to be confronted by a crone whose one eye swivelled wildly as she spoke.

“ ‘But what are you knitting?’ I asked, unsure whether such banality was permitted. By way of reply a brown paper bag was thrust into my hand. Before I had a chance to inspect the contents my visit was terminated and I found myself tossed back out into the alley.

“Not quite sure whether I had really been in the realm of the normal, I hurried home as rapidly as I decently could and as fast as the inclemency of the night would allow. Once there, door safely closed behind me, I inspected my package. I had been given a set of beautifully knitted pairs of woollen socks. There were seven altogether, each having had a different day of the week sewn into them. My initial reaction was that it was a useful idea.

“However, I have come to view the gift as a specially designed curse of peculiar potency upon those of us inclined in the slightest towards superstition. When folded, the particular day of the week is hidden so that it cannot be seen when one is looking at one’s sock drawer in order to dress each morning. Of course, on the odd occasion that the correct day is selected, there is a brightness and purpose to one’s endeavours during the day. If, which is more likely, the wrong day is selected, one trawls one’s way through the hours always waiting for the worst to appear at any moment. Thus, am I cursed.”

Orville fell to quiet contemplation. It was impossible to find any words of comfort that did not sound empty and insincere. I allowed him to buy me one more drink before leaving him to his thoughts.