Bets

 

 

Once upon a time there were nine stitches divided over three double-pointed needles to form the toe of a sock.  

 

"Wee," said the stitches as they slid up and down the needle.  "Ouch," cried the ones at the ends that had to be pulled taut to prevent ladders from forming.  "Shove over," said the stitches as they multiplied and jostled to fit on the cold metal.  But for the most part the stitches flowed round and round in an even stockinette.

 

The little stitches travelled in the workbag of a knitter who knitted every morning when she took the train to work and every evening when she commuted home.  This meant they got to see quite a bit of the world: the sunset streaking through the train windows, the gusts of snow when train doors clamped open and shut.  They also met an assortment of lovely souls. "Pretty yarn," said a small girl in the neighbouring seat who reached out to pet the tiny stitches.  "You've progressed fast," another seat-neighbour remarked, and the stitches preened under his congratulations.  "Oh, I do like to see people knitting," said a woman with hair of soft, snow-white wings.  "The clicking needles make such a comforting sound, and it reminds me of how when I was a child we all had to make our own socks.  Knit one, purl one.  I still remember."

 

Soon the toe was complete and the knitter began to turn the heel.  Some stitches waited, held on waste yarn, while they watched their neighbouring stitches grow tall and shapely.  

 

Around the ankle the colourwork began.  "Sock knitting is personal," the knitter quoted from her pattern book, and she selected strands of lichen green and tangerine to complement the slate grey. 

The existing stitches had to make room for the new colours, and they ruffled in discomfort. When she tried to smooth out the tension, some stitches buckled in protest.  One ran away.

 

In the tangle of new colours the runaway stitch hid and evaded the knitter's notice until five rows later.

 

"Oh, drat," she said, and continued her string of curses as she unravelled the yarn back to the offending stitch.  Caught, hooked, and untangled, she resumed with the correct stitch count.

 

Several rows later an unruly stitch jumped off the needle again.  "That loud tangerine strand pushed me off," he told his compatriot greys, and they let him cower in their midst.  This time the knitter did not notice until she had finished the cuff and was ready to cast off.

 

"Hmppff, I'm not going back," she determined.  She extracted an agile crochet hook, snipped off a strand of spare yarn, and wove the loose stitch back in place.

 

Now the knitting was complete and the stitches were swaddled in crunchy wrapping paper.  They saw nothing else until a pair of grizzled hands tore the wrappings open.  There was a shriek of joy.

 

"Honey, you are incredible.  They're exactly what I wanted.  I can't believe how soft they are.  I'm never taking them off."

 

The stitches had to stretch to adjust as got tugged over a pair of rough-skinned feet.  The poor little stitches near the toe had it worst: his toenails were jagged and brittle.

 

From their new vantage point, some of the stitches saw the man give the knitter a slobbery kiss.  Some of the stitches were frankly relieved that, smooshed against the bristly carpet, they saw nothing but dust motes.

 

One day the loose stitch, who had been stretched to his limit and snapped and fallen down one row after another, heard the knitter say,

 

"Darling, couldn't you take better care of the socks I made you?  There's a great big rent in them."

 

She trailed the gaping hole that the loose stitch had left in his wake.

 

"Thank your shoddy handiwork."  the man replied.  His breath reeked of scotch.

 

The stitches squeezed and crushed under his uneven tread, and when he peeled them off his toes, wet and fetid, they went straight into the litter bin.