Guerilla Knitting
It was 4.00 am. Cold and wintry. Cat crouched down in the middle of Gaol Ferry Bridge and stretched a long strip of multi-coloured knitting round a length of handrail. She was wearing her tagging outfit – dark leggings, jumper and her black angora balaclava with its pointy ears and whiskers.
Her fingers were freezing when she’d finished fastening her knitting snugly to the rail. She stood up and jumped up and down, shaking her hands. Her long knitted tail bounced behind her. She hoped the railing socks would stay put longer than last time. That was the problem with guerilla knitting. You could spend half a day making something colourful to brighten up railings or a lamppost and by the next day it would be gone. But it was still therapeutic. Since Jem had left, it was hard to sleep. Coming out at night and doing something that made people smile when they crossed the bridge, soothed the ache in her heart.
She ran back over the bridge to her flat in Southville, dozed awhile then, took out her needles and began to knit. Perhaps by the end of the week, she could cover all the handrails on the bridge. How nice would that be? She'd wrapped little places on most bridges that crossed the Avon during her grieving months. Even the suspension bridge, where a sleeve of butterflies covering a spike may have cheered up other potential suicides.
Gaol Ferry bridge was her favourite spot, despite the name. So many commuters crossed over, either cycling or walking. There was possibility of making hundreds of people smile at the beginning and end of their working day.
Several hours later, dressed in her daytime clothes, she walked across the bridge to see if people were making any comments. It was her aim to let go and carry on to the next project but it was still hard not to want to see reactions.
Today, a small elderly woman muffled in several woollen scarves and a hat covered in crochet flowers stood next to railing. She was in the middle of cutting the woollen strip away with a pair of small gold scissors. Rolling it up and stuffing it into the pockets of her coat, she walked away fast towards the harbour side.
For the following two nights, Cat dressed in the balaclava and knitted tail, came out and wrapped the handrail again. Each afternoon, she went to the bridge at the same time, and there was the little old woman unpicking the stitches. It felt like a fairy tale task. But what was she supposed to learn? On the third night, she attached her signature tiny knitted cat to her latest railing sock, and a label, Friend or foe? When she strolled along the bridge at the usual time, the woman paused before cutting, read the card and looked around. She seemed a little frightened, but still carried on snipping.
However low she felt, Cat didn't like to alarm people. The next night she sewed another black cat on her knitting with the label Purr. In the afternoon, when she visited the bridge, her wrap was still there complete with the cat, which was now riding on a perfectly knitted tiny broomstick. They looked like they were made for each other. Several people stopped to admire them. In the cold of the dank winter afternoon, the tears on Cat’s face dried in icy streaks. When she returned home, she sat on the sofa, and held the crocheted blanket her grandmother had made for her close to her cheek. The fibres felt so soft and comforting.
That night, she left her balaclava and tail hanging on her bedroom door and stayed in bed under the crocheted blanket. Her sleep was sound, her dreams hopeful. She caught the train she always lost, flew on a plane which didn’t crash, found the starving dog that had previously eluded her. Then finally, she dreamed of Jem and they said goodbye.
During the day, Cat stayed at home knitting so fast her fingers hurt. In the early hours, she went out in her balaclava and tail carrying eight large knitted letters, which she fastened, one at a time, to the iron lattice work of the bridge. Spaced out, they spanned the whole length.
T H A N K Y O U.
Nobody removed them.
