The Westwood Crochet Club had been running in the town of Newbattle Hove for decades. The three founding members had done no more than drink wine and made that one semi-naked calendar for charity. Over the years, two by two, they left, choosing Hardy’s wine bar instead. New people took their place and made the club their own.
One such member was Dr Brenda Martin a woman who knew her crochet-square coasters from her tea cosies. In Brenda’s opinion, most of the other members didn’t know their rooibos from their elbow, and that was a fact. But she did love to crochet and was happy to leave the sermons of home. So every week, she mothered the youth, provided scones, gave them no excuse to leave and made sure, once they were in, they stayed in. She held the keys and sub payments were sub payments, after all.
Brenda was excited, tonight, they were getting their first new member in ages, a man by the name of Thor. When the swing doors creaked Brenda’s mouth hung open.
“Hello dear, you must be Thor?” she said, over her heartbeat.
“Eh, yeah, hi,” he said, Diet Coke seeping off him. Before he could say more, Brenda interjected; “What’s the hammer for, Son?” drawing as youthful a smile as possible around her 70-year-old eyes.
“It’s not a hammer, it’s a—” and then, suddenly, Thor realized his mistake. This here was not Westwood Croquet Club after all, but something else. Before he could leave he found himself on a chair, scone in hand, the most detailed coaster under his cup of scalding hot tea. Three elderly ladies perched by his side. And before him, Brenda slid, holding out a needle, which, clearly, he was expected to take.
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