Tom's Jumper's Story

To become a fav, you must be totally gorgeous. I am indeed a classic shade of grey. Why else would I be placed on top of my siblings?

A vast body with a pointed nose that looked like someone had yanked it held me by one shoulder, brows raised. Smiling. Yes!!… Err?? What are you doing? Yanked-Nose folded me, worked down the pile, pulling out a sibling. The audacity!

Anyway!

A man half his height, white coat ever so primp and pristine, narrowed his eyes at the mess, which, by the way, wasn’t my fault! He held me by both shoulders, with scrutinizing eyes. My knitting cables did the job as he shrugged and marched towards the changing roo… Err. No. Okay. That’s even better! Straight to the desk, credit card at the ready.

The man saved me!

The man yanked my zip down, yanked his head through my collar, arms in arms, and yanked my body over — Hey,

not so hard! The first of many days together! Glancing in the mirror, and, hello handsome, good to see my cables not flattened and zip left undone, undamaged.

In the kitchen, he pulled a box out from a cupboard, tipped its contents into a bowl, poured over white liquid, and dipped a spoon in. Aiming it at his mouth, he spilt half its contents on me! Great. I’m damp. White liquid doesn’t show up on grey, right? He dropped the bowl into the sink with a clang.

The man… I’ll call him White …shrugged on the same white coat he wore the day he got me. I couldn’t see a single! thing! Urgh! Dunked into the cold he swung his arms, and I brushed against the silk lining of the coat. White fidgeted before settling into a cushioned chair, vibrating. Whooshing and roaring, identical to when he brought me home.

I’m warm, then I’m cool, then I’m warm again. I don’t know what’s going on!

Finally pulling off the coat, he slung it on the back of a chair. So many bodies, but so many compliments to receive. White sat admiring a lovely lady.

Who did not even glance at me!

The woman wore a tight skirt, her knees rubbing its poor material. White planted his elbows on the table, his jaw in his hands. It hurt. It really hurt to have his weight on my beautiful cables.

Food came. Two plates. The man had a circular piece of meat, browned and pink in the middle. Sawing the meat, White ground my right arm and right side together. The lady chose something grainy, don’t know, don’t care, but seriously, White, that would have been a far better choice.

White stood, put on his coat and left, whole body rubbing into the lining as he walked into the quiet cold. That fidget again as he leaned into that same cushioned chair.

Shrugging off the coat, hanging it up, White marched through the grey kitchen into a dark room with dim lights. I wanted to go back out, but White hunched at his desk, and his elbow trapped me between it and the desk again! He went through paper after paper after paper.

What a painful life this is!

3 years.

White didn’t wear me often, but he did so consistently, and every time the day ended the same. Hunched over his desk, left elbow planted permanently on the wood, pen in right hand, writing. He rubbed my sleeve against whatever was beneath, and 3 years down the line pain did not numb. At. All! But I stopped complaining. The only blessing was the deterioration of his eyes. When working (or reading), he needed glasses, and every time he pushed his glasses up was a brief relief from the writing rub.

Until White died. Good riddance.

The draw rolled out, and a woman with long blond hair lifted and inspected each jumper.

“This is perfect,” she mumbled, scanning my shapeless body and tired elbows.

“If you want it, keep it,” said White’s sister, “all his clothes are going to the charity shop, anyway.”

Blondie reached for my zip, pulled it down and exclaimed, “Pringle of Scotland!? Bloody hell!”

“Yeah, that would have been pocket change for him,” the sister eye rolled.

Already pulling me on, arms in arms, head through collar, and body over body, Blondie said, “I’m keeping this one. It’s in perfect condition and I am a little chilly right now.” She stretched my sleeves over her hands. She didn’t yank, thank goodness, but it’s a little too late for that. I’m already shapeless. She pulled her long, straight hair

out and let it dangle down my back. It tickled.

White was predictable but painful. Blondie was worse: chaotic and painful.

Getting up at the crack of dawn, pulling me on she would have the quickest breakfast before flying out the door. That was Blondie. Being outdoors until sundown didn’t make it any easier. She was outside, no matter the weather. She had the decency to protect me on rainy days with an enormous brown coat, but it wasn’t lined and every action hurt more than White’s coat. No rain? No problem. Leave the coat behind but then I’m in danger of being pricked by thorns and bushes. This especially happened in the spring and autumn. In the summer she’d take me off and fling me in the dirt. At least dirt is easily washable.

On those perfect in-between days, her fingers dirty from tossing soil and pulling up weeds, she repeatedly yanked me down over her hands. No, seriously, get some gloves! But of course, she didn’t listen. Nobody ever

listens! And I suffered ever lengthening arms.

I blame Blondie as my perfect grey faded from continuous exposure to sunlight.

Winters are the worst! Back home early, Blondie crocheted for hours! She’d sit in the same old armchair. Thin hooks, fat hooks, it didn’t matter, Blondie still needed to yank the yarn from the ball, extending her left arm

out in a quick but vicious motion, the whole of my forearm rubbing again and again against the rough, ragged armchair!

I seemed to fall out of favour and as time went by, found myself deeper in the wardrobe— each outing further and further apart. Finally, some quiet for my worn arms and tired body!

The doors opened and a dark-haired man, similar to Blondie peaked in. He threw the jumper above me over his shoulder and picked me out. He held me at arm’s length then pulled me on. If I had eyes, I would have rolled them. Another owner, more wear and tear.

The man looked at my sleeves and folded the cuffs back. Folded them back! Can I lose any more shape? I’m no

longer going to fit nicely around wrists. People like a tight, secure cuff, yeah?

He walked into the kitchen, itching his elbow just where I’m thinnest. Blondie was toasting bread. She turned and smiled. “I’d forgotten about that jumper.” Blondie’s wrinkles had deepened, her hair grey, though still long, “You can keep that one, Tom.”

“I vaguely remember it being one of your favourite gardening jumpers,” Tom replied, “Where did it come from, Mum?” He pulled my collar to the side, trying to get a good look at my label.

Blondie pulled the sleeve of her pink crocheted jumper over her hands.

“No, I didn’t buy it.” She turned, putting the toast on two plates, then placed one of them in front of Tom. “I was helping an old friend whose brother died. We were going through his possessions and I fell in love with that jumper.” My memories of Blondie loving me were of being tossed in the dirt, snagged on thorns and rubbed up and down the armchair.

It was a late Saturday morning when Tom’s cousin broke the news to him. His mum had died. Tom itched his

elbow harder, and that’s when it happened. A small hole in my elbow. Nothing noticeable, but that day he itched and itched and itched and didn’t stop!

He was with family all day, and there was a lot of hugging. By the end of the day, he pulled me off, his eyes widened, probably remembering just whose jumper he was wearing. His eyes flicked to the hole, and it was the final blow. Tears flowing down his face.

Tom was an artist but never wore me in the studio. I was part of his other life, coffee breaks with friends, dog walks, shopping, days spent working in the nursery, family gatherings, anything that didn’t involve painting.

“Wearing that jumper again, Tom?” Roy teased, sitting down having just brought a coffee.

“Why must you always joke about it?” Tom itched his elbow, his fingers snagging at the edges of the hole.

Roy shrugged, “not many people go around with holes in their clothes.”

Soon after Tom stopped wearing me out. In fact, I never left the house, but it didn’t feel like when Blondie lost interest. Tom would still get me out the wardrobe, clutch me, smell me, put me on briefly every month or so.

This wasn’t forgetting.

One day, I made it out the door in a bag folded neatly, my holes unseen. Tom pulled me out the bag and showed me to some woman.

“They are big holes.” She said.

“You can mend them, right?”

“Oh, of course, of course. It should be done in about 3 weeks. Do you have any colour preferences?”

Tom smiled and said, “She loved pink.”