Mary Knits Alone
Prose By Danny Bultitude
If Mary forgot how to knit, she would surely die. Sudden heart attack, stroke, unexplained
aneurism which splits through her and leaves the two halves unrecognisable. Maybe it
would be by her own hand: some momentary decision to hold her breath too long, to
launch herself through the window, to lock the doors and burn down the house, taking the
kids with her.
​
The thoughts repulse Mary, absurd and graphic, but they carry a grim legitimacy.
​
So, she keeps knitting.
​
Knitting follows rules, makes definitive sense, keeps the chaotic world palatable. A
necessity, an antidote. Something about the beautiful action itself: the monotony of
drawing the needles together and apart, counting the loops and rows, watching the slow
progression. Magic, almost. An alchemical process turning old yarn into clothing with Mary
becoming both machine and goddess, a builder like her dad.
​
Soft click and near-frictionless rub between each needle, the not-quite-silence of yarn being
dragged into place or dangling fruitlessly beneath the elbow. Fibrous tugging, growth of
something once non-existent, complete solipsism. Every aspect of knitting feels like the
antithesis to mothering, to existing in a world like ours. Meditation in the purest form.
Alarm set for thirty-five minutes, phone on airplane mode face-down on the carpet, door
locked tight. As if alive, the old biscuit tin slides out from under the bookshelf and the
needles and yarn float free, arranging themselves with unnecessary precision upon the
desktop. Mary takes ten measured breaths before tenderly stroking the front and back of
each hand, readying them. Eyes open at first, slowly fluttering, closing altogether. Entering
the trance comes naturally to her now, like keying your credit card PIN or writing a
signature.
​
You could never pinpoint what first inspired Mary to knit and neither could she. The yarn
itself seemed to audibly call out to her after being left spooled and useless in the airing
cupboard for so long. A gift from her mother some fifteen years before, housing a power
which pushed, entangled her in itself, made its desire known. Transformation is its sole
wish, an urgent yearning to be used.
​
One clear Wednesday last year, barely aware of her own motions, Mary began knitting.
Tired of the yarn’s demands, she gave in. Ritualistic from that very first attempt, carrying an
instant feeling of predetermination, as if she were born to knit.
​
Cheesecloth recollections of being taught as a child, beneath the guiding hand of some
enormous grown-up who knew more than she. Mary’s childvoice mirroring the adultish
boom as they counted out stitches and worked in unison. Together, they organised the
aimless thread into collectives; crafting socks, hats, scarves, sweaters. To knit is to make
whole, to unify.
Between thumb and forefinger, the yarn spits forth these long-forgot memories, undersea
volcanoes once dormant. How an adopted child must feel when meeting their birth parents
– some misty knowledge of shared history, punctuated by absence. Mary did not need the
internet or a library book to re-learn, only her own past, her own life.
​
That clear Wednesday left Mary elated, gifted with newfound purpose. After four too-short
hours of frantic knitting, she leant back in her chair and exhaled. With that exhalation, the
tension that had been winding around her lungs for the past decade blew away too,
travelling as a vaporous oyster across the pavement into the air, painting the wind itself as
the memory of a firework does.
​
A snaking scarf lay on her desk after those four hours, something which did not exist before,
dangling and soft. Mary lifted it to her nose, her face, buried herself between its stitches.
Perfect and inarguably hers. Something born from within, a second son.
​
Overpowered by the experience, Mary travels to a far-off world of numbers and wool
whenever she knits. A trance state in which fingers grow long and pointed and become the
needles themselves; in which the garments you’re knitting already adorn your body and
grow cocoon-like around you. No light comes from behind the threads comprising this
world. All is defined by texture and dark. Rent, back-pain, bills, children, work, cleaning: all
swallowed by writhing yarn.
​
Maths had been her favourite class until they entered the imaginary landscape of algebra
and calculus, leaving behind the reliability she’d first fallen for. During tests, Mary entered
trances akin to those brought on by knitting, shifting into a world free of distraction, defined
by certainty. Both topics carry that same objectivity, that same unwavering truth. For every
motion, you are either right or wrong. Little else is so reliable.
​
Inevitably, the timer on her phone sounds and earth filters back into sight. Identical roofing
of state homes repeating to the horizon, piglet sky with brush-stroke clouds, sunset and life
solemnly returning. She looks down and surveys her work, the piece she hadn’t been able to
see while entranced. It always looks perfect. Stretch, rumple, wrap yourself in it. Tangibility
of time well spent.
​
Time has always been the greatest threat to Mary’s knitting. As sure as her morning
multivitamins, she needs to knit daily lest she unravel herself. At first, there were no set
times or limits and Mary would knit whenever she had the chance to free herself from the
endless duties of a working mother. But after accounting for part-time work, Brock’s
slowness at getting to bed, and Jess’s teething pains; Mere only found time during the night
hours. Hours when she was less alert, less willing to be carried off.
​
Those first few weeks were untamed, with knitting sessions lasting eons, often only starting
after ten p.m. As it became more important to her, she began instilling rules and following
guidelines, aware of its addictive potential. Mary eventually settled on knitting at 4:30 p.m.
only, after both school and work ended, looking westward to the lowering sun as it unfurled
shadows in offering.
​
With this strict rule, Brock got a full ninety minutes of her attention after school, relishing it
before letting Mary have her ‘mum time’ upstairs while he looked after Jess. Brock endlessly
questioned what she was doing and Mary endlessly rebuffed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, dweeb?” she’d laugh, bounding up the stairs as Brock
sighed and went back to whatever book or TV show currently held him captive.
​
One afternoon, Brock crept sockfoot up the stairs and tried listening in through the thin
door. Hearing nothing, he knocked quietly and called a fearful “Mum?” against the wood.
No answer came so he began rattling the doorknob, his calls to Mary becoming more
panicked and uncertain until they finally woke her.
​
His mother’s cast-iron footsteps and caustic voice answered with a splitting: “What?!” She
unlocked the door and swung it open, doorknob hitting the wall, all strain and sinews and
angled lines.
“Is the house on fire? Has your leg fallen off?” she asked, near-yelling
“No, but-”
“But nothing, Brock. This is the only time I ever get to myself and you know that! Can
you please go back downstairs and leave me alone for ten more minutes? Christ!”
​
Tears streamed down Brock’s face, wrinkled with abject guilt. Mary slammed the door and
returned to her knitting, tension having invaded and ruined the atmosphere.
“I’m sorry, mum,” snivelled Brock from the corridor, receiving no response.
​
Of course she apologised once the timer sounded. Kissed him and hugged him and spoilt
him for the rest of the night.
“I’m really sorry, sweetie, but I told you that’s the one thing you can’t interfere with.
I didn’t mean to get nasty with you.”
​
Other mothers would respond with much more anger, she convinced herself. Some would
hit their sons, ground them, open their eyelids and spit in their eyes. Brock forgave her and
never disrupted her knitting time again.
​
Around the playground, Brock’s schoolfriends built fantastical explanations for Mary’s 4:30
disappearances. She was a secret reptilian who had to reapply her skin, a devout Satanist
performing daily sacrifices, mother to a second baby sister kept locked away upstairs, fed
entirely on chickenbones. Around the carpark, parents had more grounded explanations,
imagining raunchy video calls to some long-distance boyfriend, obscene erotica filling up a
word document, some heinous drug habit she barely kept under control.
​
The father of one of Brock’s friends actively berated Mary over the phone after hearing
about the half-hour his son spent unsupervised while visiting for a playdate. As she listened
to his cursing and disgust, Mary got distracted imagining the polo shirt tight around his
crimson throat. The endless threads woven together by factory workers in Taiwan, his wife
ironing it in the morning, his spittle leaving freckles on its collar.
​
Akin to heartburn, this feeling of guilt sometimes blooms inside Mary. An implacable sense
that she is a bad mother for ever allowing something to outshadow her relationship with
her children, especially something as silly and slight as knitting. Thirty-five minutes didn’t
seem like much to ask, but she finds herself less convinced with each passing day.
​
Crying on the couch, Mary would wonder if all the other parents were right, if their
abhorrence was justified. Selfish horrible woman, wretched parent, unappreciative of such
well-behaved lil’ angels. Not blind to their scornful gazes, Mary began waiting far down the
street for Brock after school, fearful that another parent may find the courage to reproach
her publicly, right there by the gate.
​
Staring off into the distance, Mary understands that she has no other recourse. No other
comfort lies within reach, no other attainable desires exist, nothing else truly hers. Without
knitting, she would become nothing more than Mum, never again Mary.
Whenever Brock would fold origami or draw or measure out the paper for the little three-
dimensional houses he made, she felt an intense desire to teach him knitting too, to
become that unclear adult-shape which showed her ecstasy back when. Guiding his hands
on the needles, choosing out yarn with him at the store, the gradual change in his eyebrows
as what was once unknowable became known.
​
Imagine her pride swelling once he presented the first thing he’d ever knitted solo, wearing
it and acting like a runway model. He would gift it to her, a thank you for being the best
mum ever, an act of forgiveness for the time she spent knitting and not focused on him.
Quietly smiling at the thought, her once-guilty tears would change their context and
become positive, self-satisfied.
​
The images fade and decay after time, leaving Mary to again become rational. Not yet, she
thought. Perhaps after he had moved out of home – maybe then she’d teach him. At this
stage, she couldn’t even admit what she did each day, so fearful that it may taint the
experience.
​
“Enjoy your knitting,” Brock might call after her, dismantling the allure, exiling her from the
meditative woollen world. What if he demanded to see her work? Pestered her with
requests, for beanies or gloves or jumpers? What if it became just another aspect of
mothering?
​
These questions stopped Mere from giving the finished products to her children, even
though they were often made perfectly to their fit. So exclusively focused on the knitting
itself, she struggled to deal with that already knitted. For a while she seriously considered
donating them to children in need or to shelters, but this struck her as an overly selfless end
to her deliberately selfish act. Other ideas came: to sling them over trees in the park for
faeries to find and adorn, to leave them in the school’s lost and found box to never be
collected, to burn them on the beachsand and inhale the smoke.
​
Yet the solution is much simpler. Whenever a piece is finished, Mary holds it up to the
window and inspects the stitches, light leaking between the gaps. Sometimes she would
attempt to wear it, or just hold it up to her body and pose before the mirror. Then, she
carefully begins unravelling.
​
Every stitch counted backwards, every motion unmotioned, a deconstruction on her own
terms. Instant awareness of the material which made up this item before you. Further
understanding that every tiny movement of Mary’s hand had contributed to the creation of
this undeniable thing. With every action undone, it seems like the perfect ending to its
lifespan.
​
Mere unravels the booties she’d carefully knitted over the past week, watching as the toe
slowly disappears. They would have fit Jess perfectly, a quiet voice calls, lamenting. She
takes the kinky yarn and stretches it taut between her hands before respooling it, thankful
for the second opportunity to create while also mourning the loss of each bootie. The spool
is returned to its biscuit tin, which is pushed back beneath the bookshelf. Raising her arms in
a groaning stretch, Mary plods to the door and pockets her phone.
​
Opening the door has an effect not unlike a vacuum seal, an airlock: uninvited responsibility
rushing in. Downstairs she walks, past the old juice stain on the carpet, crayon marks on the
wall, magazine clippings pasted to Brock’s door. Mary sighs. Greeted by sounds of
childbreath, ever-present smell of cheap biscuits and whitebread, the touch of an uneven
rug underfoot – she enters.
​
Brock sits on the couch reading, one hand on the little paperback book and the other
towards Jess, giving her something to hold.
“Heya honey. What’d I miss?” Mary asks, tousling his hair.
​
Dropping the book to the cushion and leaping to his feet, Brock excitedly summarises the
past chapter and hugs his smiling mum. As they embrace, she buries her chin into his
shoulder, feeling the threads of his sweater brush back. Warmth envelops them,
interweaving the two, closely and safely.
​
‘A beautiful thing,’ Mary thinks to herself, ‘how the sweater hugs him as tightly as I do.’
Danny Bultitude holds an MA in English Literature and has previously been published in Landfall, Newsroom, and The Spinoff. He was one of the recipients of the 2019 Surrey Hotel Writer's Residency and hopes to have a lovely view when he fades away into compost.