The Jumper That Would Not Die

AKA The Scarlet Sweater

Not me in person, but definitely in attitude.

About a year after my mum died, Dad and I moved to a smaller house in Old Tupton. It was closer to my school, closer to Chengsville, and to the friends I was starting to spend more and more time with. That part felt good. But it also meant leaving the only home I’d ever known.

Pete — or Puzzle, as we all called him — lived just down the way, in a small bungalow with his mum. He played rhythm guitar with The Spasms, and if I was heading out to meet the others, I’d usually stop off at his place first.

Pete was a sweet lad, but he was deeply vain — especially about his hair and his hips. I’d often find him in front of the mirror, experimenting with poses that highlighted his angles just right. He’d wear the skinniest drainpipe jeans imaginable, cut within a whisper of structural collapse, and then stand there. One foot forward, one hand half-tucked into his waistband, tweaking his on-stage / off-stage persona until it looked effortless.

It wasn’t. I’d watch, fascinated, as he lay on his bed with his head dangling off the edge, spraying and teasing his hair until each spike was just so.

If it started taking too long, I’d wander off to chat with his mum.Mrs. Monk worked at Turner’s — Chesterfield’s poshest department store. My mum used to buy my barathea blazers there, the kind that got me bullied for being a bit too well turned-out. Mrs. Monk was always knitting. Always. Her specialty was those punky, oversized mohair jumpers that were everywhere back then. Everyone who was anyone had one. All made by her.

One day, as I dropped by, she mentioned she was coming to the end of her current project, and casually announced she’d be making one for me next. It wasn’t a question. Before I knew what was happening, she’d handed me a tangle of mohair samples in every shade you’d find in a tin of Quality Street (yes,  that’s the jumper I was wearing in Leeds). I chose the scarlet.

I was measured, I was handed a slip of paper with a price, and I handed over a deposit. Just like that.

Over the next week, it was all I saw. Every gig, every get-together — someone had on one of Mrs. Monk’s jumpers. But none of them had one in scarlet. That was mine.

When I returned the following week, there it was. Finished. Glorious. Paired with a set of drainpipe jeans I’d made myself from a cheap pair of flares bought on a school trip to London — and ridiculed by Jules on the bus ride back. I’d sworn to her I’d transform them. And I had. Sort of.

The original plan went sideways when I cut and resewed them without trying them on first. They wouldn’t go over my ankles. A disaster. Then inspiration struck: zippers. I sewed them into the lower legs and suddenly they were perfect. Tight, dramatic, and exactly what I’d imagined.

I should probably mention that my mum had been the manageress of a fabric shop, right up until she died. In the years before her health had begun to deteriorate, she’d stopped making things and become more of a collector — fabric, buttons, pop-studs, hooks and eyes, anything she thought might be useful someday. I’d inherited it all. So when the jeans went sideways, I didn’t have to go far to fix them. The fix was already waiting in one of her old tins.

To complete the look, a scarlet beret appeared via Ledder. Technically British Army-issue — the kind worn by the Royal Military Police — but I didn’t ask too many questions. It matched the jumper. That was enough.

At one point, I even considered dyeing my hair the same color. I settled for bleach instead. No one warned me not to do my eyebrows as well. I was told I looked “natural,” which I suppose is one way of putting it.

The truth is, the jumper was unbearably hot to dance in, and the mohair could be maddeningly itchy — especially after a long night. But we all make sacrifices for fashion, don’t we?

Still, that jumper became something more. My signature. My shield. My cloak of invisibility. I’ve never had so many compliments on anything I’ve worn before or since. It made me feel seen, and somehow safer. Like I’d stitched myself together out of colour, shape, and nerve.

What I didn’t know then was that the jumper was about to play a part in someone else’s obsession, too.

I was seeing a very strange girl at the time. She later became a fashion designer, but back then she was just odd in a way I found compelling. What I hadn’t realised when we got together was that she’d previously dated Pete. In fact, she’d been obsessed with him. Pete, ever the strategist, had talked her up like he was brokering a trade — convinced that if she latched onto me instead, it would solve the problem neatly.

He wasn’t wrong.

She became utterly smitten. Unfortunately, that affection eventually extended to the jumper. One night, after hours in a hot, sweaty nightclub, she decided it would be fun to try to climb inside it with me, while I was still wearing it.

It never recovered.

The mohair stretched beyond redemption. The sleeves sagged. The shape collapsed. It looked like the discarded exoskeleton of some misshapen moth. I was devastated.

Some weeks later, I was back at Pete’s, and Mrs. Monk asked about the jumper. I mumbled something noncommittal, but she saw through it. When I confessed, she didn’t scold. She just said, “Go home and bring it to me.”

Within days, she’d unpicked the whole thing, and reknitted it from scratch. The scarlet phoenix, reborn.

Let’s just say I was a bit more careful about who I dated after that.

P.S. If you’re circling your own story right now—something half-formed or heavy—I’m holding space for 1:1 story support. Quiet, slow, no hustle. Just reach out.