A boy happens upon a furniture-maker in his workshop while waiting for his sister to finish her violin lesson; it's a meeting that will change them both.
What do you think you’re doing?’ I say. He just stands there leaning over the split door; doesn’t run away, doesn’t say anything. Kids are always snooping around, coming down the lane on their way to the woods. They run off when they see me. They look at me as if I’d eat them alive. This one’s wearing his school uniform. Eleven, I’d say, twelve at the outside; his green and black tie flapping in the wind. I press the red button and the lump of oak on the lathe whirs and slows. Still on the threshold, I’ll say that for him; waiting until he’s invited.
I go over and unlatch the bottom half of the door: the workshop used to be a stable; I keep the top half open to let a bit of air in. There’s a lot of dust in this job. It kills your sense of smell. I look at him, trying to catch his eye. He looks in a way that makes me wonder, makes me think I’m not there. He looks everywhere but at me.
‘What do you do in here?’ he says. His voice echoes around the rafters. It’s not often I get a visitor; not here, not in the workshop.
‘Come in, if you like. Have a look,’ I say, ‘Have to take that tie off though.’ If there’s a rule worth having it’s that one: no loose clothing of any description. ‘Before you know it the circular saw will have it,’ I tell him. ‘Or else it’ll get wrapped around the lathe. And you’ll go with it.’...
What do you think you’re doing?’ I say. He just stands there leaning over the split door; doesn’t run away, doesn’t say anything. Kids are always snooping around, coming down the lane on their way to the woods. They run off when they see me. They look at me as if I’d eat them alive. This one’s wearing his school uniform. Eleven, I’d say, twelve at the outside; his green and black tie flapping in the wind. I press the red button and the lump of oak on the lathe whirs and slows. Still on the threshold, I’ll say that for him; waiting until he’s invited.
I go over and unlatch the bottom half of the door: the workshop used to be a stable; I keep the top half open to let a bit of air in. There’s a lot of dust in this job. It kills your sense of smell. I look at him, trying to catch his eye. He looks in a way that makes me wonder, makes me think I’m not there. He looks everywhere but at me.
‘What do you do in here?’ he says. His voice echoes around the rafters. It’s not often I get a visitor; not here, not in the workshop.
‘Come in, if you like. Have a look,’ I say, ‘Have to take that tie off though.’ If there’s a rule worth having it’s that one: no loose clothing of any description. ‘Before you know it the circular saw will have it,’ I tell him. ‘Or else it’ll get wrapped around the lathe. And you’ll go with it.’...