‘Give me a minute or two.’ Nate lifted his eyes to look at his dad. He needed to go out there alone first. Open the door, take it all in.
‘Branston and I will be fine here. I’ll throw that stick for him.’ Trevor didn’t hang around as he headed for the garden via the back door.
‘Thanks.’ Nate wasn’t sure his dad even heard him.
Nate trudged out to the workshop. The key wasn’t stiff at all in the lock as he’d expected, but then again, he’d last been out here in the winter months when the colder weather often caused the door to drop. He didn’t have that problem now with the sun shining the way it had been doing all week.
His hand rested on the door handle and he looked at it as though it wasn’t even attached to his body. When Nate’s mum died, this workshop had died its own kind of death. It was ignored, closed off; it became a nonentity for Nate.
One deep breath and he pulled open the door a little too forcefully, as though it might be stuck after all this time. It wasn’t; it had opened easily, just like the lock had relented. And although Nate had known this would happen, he was still almost bowled over by the smell he remembered. He wasn’t even sure whether half of its power was in his mind – the scent of raw wood, of varnish, of shavings piled on the floor. All he knew was that it was powerful. And that was why he’d wanted to come in ahead of his dad: to gauge his own reactions and emotions without having to give an explanation.
It had been his mum who’d suggested Nate convert the garage into a workshop. They didn’t use it often for the car, it was half-empty given they had two sheds at the foot of the garden to store tools, the lawnmower, bits and bobs. And with Nate making more and more things, there was always the concern that if he stored what he created in the garage, they wouldn’t last that long. With changes in humidity, the fibres in wood were susceptible – they could swell and contract as moisture levels changed and were vulnerable in a normal garage which was open to damp and lack of insulation. Ruth had worked with Nate to decide what kind of layout he wanted; she’d been as interested as him as the workmen came and transformed it from a neglected garage to a place he could be as creative as he liked. They’d sketched out potential layouts themselves before they spoke with the professionals who did the actual designs. They included storage, electrical sockets, cupboards to keep surfaces clutter free. Everything in the garage had changed, from the floors and windows to the doors and the addition of another window at the back.
Nate noticed his dad had covered a lot of his things with old sheets, probably to protect them. He slowly pulled the sheets away, revealing items he hadn’t seen in years. There was a small step stool, a couple of photo frames which had been a challenge to make because of the smaller dimensions and the thinner wood he’d used. There was a small side table, candle holders, a cutting board. And as he ran a hand over each of the items, it was as though he was standing here making them all over again. Cutting their basic shapes from raw wood that was beautiful in its natural state but ready to be worked with. He could remember the way his mum praised him every time he took her something else to show her, the way she wanted to really look at every item and think about how it was possible for her son to make something so perfect.
He looked over beneath the worktop on the side nearest the back window, at the sheet that covered the very thing he’d been working on when she died. He might have uncovered everything else, but he had no intention of doing that one. At least not yet. Maybe not ever.
A knock at the door announced his dad. ‘Can I come in, son?’
‘You don’t need my permission.’ He turned, coming back to the present moment, and reached out to Branston to ruffle his fur. He crouched down and took the dog’s face between his hands. ‘You are very excitable; I hope you’re going to behave the next four weeks. Or you’re going to trip Dad up if you’re not careful.’
‘I’m on my guard,’ Trevor told him. ‘He’s not too dissimilar to you as a young boy – you could never keep still either.’ Trevor took in the sight of all the wooden creations. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful all of this is. I covered it all up when you left, sneaked a look a few times to check it was all still secure and not ruined, but not for a while.’
‘You did?’
‘Of course.’ He looked at Nate. ‘Sometimes, I miss you. Oh, you’re a big boy, grown up; I’m a silly old man getting sentimental. But coming out here reminds me of good times.’
Nate liked to think he’d be the same at his dad’s age. ‘Never apologise for caring.’ But while coming out here reminded his dad of good times, it pained Nate to be in this environment, which was why he’d avoided it for so long. ‘Do you feel like I abandoned you after Mum died?’
‘Oh, no, Nate. You didn’t do that. I was fine when you left. In a way, it was good for me to find my feet on my own. Hildy brought fresh flowers over so often, I had to ask her to cut back as I’d run out of vases. Gillian cooked for me and taught me some recipes. Jeremy was more than happy to have a pint with me whenever I felt the need. Peter and I walked their dog through the woods because I missed my walks.’
‘That was part of what Mum hated when she was getting worse, you know. She hated that she couldn’t walk as far or for as long any more.’
‘I know. And it’s why I had to give myself a stern talking to. While I’ve got legs, I’ll do enough walking for me and for her. It’s a way I honour her every day when I get out in the fresh air because I know she loved it. That and travel. You never seemed interested.’
‘It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see places; I just got on the conveyor belt of life – job, place to live, family.’ His shoulders drooped at the last word. ‘I never forgave myself for not being there for Mum that day.’
‘I know. And I’ve never been able to forgive myself for not being able to show you that it wasn’t your fault.’
Father and son exchanged a look that spoke of the grief they shared; it was an understanding of how they’d grieved together, but separately too and hadn’t talked about it properly until now.
‘I’m glad you came here, Nate. I want you to see that turning your back on the village wasn’t going to solve anything.’
‘Not everything, but it helped a lot. It did, I promise. I needed to get away from the familiar, throw myself into the new.’
‘I saw what losing your mother did to you and it almost broke my heart as much as her passing. But I could never get through to you. I tried, but you were closed off.’
Nate shook his head. ‘This workshop was a big part of why I left. I hated it for a while. It was a distraction, a way to neglect my responsibilities.’
All at once, Trevor realised what Nate meant. ‘Oh, son…’
‘I couldn’t bear to feel the joy of creating something or even looking at what I’d already made. I had to leave it behind for a while. And, at the time, I’d thought it was probably forever.’
‘And now I’m even more sad. My boy, your talent, your love of the craft, and you walked away for such a long time.’ He reached out his hand to cover Nate’s. ‘But you’ve done it, you’ve come back in here now and I’m glad.’ His dad admired the bread box Nate had made. ‘You’ve got quite a talent. Your mum loved the bread bin you made for us years ago.’
‘The one I made when I was twelve? The one that fell apart?’
‘The one you fixed,’ Trevor corrected. ‘Ruth said it was an earlier work of a skilled craftsman and that she wanted to keep it always so you’d see how far you’d come.’
