It was one thing stepping into the workshop for the first time in forever and his dad assuring him it was time to let go of the guilt, but it was something else to actually be in there for a length of time, using his hands to craft something new and remember how his mum had loved to see him work and what he could create. It was something special they’d always shared, at times making him feel like a little boy all over again wanting a parent’s approval, and he wondered how he’d deal with the emotions that were sure to return every time he went into the workshop. But now he’d made a promise to someone, a commitment, and he knew he had to see it through.
Making the chessboard also came with the added bonus that it kept him busy so he could let Trevor live his life rather than going on about the long-term and what might happen. His dad was happy doing it that way, so perhaps Nate needed to get his head around doing the same. Nate still remembered talking to his mum about getting her some better help when she started to worsen. What he’d meant when he made the suggestion was that they could see whether someone could come to the house to help out – he had his job, his dad was finding it all a lot to cope with. Nate had thought even someone to come in and clean or cook meals might go some way to helping. But he hadn’t had a chance to explain any of that because his mum had dissolved into floods of tears, thinking he wanted to put her in a home and forget about her. And that really wasn’t the case. He wanted her at the house he’d grown up in and that she’d been happy in for years, he’d never once wanted anything else, but she’d shut the subject down and he’d tried for a while to address it with his dad but Trevor only claimed that he loved his wife, it was his job to look after her and they didn’t want any strangers in their home. And so that had been that.
Nate was reminded of the talk with his mum every time he tried to talk to his dad because he didn’t want to get it wrong. He hated the thought that his own hang-ups and worries might push Trevor away; he wanted his dad to be more of a part of his life, not less. They’d talked the whole time Nate worked last night, fixing those cupboards in the utility room and then replacing the shower unit with the new one they’d ordered. The simplicity of the tasks and conversation had made Nate appreciate his dad’s company all the more. And it had reassured Nate that actually his dad was still sprightly enough, he had a lot of friends and social engagements, he had a life here.
At the timber merchants, Nate collected supplies of wood, nails, varnish for this latest project and in his head as he walked up and down the wide aisles had been the gentleman’s face, lit up in delight at having a custom-made chessboard if Nate could pull this off.
As he drove home, his thoughts switched to Morgan. Sharing the market stall had been unexpected and although she still had an aura of sadness he’d sometimes caught in her expression when she was miles away at the stall or when someone mentioned her mother in passing, she’d been good company and easy to talk to. It pained him when he thought about how her face had paled, how her big, brown eyes lost all their vibrancy when he told her what he’d done with the cushion. She’d said the prices were beneath the items and when he’d seen the tag under the cushion, he’d thought he was doing the right thing by proceeding with the sale. But apparently not. The tag must have belonged to a different item and he hadn’t realised. He’d apologised to her profusely when she came back to the stall but she’d kept her head in the game for the rest of the session and although she chatted with customers and other stallholders, the friendly banter between them was swapped for politeness and stilted conversation until the day’s trading came to a close.
Home from the timber merchants, Nate had a mug of tea with his dad and then opened up his workshop. Branston trotted past his legs and over to the basket Nate had brought here from home – one of a few he had to leave in various places to make it easier on him and the dog.
It was a lovely day with a fresh breeze: perfect working weather. He opened up the blind that covered the rear window and despite it being summer, he switched on the lights to illuminate the bench, ready for him to work. As he stood at the workbench ready to make a start, he looked around him and rather than fearing what was inside here, the way he had ever since he moved away to Wales, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. What was the worst that could happen? He’d make a rubbish board and the man at the markets would take one look and walk away? It wouldn’t be the end of the world. He thought about the time he’d tried to make a tray and the plans he’d gone through again and again until his mum urged him to make a start.So you do it wrong, she’d said.So what?She’d given him permission to fail, not a word he liked to associate himself with these days, but that was what any craft was about: experimenting, feeling your way, taking a chance that you could start with raw materials, whatever they might be, and turn them into something beautiful.
‘Right, Branston, you’re gonna have to shift.’ Unfortunately Nate had put the dog’s basket in front of the metal cupboard he needed to get to now.
When the dog moved, he dragged the basket out of the way before opening up the cupboard and pulling out some leftover rosewood. A naturally pale straw colour, he recognised it as what he’d used to make a side table which had been the first item he sold at the markets. Making the table had marked his elevation from hobbyist to craftsman, he supposed. It wasn’t a bad way of looking at things when, up until recently, he hadn’t caught sight of any of his handiwork, let alone come in here or shared it with other people.
He glanced over at the covered item, the only one left beneath a sheet. He didn’t need to peel the material off to know exactly what it looked like – made from rosewood also, it was a blanket box for his mum. He’d been making it as a surprise. And he’d never got to give it to her. He felt his anxiety rise but tried to remember the way his dad had looked at him when they were in here, the softness in his voice as he told his son he needed to let go of the guilt.
Nate crouched down to give Branston another fuss. He deserved it; he was a good dog and a loyal companion. And here he was at his side again, pretty content in his position, with a shaft of sunlight coming in through the open door and giving him an extra lick of warmth.
Nate lined up all the wood he needed on one of the workbenches and ran his hand along the good-quality, ebonised wood he’d bought at the timber merchants. It would be perfect for the darker squares of the chessboard and he’d also be able to use it for the border. He moved over to the second workbench, aligned end to end with the other in the centre, allowing plenty of space on both sides for manoeuvre, and switched on the power to the saw. He picked up the first strip of wood and felt a flutter of nerves, anticipation that unsettled him for a moment because it wasn’t like he was scared of using a saw, or cutting wood the wrong way – if he did that, he’d start again, no problem, and the wood would be repurposed. He’d learnt that in the past, several times over. Maybe it wasn’t so much a flutter of nerves but a sign of excitement at doing what he loved again.
Slowly, Nate got into a rhythm. With each piece of wood flat on the workbench before he cut it, he passed each one through the saw fixed on top to cut it into narrower lengths. Each time one was complete, he piled it onto the other workbench. The sound of the saw cutting the wood took him back in time as did using the miter saw to cut each length into pieces of approximately sixteen inches each, allowing a bit of leeway for when they’d be fixed together and ready to cut into strips.
The way he worked had him smiling. Back in his school days, he’d have attempted this all by hand, his arm aching using a manual saw. He’d done that when he started out making things at home too and when he’d worked any place he could find – on the patio in his rental, in a shed that was freezing cold and damp, out in the sunshine when the weather had allowed. By the time he’d moved back to Oak Cottage, realising his mum’s condition was progressing and she was getting worse, Nate had a good job and therefore the funds to pay for the garage-to-workshop conversion as well as adding labour-saving devices that had seen both his speed and skills improve with time and practice.
Nate laid out the sections of wood, alternating the light and dark shades. He turned each piece onto its side, spread wood glue along the edges, flipped them back over and pushed them all together. Then he clamped the boards and checked the time. They’d need a good thirty minutes to an hour to dry properly.
When Branston’s ears pricked up, Nate knew someone must be coming. And sure enough, his dad was heading out this way with two mugs of tea.
‘Safe to come in?’ came Trevor’s voice.
‘Course, Dad. Branston…’ he warned in the tone that the dog knew meant he needed to listen. If the dog wasn’t careful, he’d trip his dad over by getting excited.
‘You’ll get my attention, Branston,’ Trevor said as Nate took one of the mugs of tea. He swore he drank more tea in Little Woodville in a day than he did in a week when he was living alone. ‘Maybe even a walk.’ The wordwalkdid nothing to calm Branston who sat even taller in his basket.
‘Settle,’ Nate instructed the dog, who reluctantly slumped back down.
With a warming mug of tea, standing side by side with his dad, it felt like a slice of years gone by being in here.
Trevor admired the wood in the vice, drying.
Nate explained, ‘Some was left over; the rest I picked up.’
His dad sat on the high stool Nate had brought over from the far wall. He’d stand. He rarely sat in here at all, the stool had always been for visitors.
‘You’ll need some chess pieces,’ Trevor said after another mouthful of tea.
At that, he laughed. ‘I think that’s beyond my skill level.’
‘Oh, I don’t know… one day, perhaps.’
They talked a bit more about the markets, what he’d sold, what he’d brought back with him.
‘They’re a wonderful bunch at Snowdrop Lane markets,’ Trevor agreed. ‘Was colourful Hildy there?’
‘Bright clothes, bubbly personality?’
