‘I have a complaint. This cushion is ridiculous. It doesn’t feel like a cushion. My sister bought it last week, it was a gift for me because gold is my favourite colour. It isn’t even gold! And look, the seam at the back isn’t even sewn straight. My sister didn’t get a receipt but I’m telling you, it’s a disgrace to sell something so inferior, something so—’
Morgan didn’t hesitate. She pulled a five-pound note from the money belt strapped around her waist. ‘Here, full refund, no questions asked.’
The woman seemed disappointed she didn’t get to argue a bit. ‘Well, I should think so too. You shouldn’t sell below par items, you know.’ And with that, she snatched the fiver and off she went.
And she’d only been gone a second when Morgan turned to Nate, took one look at him and they both burst out laughing.
11
Branston followed Nate into the workshop. The beauty of the long summer evenings was that when a working day ended, your time wasn’t over. If you had things to do, it was always easy to carry on with the light, the energy it generated for everyone. And no matter that he was depleting stock to clear the place out; making one or two extra items wasn’t going to make much difference in the grand scheme of things. He’d give them away to friends if he had to. Although, rather than feeling rushed in the way he had at the start, thinking he had to get his dad organised and maybe even on the move, he’d begun to move at a more sedate pace already and go with the flow. And that included with this place.
Branston settled in his basket. He’d been out with Trevor today while Nate was at the markets and it sounded as though they’d had a nice long walk around the outskirts of Little Woodville. Jeremy had gone with them and they’d bumped into Peter walking his dog. All three men had sat on the village green, Betty had brought each of them a bowl of fresh strawberries and cream, and they’d done their best to quell Branston’s urge to chase the ball being used in a game of cricket close by.
Today, Nate was making a start on a key organiser. He’d seen one in the woodworking magazine and as it didn’t take much wood or much time, it was perfect. He’d finish the item with the English chestnut wood stain he’d ordered a couple of days ago.
He started with a block of wood and once it was cut to size, he measured and drew a line about three quarters of the way up. He cut into the line to make an angled groove into which the keys could slot, avoiding the need for any additional hooks. Once it was sanded, he found the rotary tool in one of the drawers beneath the workbench and hoped it still worked. He’d kept the battery separate and luckily the tool leapt into action as though he’d never been away.
He took out a stencil from the pile he’d kept for this purpose, found the style he wanted, and in no time at all, pencilled in the lettering. With the rotary tool, he made indentations over the top of the pencil marks. He made them even deeper in the wood and smoothed out each of the edges and what was left was all ready to varnish. Feeling pretty pleased with himself, he plucked the bottle of stain from the shelf and coated the key organiser before he headed inside. His dad had insisted he cook, freeing up Nate’s time for the workshop, and so tonight, it was Spanish omelette. Nate was only glad his dad really had moved on from tins of cold sweetcorn and tuna with a bit of bread slapped on the side.
He heard a crash as he was almost at the back door and broke into a run. ‘Dad!’ The frying pan was on the kitchen floor, its contents spattered everywhere.
Trevor had already stepped over the debris and to the sink, where he switched the cold tap on and put his hand and wrist beneath.
‘What happened?’ Nate was at his side.
‘Now don’t fuss. I dropped the pan, that’s all.’
‘Keep it under there,’ Nate instructed. Branston had followed him, but give the dog his due, he was hanging back before helping himself to what was on the floor.
‘I’m not stupid,’ Trevor muttered and Nate turned his attention to rescuing the pan and cleaning up the mess. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to slip on it, making the injuries worse.
‘Branston,’ Nate said in the voice that Branston knew meant to go for it now he’d made sure there was nothing other than foodstuff on the tiles. The dog cleaned the floor in no time at all.
When Nate had made sure his dad had held his hand and wrist under the water for long enough, he urged him to let him take a look. ‘It’s a big burn.’
‘I knocked the frying pan and then reached out to catch it with my other hand.’
Nate winced. ‘I’m going to run you to the hospital.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a minor injury; they’ll laugh me out of the place.’
‘I’d rather take you to be sure. The last thing we want is for it to get infected. Come on.’
The hospital wasn’t that far away and although his dad bemoaned the fact they were going at all, it wasn’t much of a wait and Nate was reassured by the outcome – it was classed as minor. The nurse had assessed Trevor, asked him what happened, and applied a dressing suitable for burns.
‘A lot of fuss over nothing,’ Trevor told Branston when they came back through the front door less than a couple of hours later.
‘It wasn’t nothing, Dad. And having that dressing will stop it rubbing on the bedclothes tonight; it’ll stop it hurting if it touches anything.’
‘I suppose he’s right, Branston, much as I hate to say it.’
‘Remember, no getting it wet for forty-eight hours.’ Nate took over in the kitchen while his dad sat at the table, and the first thing he did was to make Trevor a cup of tea.
He checked the fridge and there were still plenty of eggs, so with a washed pan, he cracked the eggs and tried to put what had happened into perspective. It was a minor injury, an accident Nate might have easily had himself. It did not mean Trevor wasn’t capable of living on his own, but it had made Nate start to think again about what it would be like if they left it too long before they thought about his dad’s future plans. His mum had had both him and his dad around, but Trevor was on his own now.
As the omelette sizzled in the pan, Nate was glad to see Trevor had already put all three herb pots into the planter box Nate had made on the kitchen windowsill. ‘They look good, Dad.’
‘Much better than the plastic pots on their own. Thanks, son.’
