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Authors: Margaret Kennedy
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hammer, the hands and the mind too. A man was thinking. Each pause meant thought, a pondering before the next blow. Ah, blessed sound! The earliest, the first sound. He knew now where to go. This was home.
Some way down the street two wooden gates were open upon a yard. A board over the wall announced:
F. TOOMBS. STONEMASON.
The yard was full of stone blocks, piled up and leaning against one another. There were several sheds and, at the far end, a dwelling-house. In front of the largest shed, close to the gate, sat an old man chipping away at a long smooth stone beam, supported on trestles. The wanderer watched him over the wall. Everything here was familiar; the stones, some rough hewn, some blank, the order amidst confusion, the sheds, the tools, all belonged to a safe world on the far side of that black dream. If only … if only he could be inside there, be that man, sitting on that bench, doing that thing. But there was a difficulty about it. A barrier, a danger, kept him outside the wall.
A voice called from the house:
‘Frank!’
This, too, was a word of safety. It belonged to the place and had been shouted before in that other yard. Frank ! he said to himself. Frank !
The old man took no notice. He continued to chip, pause, and chip again until a rosy-cheeked young woman came from the house.
‘Oh, Dad! Your bacon’s getting cold.’
Bacon ,thought the listener behind the wall.
‘In a minute, my girl.’
‘Mum’s creating. She says you didn’t ought to work before breakfast, not at your age.’
‘All very well. I promised Wednesday. Got to be done Wednesday. Not my fault I’m single-handed.’
The old man put down his tools on the bench beside him, got up, and flexed his arms.
‘They’re coming for her Wednesday,’ he said, nodding at the stone. ‘Be trouble if she ain’t done.’
The young woman stood beside him and looked at it.
‘Looks nice,’ she commented.
‘Not so dusty. Wish they’d left a inch wider space each end, though. ’Twould have looked better that way, to my mind. But Mr. Simms, he would know best.’
‘What’s it say? That bit you’ve done?’
‘That’s poetry. Says: There is no room for death.’
She sighed and nodded, and then said:
‘I wish they could have got the licence sooner. So few of the boys remember them now. The boys now were only babies when they went away.’
‘Boys! Ooagh!’ the old man groaned in disgust. ‘Boys fair give me the sick, these days. Not one of ’em wants to learn a fine decent trade. Why’m I single-handed ? Who’ll do the job when I’m gone? Work with their hands? Not for Joseph! Clerks! That’s what they want to be.…’
‘Fra-ank!’ came the cry from the house.
‘All right, Maggie! Coming!’
As the pair moved off down the yard he was saying:
‘Though there’s premiums offered—premiums, mind you—for any lad that’s willing to learn.…’
Now the yard was empty. Now the stool was waiting. Now the hammer and chisels lay idle on the bench.
Inch by inch the watcher crept in until he stood in front of the stone. He smiled as he read it, for the clearcutting of the letters delighted him. All was as it should be, or very nearly. The old man had been right; an inch more space at either end would have been better. The stone exclaimed, as though the words were part of it:
This Sports Pavilion has been presented to the boys of Coombe Bassett by Charles Headley, in memory of his sons, William Francis and Charles Maurice, who lost their lives in the Battle of Britain. 1940.
Nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere caelo.
The lettering had been completed as far as locum.
The man picked up a chisel and held it in his hand, staring at it. As yet he had called nothing by name. But a name now came to him and he whispered it as he fingered the chisel.
‘My Redeemer …’
At last he sat down upon the stool. For a long while he looked at the stone. As he considered it he
Some way down the street two wooden gates were open upon a yard. A board over the wall announced:
F. TOOMBS. STONEMASON.
The yard was full of stone blocks, piled up and leaning against one another. There were several sheds and, at the far end, a dwelling-house. In front of the largest shed, close to the gate, sat an old man chipping away at a long smooth stone beam, supported on trestles. The wanderer watched him over the wall. Everything here was familiar; the stones, some rough hewn, some blank, the order amidst confusion, the sheds, the tools, all belonged to a safe world on the far side of that black dream. If only … if only he could be inside there, be that man, sitting on that bench, doing that thing. But there was a difficulty about it. A barrier, a danger, kept him outside the wall.
A voice called from the house:
‘Frank!’
This, too, was a word of safety. It belonged to the place and had been shouted before in that other yard. Frank ! he said to himself. Frank !
The old man took no notice. He continued to chip, pause, and chip again until a rosy-cheeked young woman came from the house.
‘Oh, Dad! Your bacon’s getting cold.’
Bacon ,thought the listener behind the wall.
‘In a minute, my girl.’
‘Mum’s creating. She says you didn’t ought to work before breakfast, not at your age.’
‘All very well. I promised Wednesday. Got to be done Wednesday. Not my fault I’m single-handed.’
The old man put down his tools on the bench beside him, got up, and flexed his arms.
‘They’re coming for her Wednesday,’ he said, nodding at the stone. ‘Be trouble if she ain’t done.’
The young woman stood beside him and looked at it.
‘Looks nice,’ she commented.
‘Not so dusty. Wish they’d left a inch wider space each end, though. ’Twould have looked better that way, to my mind. But Mr. Simms, he would know best.’
‘What’s it say? That bit you’ve done?’
‘That’s poetry. Says: There is no room for death.’
She sighed and nodded, and then said:
‘I wish they could have got the licence sooner. So few of the boys remember them now. The boys now were only babies when they went away.’
‘Boys! Ooagh!’ the old man groaned in disgust. ‘Boys fair give me the sick, these days. Not one of ’em wants to learn a fine decent trade. Why’m I single-handed ? Who’ll do the job when I’m gone? Work with their hands? Not for Joseph! Clerks! That’s what they want to be.…’
‘Fra-ank!’ came the cry from the house.
‘All right, Maggie! Coming!’
As the pair moved off down the yard he was saying:
‘Though there’s premiums offered—premiums, mind you—for any lad that’s willing to learn.…’
Now the yard was empty. Now the stool was waiting. Now the hammer and chisels lay idle on the bench.
Inch by inch the watcher crept in until he stood in front of the stone. He smiled as he read it, for the clearcutting of the letters delighted him. All was as it should be, or very nearly. The old man had been right; an inch more space at either end would have been better. The stone exclaimed, as though the words were part of it:
This Sports Pavilion has been presented to the boys of Coombe Bassett by Charles Headley, in memory of his sons, William Francis and Charles Maurice, who lost their lives in the Battle of Britain. 1940.
Nec morti esse locum, sed viva volare Sideris in numerum atque alto succedere caelo.
The lettering had been completed as far as locum.
The man picked up a chisel and held it in his hand, staring at it. As yet he had called nothing by name. But a name now came to him and he whispered it as he fingered the chisel.
‘My Redeemer …’
At last he sat down upon the stool. For a long while he looked at the stone. As he considered it he
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