The Carpenter
SEQUENCE THREE The Carpenter features furniture maker, Nick James.
A coven of trees shields the woodshed at the bottom of the field. I trudge towards its rickety door, the crackling earth beneath my feet disrupts the silence of the morning. Fiddling with the lock I tug at the rust-stricken door. Greeted with an overbearing scent of sawdust I choke on my breath as it’s dusty residue fills my lungs. I cough into my sleeve and take a gulp, trying to dampen the sharpness in my throat.
3/4
“What took you so long?”, Jim asked looking up from drawings mapped across his workbench. He took his glasses off, “I need to show you something”. The garage smelt of woodland and charred coal; a familiar smell from year eight scouts. I patted the rain water off my arms and ruffled my hair. He stood waiting. His hands resting on his tool belt. “The rain held me up, the tracks up to the farm are in ruins.” I replied. A dust sheet covered half of the room. Jim grabbed a corner. “Better late than never,” he flung it back revealing the silhouette of a rowing boat.
I felt it. 5/6
The rough of my palm softened by its polished surface. Every detail refined like the last. Fascinated; I gazed like a child playing with an abacus maze, at the flawless joins in the oak. My hand glided in between every last groove, stopping at every curve to rub my thumb over the arcs in the wood. There wasn’t a piece out of place, not a mathematical equation unsolved.
I was hooked.
7/8
“Fancy helping me finish it?”, Jim rested his hand on the nose of the boat. “Could I?”, I replied, flattered he’d asked. “It’s a challenge but with my skill and your patience I can teach you.” He ran his hand along the boats edge. “I like a challenge.” He threw a tool belt towards me, “Let’s get started then.”
9/10
First he set up the vice up, tightening the timber in its grasp, he began to saw against the grain, squinting his eyes to make sure each stroke was precise and aligned. The saw let out a squeaking sound as its teeth plunged into the bark. Deep-mustard yellow, and orange hues merged together revealing the aged evergreen, its mis-shaped rings like a lifetime of beauty spots. I watched over his shoulder; transfixed. Next, Jim grabbed a chisel and began scraping at the wood between the vice. Shavings of timber began to fall to the floor, resting in fine curls on Jim’s toe caps. “Hammer,” he ordered. I handed it to him. He began to knock on the chisels handle, gently chipping away at the timber. “You need to take your time with it - don’t knock too hard - are you watching?”, Jim glanced behind his shoulder. “Yes I’m watching,” I replied, lost in the sound of knocking and mesmorised by the chisels edge as it indented the wood.
11/12
“Now, you. Follow the pencil line, and be gentle with the hammer less is more”, a man of few words, I replayed his advice in my head, gripping the edges of the tools tightly I tried to keep a steady hand. Steadily the bark began to wafer away. Leaving trails of dust. I blew the excess away, closing my eyes; unconfident of my hands work. Jim peered over my shoulder, “Not bad, all this hanging about around here has paid off.” I half-smiled, trying not to let off how much his recognition meant.
13/14
“Now we need to go and fetch some wood - I’ll show you how to pick it,” Jim said, unhanging his jacket from behind the door. He slung it around his shoulders, releasing a waft of dustmites into the chalky hair; I watched as they helicoptered to the floor like sycamore leaves.
15/16
Jim headed for the door way, brushing past me he released his scent; malt, tobacco and mint. “Grab an axe and the wheelbarrow would you, Son,” Jim mumbled through the stem of his cigarette. I unhung the axe, it’s cold metal stinging my skin. Chucking it into the nearby wheelbarrow, I shivered. Rubbing my hands together I scanned for gloves. There - in the corner, stuffed in an old plant pot. I patted them against my thigh to release the mud; the smell of dry soil filled my airways reminding me of a humid summer morning. As I pulled them on my hands I felt the rough earth powder my skin. I took one glance around the woodshed. All set; I headed out of the door after Jim.
17/18
Jim paused looking up at the sky. He took time to admire the birds that fluttered and swooped amidst the canopy of evergreens.
We ambled up to the brook and trudged through the untouched earth, disturbing the blanket of fallen fir needles; the wheelbarrow tracks imprinted our presence across the uprooted carpet of the forest floor. The ferns towered over us like gentle giants, swaying with the rhythm of the brisk November breeze.
19/20
“This one here, you can tell by it’s thickness and the texture of the bark - here feel it.” He grabbed my hand; grazing it over the bottom of the tree I felt the barks jagged texture and rough grooves.
“Now, make a strike. Remember; three things - a firm grip, steady hand and centered eye - you can’t go wrong”, he smiled, standing back. The cold air invigorates me as I reach for the ice-dusted axe; the heat of my hand releasing a steamy smog. Then - I strike. The metal bites the wood - neat and precise.
21/22
Now here’s the challenge - hitting the same spot. Remembering what Jim said, I pulled back re-adjusting my grip on the axe. I strike again. And again; sweat dripping from my brow. With one final swipe I slice through the wood. The tree quakes for a split second and then bustles to the ground with a whoosh, releasing a gust of leafy evergreens. Jim slaps me on the back, “Are you sure you’ve not done this before?”. “I must be a natural”, I reply, laughing.
23/24
Pieces of bark flew in between us as we continued to chip away at the timber. Finally, a pile of logs stood before us. One by one; we chucked them into the wheelbarrow. Jim stood over the trees stump and marked it with an ‘A’. “An ‘A’ for Adam,” he smiled. He grabbed the wheel barrows handles and glanced back at the evergreen, giving it a nod, appreciative of its organic splendor and its contribution to the worldliness. Admiring the burnt orange that fills the pit of the barrow, we retrace our steps back to the woodshed. Slinging the chunks of wood onto the workbench, I glance towards Jim. “What now?”, I said inquisitively. “Be patient son, lets take one day at a time eh.”
25/26
“When people are buying something from me I like to think they’re almost buying an airloom. ” - Nick James, The Carpenter