14

––––––––

Mid-April 1900

Elias mounted his horse and clip-clopped along the back streets past St Benedict’s Church towards the cabinetmakers just off Mt Eden Road, wondering where his life had gone so wrong.

After his father died, Elias felt he owed it to him to carry on the business – in his name: the Hughes name – but he’d failed. Everyone had been against him – his Mam, Charlie, even Hugh, but most of all, that bitch Gwenna. It wasn’t his fault. He’d tried. He really had tried. Between them, they had taken away any control he once had, although he didn’t mention any of that to the stranger at the bar.

He’d met Thomas Woodman by chance in The Edinburgh Castle roughly six months earlier. He’d gone there to get drunk after another clash with Gwenna. Never mind that her very presence annoyed him, or her talent for making sweets far exceeded his, or that his own mother had turned on him. He hated his life. He hated himself. He felt useless and unworthy and loathed the whole confectionery business. Trade was going downhill, and he had no idea how he was going to stop the slide or improve his life.

For some time, the sickly sweetness of the sugar boiling had set Elias’s teeth on edge, and his hands and forearms had developed an itchy rash. He’d kept his shirtsleeves rolled down so neither Gwenna nor his mother noticed, but Hugh had, and he offered to take over Elias’s work as well. Damn the man. At least he’d gone, but it had left the business short-handed. Elias had made Gwenna work harder, hoping she’d fail and he could blame losing the business on her.

She hadn’t failed, but the stupid bitch had got herself pregnant.

He hadn’t known why Gwenna was so uncharacteristically slow to get started in the mornings and snappy when spoken to, until he’d quizzed Charlie.

The boy was keen to share the news. “Shh. It’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone I told you.”

The dawning realisation there was nothing he could do to save the business tipped Elias over the edge. He took solace in whatever way he could. He started drinking more heavily. He even resorted to seeking out one or two of those voluptuous women who called out to him as he staggered home late at night, but nothing had provided the answers he sought.

The more he drank, the angrier he got, and the more he lost his temper. The unfairness of the situation consumed him to the point where he’d even threatened Charlie. Poor kid. He’d done nothing wrong. Except now, after what he, Elias, had done, everyone thought him the worst kind of scoundrel, but it wasn’t his fault. The situation had been against him from the start. No one understood him.

Until that night in the pub.

Thomas Woodman had understood. “Call me Woody,” the man said.

“Eli,” he’d responded using a name no one else called him.

“You’ve got to love what you do, lad, to be successful. You should think about selling up.”

“And do what? I’ve a mother who relies on me. And there’s a stepsister and a half-brother.” Elias had shrugged his shoulders, the ones that carried the weight of his conscience, and ordered more ale. As the night wore on, Thomas talked about his love – wood.

“I’ve even got the right name for it – Woodman. Get it?” he laughed. “But a piece of wood talks to you. It tells you what it’s best suited for as soon as you start to work it.” He paused to take a mouthful of his ale and wipe his lips. “But like all business, it’s not always the way you want it. Sometimes you have to make a table or a cabinet the way the customer wants it, but even then, there’s joy in the feel and smell of working a good piece. There’s nothing like a perfectly crafted bit of furniture with a good coat of varnish to bring out the colour.”

Their conversation had haunted Elias, and in the weeks following he sought out the man who would become his liberator.

“Why don’t you come along to the workshop with me?” said Woody. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

As soon as the door opened on that early December afternoon and Elias smelt the aroma of fresh wood shavings, something changed within him. Hours passed while he watched and listened as Woody handled a piece of kauri.

“This is real soft wood, so it’s easy to work with.” Thomas rounded the edge to make a circular top for a side table. “But just as easy to make mistakes, too. Look at the colour, see the way the grain flows.”

He clamped a block of macrocarpa on the workbench and gave the smoothing plane to Elias. “Here, have a go. You’ve got to go with the grain. Just ease it along, lad.”

With the plane resting in his hands the way Thomas showed him, Elias pushed it forward. A thin curl came away and fell, then another, and with each sweep of the plane, the wood seemed to come alive under his fingers. He stopped and ran his hand over the surface, surprised at how sleek it felt. He’d never come across anything like this before, nor felt as emotional. No wonder Woody was so fervent.

––––––––

“You have the knack, Eli,” said Woody, watching Elias turn the legs of a writing desk. “You’re a natural. I wish you’d come work for me full time.”

As the wood took shape in his hands, Elias allowed himself to envisage how he could do what Thomas – and he – wanted. “I will one day, Woody. I just need a bit more time to work things through.”

During his last conversation with Bethan, he’d almost – almost – told her what he was doing and about his newfound love for wood. She often asked him where he went or what had put him in such a good mood, but so far he’d resisted telling her.

Life with Mam since Gwenna and Charlie had gone was as near perfect as a man could expect. He still filled the regular monthly orders from stock left over after Gwenna’s efforts, which kept the business running for the time being. If he couldn’t match the request, he sometimes got Bethan to make a few varieties, but it couldn’t last much longer. Time was running out. He’d stopped making anything months ago. Not since Hugh had gone, in fact.

But he was finding he couldn’t do either role justice. He felt like a different person when he was working with the wood – and he was becoming more skilled with every stroke and turn – but he couldn’t get away from the sweet business often enough to practise. He was torn between what he should do and what he wanted to do.

Thomas understood, and let Elias come and go to suit. He paid him when he’d completed something worth selling, and Elias gave the extra money to Bethan for housekeeping.

He smiled, content, for now. It was a new feeling. One he had still to come to terms with.

The older man slapped Elias on the back. “Don’t think too hard, or too long. The answers’ll come to you, lad. They always do.”

But Elias couldn’t stop thinking.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of memories, Elias stood up to stretch, ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head to get rid of the sawdust. Bethan was always on at him about his clothes: ‘They’re so dusty. Where do you go to get so mucky?’ but he didn’t care.

Mam would know soon enough. They all would.

“Here you go, Dad,” said Alice Woodman as she placed the basket on the workbench. “There’s fresh scones this morning. And I brought butter and jam.” She walked over to the wood-burning stove where Thomas burnt the offcuts and moved the kettle into place to boil.

She came every morning with food for her father, who preferred not to clean up to eat in the house during the day, even though it was but a few steps away. Some days, Woody worked like a demon until his aching body could no longer stand, then he would clean up in the wash house at the back of the workshop, eat his supper early and go to bed. Other days, satisfied with his efforts, he would finish earlier and visit the pub before supper. The Edinburgh Castle, where he’d met Elias, was his favourite.

“Eli, would you care to wash your hands while I make the tea?” With a small, shy smile, Alice handed him a towel. Ever since Elias had first seen her when she’d come to collect the basket that first afternoon, he’d been smitten. Petite and dark-haired, she stirred a memory of happy times he couldn’t identify, a time in his childhood.

He was still nervous in Alice’s presence and often stumbled over his words, but then she’d look at him a certain way, and he began to believe she felt as he did.

“Thank you, Alice. I will. Your scones are nice. You’re a good cook.”

Elias didn’t know what had happened to Alice’s mother, but the girl ran the household, doing all the cooking and cleaning. “I’m glad you like them. I made them specially this morning.”

But what Elias liked most was that she liked to spend time in the workshop. Her main task involved sweeping up the ever-accumulating sawdust, but she was a dab hand at the fine finish sanding and loved doing the staining and lacquering. She understood the business inside out.

“You look pretty today, Miss Alice,” said Elias, admiring the trim figure emphasised by the well-cut gored skirt and pleated blouse.

Pulling an apron from the basket and tying it on, she blushed under his gaze. When he still hadn’t moved, she broke a small piece off the side of the freshly baked fruit cake and held it up. He opened his mouth and she popped in it. “That should keep you going for a minute. Now away and wash your hands.”

Her father watched the scene from the other side of the workshop. “Don’t get too keen on him, young Alice.” His eyes stared fixedly beyond the door where Elias had gone. “The boy has problems he needs to work through before he’ll make marriage material.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed her father on the cheek. “You worry too much, but I love you for it. Now, go wash your hands.”