The carving was taking shape. It was huge. And muscular. The body was massive; my head only came to the top of the legs. I expected the muscles to ripple and sweat at any moment. Me and Jon didn’t really help much at all; it was clearly my dad’s project and he didn’t need any help and we let him get on with it. He worked regularly and with intent and didn’t really need us.
I could see it was working; it was obvious. It’s the same with a painting. Sometimes it comes together and other times it just doesn’t happen, no matter how hard you try. You can plan the painting, decide on the colours, shapes and style and see the finished work in your head. But you don’t get close. Something doesn’t spark. The moon was in the wrong orbit or the stars weren’t aligned. Other times, it’s as easy as opening a door. I could tell, looking at Dad’s carving, at the flared nostrils, the big oval eyes and the kicking legs, that it would be the best thing he’d ever done. He had to work in the evenings; the days were taken up with making the usual toys and the weekends were used to sell them at markets around the county. He was working hard and that was good. He was focused. It didn’t stop the drinking though. The bottle was never too far away, but at least now he was doing something whilst he drank.
The carving dominated the workroom. It stood in the middle with all the other work pushed to the sides. When you walked into the room the horse reared over you, with a fierce expression and high kicking legs. Jon seemed almost afraid of it; he would hurry past, duck around it, like he was afraid his presence might jolt it into life. He was also mesmerised by it. Once he was in the room and at a safe distance, he would stare intently, walk a few steps to the left or right and stare again.
I could see small changes in my dad when he was working. Not in his appearance or anything he said, but in the way he moved. For months he’d been dragging his body around reluctantly with him, like it was a weight to carry, even though he looked only half his own size. But when he was working on the carving he was different. He was still as silent but he moved with an energy that hadn’t been there for a long time. He was absorbed and purposeful and I could see that he wasn’t brooding, that he was concentrating and planning and creating. It made me relax, made me a little less fearful. It was good to see.