Garlands of Gold by Rosalind Laker Page A

forthcoming departure for England.
    ‘Yes?’ he prompted kindly, seeing how absorbed she was in looking at everything.
    ‘What a wonderful collection of tools!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you taking them all with you?’
    ‘Yes. There are some I use most of the time and others I could not do without for various intricate tasks.’
    ‘You have had a splendid atelier in which to work at home whenever you wished,’ she said, still looking about her.
    ‘It started as a hobby room for me after my mother had become as tired of wood shavings and sawdust floating about the house as she was of binding up my cut fingers. So my father called in a wood carver to give me basic instructions and that really set me on the path I knew I wanted to follow.’ He folded his arms as he leaned back against the bench. ‘After I’ve left here I think you should have this room for making and mixing your beauty preparations.’
    ‘I should like it very much,’ she admitted, thinking how advantageous it would be to have space and shelves instead of trying to manage in the cramped quarters of her own small rooms, ‘but your mother may have other plans for it.’
    ‘I’ll speak to her about it later today.’ He moved away from the bench. ‘It’s most opportune that you’ve come here now, because I’ve made a little gift for you to compensate for not having anything from my travels on the day of my return.’ He opened a cupboard door and for a matter of seconds in the brightness of the sunshine pouring through the window she saw an oval wooden plaque, known as a portrait medallion, with her own face carved on it in profile. Almost immediately he thrust it out of sight, taking out instead a little round looking-glass surrounded by carved foliage inset with tiny flowers and berries. She was wide-eyed as he handed it to her.
    ‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed. It reflected her awed and delighted face as she held it in front of her. ‘How very kind of you! I’ll keep it always.’
    ‘I had started it before I left for Italy,’ he said, pleased by her bright-eyed pleasure in his gift. ‘So it was simply a matter of a little more work and a final polishing.’
    ‘But how do you do that?’ she asked wonderingly. ‘The wood shines like silk.’
    ‘I use equisetum hyemale ,’ he replied, his eyes amused.
    ‘Whatever is that?’ she exclaimed in bewilderment.
    ‘You’ll know it better as “horsetail” perhaps?’
    ‘But that’s a weed! It’s called “scouring rush” as well, which is the best name for it, because I’ve used its stalks bound together for scouring pots. When I was at school my friends and I made whistles from the hollow stalks.’
    ‘That’s what it is.’
    ‘But perhaps it does not grow in England?’
    ‘Yes, it does. England has plenty of watersides and other damp places where it can be found just as it is in most of Europe, but it is also sold in markets as it is here in Holland, because it can be used for so many purposes.’
    She looked at him keenly. ‘I believe you have just divulged your own secret method of the finishing touch to me.’
    He laughed. ‘Maybe and maybe not. At least I can be sure that you are not going to set up in competition against me.’
    ‘Yes, you are right,’ she answered, amused. Then she added seriously, ‘I should not think anyone could compete with your skills.’
    He shook his head. ‘You would not say that if you had seen the wonderful carvings that I saw on my travels. But I hope for my work to reach the highest possible standards in the future. That is when I’ll have my own workshop with assistant carvers working for me. Naturally I don’t expect that to happen overnight.’
    ‘Nevertheless, I hope it comes about quickly for you.’ There were many questions that she wanted to ask him out of a natural curiosity, but most of all she would like to ask about the portrait medallion she had glimpsed in the cupboard. Did it mean that he found her pretty enough to