in most homes it excited no concern.
He whistled softly under his breath as he switched on the worklight, a large oblong contraption below head height. At once the bench was bathed in a golden glow, like a billiard table, while Daniel’s face remained in shadow.
The workbench was covered in linoleum and was some twenty feet long, roughly the length of a piece of fine wool fabric, sufficient to make a man’s suit, trousers, jacket, waistcoat. Daniel selected a roll of suiting to which was pinned a scrap of paper with his back-slanted scrawl. With a flourish he spread it out and matched the edges double, for each piece had to be cut with its mirror image, left to right, trouser to trouser, cuff to cuff. He ran his hand lovingly over the cloth, relishing its softness and fine weave. A flaw was checked and marked with chalk, to be avoided during the process of cutting out.
‘Pure wool, this, Helen. Here, let me show you.’
He pulled a single thread from the cut end, held it up and put the flame from his lighter to it. The thread twisted and sparkled but did not catch fire.
‘Pure wool smoulders. Cotton will burn. Terylene, now, and artificial fibres are another matter.’ He dropped the burned thread on the floor and stubbed it out with his toe, then rummaged under the bench and pulled out a scrap of blue. Again he lifted a thread high between finger and thumb and put the flame to it; this time it melted and he dropped it quickly.
He kicked the rubbish back under the bench. ‘These mixtures are the devil. I can get a fair payment for trimmings from wool – they’re shredded and used for cheaper cloth. But the offcuts from Terylene blends are practically worthless.’
At the end of the room hung a horizontal pole laden with stiff pieces of cardboard turned yellow with age. The templates were as essential to the business as were his shears: had the premises been destroyed Daniel would have tried to replace these before anything else. He checked the details of the order, looked up the name in his notebook, chose several boards and began to arrange them on the cloth, ensuring that stripes matched exactly. The task took several minutes. When satisfied he began with swift sure strokes to draw a line around each in pink tailor’s chalk.
‘You draw with your left hand, but you use the shears with your right,’ she commented. She had not considered it before. ‘Are you left-handed, or ambidextrous?’
Her father rubbed his left shoulder. ‘Wish I were. No, I was taught to cut with my right hand. When I was younger than you.’ He did not elaborate.
Helen watched quietly. Her father was a craftsman, the finest level of achievement a working man could reach. Other men might be better paid, but they could not function with such grace and pride . His knowledge was such that men, and the handful of women customers he worked for, felt comfortable and looked smart in what he created. To watch him was a wondrous thing. Whatever she might attempt in the unclear future would never have this flowing elegance, this artless match of hand and eye. Daniel, a well-read man, had once remarked that the poet William Blake had been a craftsman and had never let his trade be derided. There was poetry here, too, and beauty, and manliness.
Yet he enjoyed discussing politics with her. That, too, was a tradition: the working man who took a close and learned interest in the world beyond his workshop. He might have made a politician himself, had the means been available. Helen blinked. Once more, she realised, her parents’ lives had been stymied years ago by their exclusion from mainstream society – by lack of money. Yet the options facing Helen were much wider. The problem might be to get her parents – Daniel and Annie both – to see that what had stopped them would no longer stop their daughter. As long as their imaginations had not been destroyed as well.
Daniel straightened. ‘This one’s a bit tricky, Helen. He’s a disabled
He whistled softly under his breath as he switched on the worklight, a large oblong contraption below head height. At once the bench was bathed in a golden glow, like a billiard table, while Daniel’s face remained in shadow.
The workbench was covered in linoleum and was some twenty feet long, roughly the length of a piece of fine wool fabric, sufficient to make a man’s suit, trousers, jacket, waistcoat. Daniel selected a roll of suiting to which was pinned a scrap of paper with his back-slanted scrawl. With a flourish he spread it out and matched the edges double, for each piece had to be cut with its mirror image, left to right, trouser to trouser, cuff to cuff. He ran his hand lovingly over the cloth, relishing its softness and fine weave. A flaw was checked and marked with chalk, to be avoided during the process of cutting out.
‘Pure wool, this, Helen. Here, let me show you.’
He pulled a single thread from the cut end, held it up and put the flame from his lighter to it. The thread twisted and sparkled but did not catch fire.
‘Pure wool smoulders. Cotton will burn. Terylene, now, and artificial fibres are another matter.’ He dropped the burned thread on the floor and stubbed it out with his toe, then rummaged under the bench and pulled out a scrap of blue. Again he lifted a thread high between finger and thumb and put the flame to it; this time it melted and he dropped it quickly.
He kicked the rubbish back under the bench. ‘These mixtures are the devil. I can get a fair payment for trimmings from wool – they’re shredded and used for cheaper cloth. But the offcuts from Terylene blends are practically worthless.’
At the end of the room hung a horizontal pole laden with stiff pieces of cardboard turned yellow with age. The templates were as essential to the business as were his shears: had the premises been destroyed Daniel would have tried to replace these before anything else. He checked the details of the order, looked up the name in his notebook, chose several boards and began to arrange them on the cloth, ensuring that stripes matched exactly. The task took several minutes. When satisfied he began with swift sure strokes to draw a line around each in pink tailor’s chalk.
‘You draw with your left hand, but you use the shears with your right,’ she commented. She had not considered it before. ‘Are you left-handed, or ambidextrous?’
Her father rubbed his left shoulder. ‘Wish I were. No, I was taught to cut with my right hand. When I was younger than you.’ He did not elaborate.
Helen watched quietly. Her father was a craftsman, the finest level of achievement a working man could reach. Other men might be better paid, but they could not function with such grace and pride . His knowledge was such that men, and the handful of women customers he worked for, felt comfortable and looked smart in what he created. To watch him was a wondrous thing. Whatever she might attempt in the unclear future would never have this flowing elegance, this artless match of hand and eye. Daniel, a well-read man, had once remarked that the poet William Blake had been a craftsman and had never let his trade be derided. There was poetry here, too, and beauty, and manliness.
Yet he enjoyed discussing politics with her. That, too, was a tradition: the working man who took a close and learned interest in the world beyond his workshop. He might have made a politician himself, had the means been available. Helen blinked. Once more, she realised, her parents’ lives had been stymied years ago by their exclusion from mainstream society – by lack of money. Yet the options facing Helen were much wider. The problem might be to get her parents – Daniel and Annie both – to see that what had stopped them would no longer stop their daughter. As long as their imaginations had not been destroyed as well.
Daniel straightened. ‘This one’s a bit tricky, Helen. He’s a disabled
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