Happy spring, everyone

I'll update my story soon. In the meantime, here is something I pulled off a dusty shelf. It's how Greta makes me feel. Have a wonderful trip my love, I'll miss you.

On certain days he would arrive breathless at the gates of his grandparent’s house, skin like lava and mud caking his legs where it had splashed up from puddles. He’d scale the gates with ease and head inside to give his grandmother a quick peck on the cheek before raiding the pantry for some ginger biscuits and shooting into the sunlight once more. He’d ease along the cool passageways created by arches strangled by vines and creepers all a flower to sit on the edge of the slate pond that held the goldfish. Sleek and plump and gulping, they’d crowd to the surface when they saw him, gasping at the surface as if drowning, desperate for a crumb of bread from the crusts he kept in his pockets. Mottled orange, speckled white, golden sunset, peach fuzz, lemon cream skies, each fish its own pigmented fingerprint gliding about with the merest mention of movement from a casual tailfin, hanging suspended for seconds or hours as if on invisible hummingbird wings. The fish would scatter to the far corners of the pond as he plunged his hand into the water, rubbing it against the green-slimed walls to chase the tadpoles which swam like little black holes trailing tails of inky darkness.
From the pond he’d sprint over the mossy slate pathways into the dell, to dive through hedges of smouldering azalea and green banks of feathered fern, pausing only to eat the sour-sweet pink petals of the scattered wax begonias which always made his cheeks squirm but left him aching for more. He raced to the orange grove and remembered when his brother used to play orange wars with him before he met that girl and became serious, how they would find fallen, rotten fruit, carroty as a British tourist with a spray-on tan on one side, grey-green with mould on the other. The moss-covered, baby-elephant sized rocks that littered the grove like fallen fruit from a forgotten time provided perfect cover to hunt and dive away and hide.
The grove would shoot him around the edge of the tennis court, cracked like a thirsty drought-blighted land, and his feet would crunch over fallen pecan nuts, a lottery of rotten or tasty nuts easily cracked against each other in his palm. Then to the sun dial, once bronze but now covered in a stubborn green film, something mystic and ancient brought there from an antique land now only charted in dust encrusted history books bound in leather and sitting on shelves belonging to equally shabby explorers whiling away their paling days in the memory of donkey-paths and bare-breasted natives, musket-fire and creatures never before seen by a white man.
All his speed and scuffling would be forgotten as he came upon the workshop, a living, breathing place nestled in its helmet of indecisively pink, white and burgundy bougainvillea. Through the eyes of the twin grimy windows could be seen sparks from monstrous machines, making it seem like his grandfather had captured an angry storm cloud and was bending its energy to fulfil his stern will. Dust would laze heavily in the air outside, escaped through the workshop’s exhalations, the workshop a creature more alive than a thousand vivid stories, echoing more noise than a thousand summer cicadas on a thousand scorching days. He would stand in the open door of the workshop watching his grandfather work oblivious to his presence, the only thing existing to him the warm-sawn wood being shaped by one of a million but unique tools, all lathes and planes and hammers and screwdrivers, each used and useful, each known intimately by callused hands with nimble fingers. He would bend over a bench, adding a fine and minute touch to something, a slight whorl or nick, his machines, many-legged with spiders and centipedes, all gathered around him like Dr Moreau’s creatures straining for a better look. The machines sat steaming and radiating like light green toads in a sudden summer shower, smug from labour and the fine things they helped create. The boy’s eyes would swarm over the racks of odd tools, foreign things he couldn’t fathom until his grandfather would reach for one without looking, and finding it in its right place would somehow use this odd object to perform some miraculously simple yet vital task.
At times like these, his grandfather did not look unlike one of the tools or machines he so warmly knew. Wiry and bent, sweating from the heat of the furnace in the corner, goggled and aproned, odd shapes jutting out his curved back, his knuckles swollen to marbles, his pale shock of hair wisping with every little breeze, like an aging wing obtained from some snow fowl in his travels too long ago wrestling with the air to take flight once more. This tower of a man now shrunken and gnarled, seemingly a poor caricature of the man he once was, until his gaze met yours or he laughed uproariously. Then his back would straighten, his hair darken and his wasted muscles bulge, and he’d once more resemble that proud stranger in the photos that littered the house, the man who wore strapping army uniforms, who cried holding a child in his arms, who held a strange wife the boy could barely recognise as his grandmother high in his arms (a grandmother of such beauty that all of spring would seem dull and drab when she went about the garden).
If he could take his eyes off the wonder of watching his grandfather create with such affection, he would gaze at the banks of toys that lined every flat surface. Companies of tin men, moustached and stern, glittered in proud uniforms red as a sunset fox, boots polished to the sheen of a drongo’s wing. Pirouetting ladies in delicate lavender skirts sat demurely wearing cheeks dimpled in bashfulness, their joints smooth and graceful and bellowing laughter and dance despite their static condition. Steam engines sat sleek and quick upon short iron tracks, bellies filled with fire and coal dust stinging the eyes. All these and more sat in droves, each the product of such attention and affection they must all have been known and named and whispered to in gentle ways when no one else was listening.
His grandfather turned and saw him, smiled with a wrinkle of two ancient eyes, and without a word beckoned him over. In his hands was a tin steamboat, with a gleaming red hull, black chimney and bright blue cabins. It was still warm, and the boy held it as his grandfather applied the last brushstroke of paint to brown the deck wooden. He blew on it gently before taking it and setting in down on a stand for it to dry overnight.
‘Let’s see about some tea, my boy.’ He wiped his hands on his apron and ruffled his grandson’s hair before ushering him towards the door. Just before he swung the door closed, he pressed an innocuous little button, and somewhere in the workshop a little timer started counting the seconds, minutes, hours in patient little clicks.

The workshop sat quietly in the twilight. The furnace was snugly warm, enjoying its rest after a long day inhaling wood and exhaling heat and smoke fine as wisps of cloud. The smell of sawdust and fresh, hot tin was heavy on the air, and drying glue pooled like honey sucked of colour on heavy countertops. Tins of paint crowded together like a stunted rainbow, spilling some of their secrets in impossibly slow rivulets along the floor; emerald green whispered softly of forests where no man ventured, populated by fairies and unicorns and splendid magic; crimson and orange hinted that somewhere a phoenix might rise again from sombre ashes; cornflower yellow reminded the gloom that summer hair was joyous and beautiful and smelled of fresh lemons. The silence was pregnant and expectant, like the pause between a lightning strike and its resonant thunder when the air is torn like a grey sheet. A little pile of dust suddenly gusted to the air. There was a scurrying without any real audible or visible proof, just the knowledge that with each passing second, not everything was exactly where it had been a moment before. There was a slight shifting. Mouse-breaths stirred the air and a single ash rebelled briefly against gravity before landing on a desert table, shattering in a slow, crumbling motion, like a cluster of cells suddenly intent upon mitosis. There shuffled hidden feet just on the edge of hearing, a small army walking silently on gentle soles and arches with a deep knowledge of all that is quiet; the quiet of a gust of wind dusting dandelion heads of their sugar-white burden; the quiet of a graveyard respecting years of grief; the quiet of wings in flight, so high as to not exist. Soon, the maybe-sounds became audible and brushed against straining eardrums that quivered with the pleasure of fulfilment. Cupboards scratched as if boiling with weevils and drawers rattled like teeth in a skeletal jaw. Hushed whispers called out to each other in a timid gusting too shy to disturb the pyramids of dust in the corners of the room. Little tracks appeared where none had been before, like hieroglyphics carved in sandstone and prone to be changed and channelled and gouged even with the gentlest ministrations of a breeze. It was as if the air had grown hands fond of shaping and pinched the fine carpet of sawdust, prodding it to the shape of little feet and strange paws. Whatever tread so timorously did so like a somnambulant shadow, dreams manifested in a silent wandering.
The brushstroke concussions grew braver and the whisperings surrounded the room. Stifled giggles gave way to rowdy laughter and pitter-patterings from tiny feet fell like metallic rain. The clicking noise in the background suddenly stopped, giving way to the lifting and scratching of a gramophone. Speakers popped and cleared their throats. A new noise jostled the dust for space in the dry, warm air, and the giggling and excited whispers increased. Something beautiful was happening. Violins appeared and poured out their hearts like golden syrup thick on young taste buds. Hesitant cellos found their tongues and provided a sonorous background for the sawing violins to rest upon. A piano gently percussed to the rhythm of falling rain, now fast, now slow, now bold, now shy. A kettle drum thought of clouds colliding as a snare dropped a proud collection of marbles scattering to a wooden floor. The scratching and rustling of the cupboards gave birth to creakings and slidings, and little heads poked out and looked around. Long shadows cast simple maps to toes that edged around corners and became fluent in motion. Wooden limbs clattered onto and over tables and benches, and metal appendages thudded dully behind them. Wooden men with forever smiles stiffly knelt in front of shapely women, with equally eternal expressions of mock shyness. The painted grins were no less real for their inability to express anything else; delight was heavy on the air. Red uniforms glowed with pride as loving creations paired off and entered into an embrace of motion and swirling and laughter. Those not yet finished, without eyes or a limb, were guided by loving hands and snickered nervously at the marvels unseen but felt, or a clumsy step tutted with a smile by a partner. Dust was kicked up into the air to drift like a pale snow, and the footprints were of a running and dashing and moving and swaying. Inflexible hips moved just the same, as legs clutched soaring notes and allowed themselves to be led as the music so dictated, as if guided by invisible strings. There was not a sad face amongst them, not a frown or a grimace, and minor chords were coy as a young girl holding her skirts, ripe with beauty, declaring feelings long hidden to a restless boy. The music swelled and burst glittering with each fresh quaver. The incomplete toys that stumbled and laughed, foretold a future of firecrackers and puppies owned by naughty boys, though for now they were works in progress, art not signed. The dancing in the workshop was without burden, without explanation and without fear. It was freedom given motion, joy given an outlet, life given limbs of wood and joints of steel. They danced in perfect rhythm, though each experimented with foxtrots and waltzes, rumba and salsa, tango and bop.
How the xylophone tinged and pinged! How the laughter leapt on the air and rode it like a current! Each couple clung like sticky centrifuges and lips no balm could soften brushed each other, led unbidden to meet by the music as it roved around the room like thermals drifting and falling. The scattered steam trains blew jets of smoke and shrieked their whistles raucously in an aural elbowing as their tin soldier friends spun their partners like dervishes. Two ladies watching the dancing from a distance curtseyed before the steam ship, introducing themselves with a giggle before scattering behind a paint tin, like schoolgirls teasing each other about the new boy in class.
As suddenly as it had started, the music reached a crescendo and fell silent. Breathless bodies bowed stiffly and kissed proffered hands, and two by two the toys retired to cupboards, draws, shadowed grottos where for the eternity of daylight they could hold each other in a touch only couples long in love can understand. There they would wait once more for the music.
There was always sawdust in the air.

//////// End