The Coward’s Tale

by Vanessa Gebbie

  Off he goes, pushing his bike across the yard to the track over the culvert, where the water is chuckling this morning deep in its own throat. And he will disappear down the track to the road by the Brychan estate on the edge of town, on his way down the hill, to school, a bundle of offcuts in his trailer and his head full of small plans.

  To school he goes, then, on his bike, and on the way he may pass Tommo Price in his suit off to be Clerk at the Savings Bank. ‘Morning, Icarus.’

  Or he may see the lads from the Brychan in the doorway of the dressmaker’s trying to light a butt end found on the pavement, ‘Morning, Icarus.’

  ‘Mr Evans to you. Put that out, will you?’

  Or he may pass Peter Edwards, Collier until they closed Deep Pit a few months back, the last pit to close round here, too – sitting on the steps of the Kindly Light statue outside the library and looking at his hands – but Peter Edwards just nods and says nothing, for there is nothing to say.

  And at the school does Icarus go in with the other teachers, to be all serious with black looks and exhortations to the lads not to be lads at all but to be as old as they are themselves? He does not. Round the back he goes, parks the bike in a rack, then takes the bag of offcuts from the trailer and carries it to a hut with a locked door. ‘Carpentry’ it says. And ‘Mr Thaddeus Evans’ in case he forgets he has a name other than Icarus. Through the metal window with its cracked panes he can see his workbenches, his shelves, his tools hung all neat on the walls.

  In he goes and shuts the door, lifting his face to an air hanging full with the sweet smell of pine. He may raise his face and shut his eyes, to breathe in the scents while the lads are still half-listening in the Assembly Hall.

  Under the workbenches there are pale curls and shavings, as whorled as fingerprints with patterns that ran once under the skin of trees. Icarus may pick up a few and stand there to uncurl the wood, to feel the oils deep in the flesh. To see if the wood splits and snaps in his fingers, or whether it uncurls easy and lissom. Those that do not split he saves, and puts them in a box on his desk.

  He checks the time, then looks at the shelves round the walls of his workshop. At the boxes on the shelves, labelled for every year Icarus Evans has been a teacher in this place. Thirty years. Thirty boxes, on shelves that span floor to ceiling.

  Icarus Evans watches the lads crossing the playground, new lads to this lesson, all brave now, swinging their bags and play-punching, most. He is wondering, maybe, if there is a real carpenter among them, such as he has never been, for all the bedside tables he has made, all the chairs, dominoes and benches. Not really. Not yet.

  He listens to the lads’ chatter as they settle,

  ‘I’ll make a cart to ride down the hill,’

  ‘Or a box for secrets,’

  ‘A rocking chair for my gran,’

  ‘A set of wooden spoons,’

  ‘A boat like Mr Evans is making up the farm,’

  ‘A rocket, me,’

  ‘A wooden rocket? That’s daft . . .’

  Then he tells them to gather round, and he takes down one box from the shelves, one of the thirty. Lifts the lid to show the lads what’s inside.

  Is it a set of carved spoons? Loving spoons to show how clever the lads were with their hands, those who left a long time back to work with numbers, letters, things that need no clever hands? Is it blocks of different wood? Blood-red mahogany and the pearl of hornbeam or the glow of pine, for the boys to feel the difference? Not at all. The lads peer into the box to see nothing but a pile of wooden feathers, fashioned from shavings gathered from the floor and saved. Some delicate and others solid and ham-fisted.

  Icarus looks at the lads, then, all of them: the boys who tried to light the butt end outside the dressmaker’s shifting in the middle of the group, another gang from the Brychan who come to drop pill bottles into the spring, right to the red-haired boy in glasses at the back trying not to be seen.

  All new this boy Laddy Merridew, his glasses shining, hair cut special by his gran this morning with her dressmaking scissors to keep it out of his eyes, his parting white as chicken meat. Bitten nails. His school trousers mothball-smelling cut-offs from the back of a wardrobe, belonging to a dead grandad. And that same grandad’s shirt, its tail hanging out and smelling of more mothballs while another lad inks ‘Stinker’ into the hem in blue biro. But Laddy Merridew does not notice this as he is listening and watching as Icarus talks.

  ‘Here’s the test, lads. To see the watermarks. To find wood that is made to be feathers. There’s feathers made by every boy I have ever taught, right by here –’ and he taps the side of the box to hear the feathers settle with a whisper.

  Icarus waves at the walls of the workshop, at the boxes with their dates, at the thousands of feathers in the boxes. Then he goes quiet. He picks one maybe two feathers from the box on his desk. The best. And he calls the new boy forward, and asks his name.

  ‘Ieuan Merridew, Mr Evans,’ but his words are swamped by laughter when another boy answers ‘Stinker’ as well. ‘But they call me Laddy back home.’

  Then more shouts of ‘Stinker’ and ‘Mothballs’ and ‘Ginger’ follow him to Icarus’s table, but Icarus takes no notice, just smiles at him. He gives the worked curls of wood to the boy called Laddy Merridew and asks, ‘Are these feathers, then?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Evans. No, Mr Evans.’

  ‘Do they feel like feathers?’

  The boy runs his fingers along the outer edge of the curls. ‘No, Mr Evans.’

  ‘Ah. Sad, then. Do they behave like feathers?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Evans?’

  ‘Will they float on the air like a feather will? Drop them and see, will you?’

  Here, Icarus Evans pulls out a chair and the boy climbs up in his old trousers, his shirt-tail hanging out, and the others laughing but jealous for all that. Laddy Merridew waits for a moment for the air to be right, and he holds first one and then the other wooden feather high over his head and lets them go.

  There will be a hush then. Despite themselves, the lads are willing the feathers – made by older lads, their heroes – willing them to find the smallest of up-draughts, willing them to fall a little, willing their carpentry teacher to start a smile as one stops – there! Like that. Magic! For it to pause in the air on that up-draught like a hand has caught it, invisible. Willing it to catch the movement of the air made by the breathing in and out of thirty boys and one man. Willing it to float, gentle and swaying, willing it to side-slip and be caught in the real ink-stained fingers of a boy. There! Did you see? It floats!

  But do any do this? Have any done this in all the years that Icarus Evans has been teaching the lads at the school? No. None. The wooden feathers all fall straight to the floorboards to meet the sawdust, for they have never stopped being wood, and are simply going home. Not one, not a single one in all those years has ever floated on the air like a real feather, for all the trying.

  Just like these two feathers dropped by the new boy Laddy Merridew, who stands on his chair to hear laughter, and the magic is broken, the ‘maybe’s have vanished and there’s a lad just here holding his nose.

  Laddy climbs down and Icarus Evans is saying, ‘There you are. You have lessons with me for a year. And by the end of the year maybe one of you will have made me a feather that will float?’

  The lads all smile at one another and nod, and not one makes plans to carve wooden feathers that float on the air. For such a thing, as everyone already knows, cannot be done.

  ‘But will we make tables, Mr Evans? And chairs?’

  Icarus Evans sighs, puts the wooden feathers back in the box and closes it all up again for another day.

  When he goes home at the end of the day, leaving the lads’ heads full of plans for anything but feathers, does he stop at The Cat Public House at the corner of Maerdy Street for a drink, or call in at number eleven to see if old Lillian Harris has anything that needs mending? He does not. He will call by Tutt Bevan the Undertaker’s, to a
sk if he has any offcuts today. He will take those strips of mahogany or pine that were not born to be coffins and home he goes to the farm, to make himself a little supper, and after supper to carve yet another feather himself. And then to work on the rowing boat. To make another piece, another rib for the sides.

  The Woodwork Teacher’s Tale ii

  Back down the town the cinema is getting ready for the next showing and Mrs Prinny Ellis has upped the shutter of her ticket office, sending its noise to fall against the door of Ebenezer Chapel and to wake the beggar Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins dozing on his bench in the porch. Mrs Prinny Ellis is sucking a bullseye while she waits, maybe reading a magazine, something to do with the South Seas and palm trees and sailing ships. Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins the beggar comes down the steps, leans against the peeling wall of the cinema and taps the face of his watch with no hands, for it must be nearly time to be begging again and his watch agrees.

  Laddy Merridew brings himself down from the school, for his gran may have told him he is not to come back until suppertime, and given him a few coins for the cinema from the jar on the kitchen mantel.

  He may be the first in the queue, and the next in the queue will recognise Laddy from the Brychan, and may ask how his first day has gone at the school.

  Laddy will say nothing about shirt-tails with ‘Stinker’ inked in blue biro, shirt-tails washed in the school lavvies in yellow soap. Instead, he says, ‘We must make feathers. Make them float on air.’

  ‘Aaw. That Icarus Evans. Him and his feathers. I remember that, and it’s ten years ago now. Fetch him water in a bucket from the tap outside the workshop. They’ll float nice.’

  The queue will grow, and someone may ask why the teacher wants feathers from wood and what’s wrong with the real thing then, and what started this, and when will it finish? And what is the teacher called Icarus doing with all those feathers, making a flying suit? And there is laughter, indeed there is, but if they ask it right, and if the questions come to the ears of Ianto Passchendaele Jenkins, leaning against the wall just there, he will tap his watch again, wheel his arms in the air as if he is drawing the story down from the wind and look up the road towards the school, ‘Listen with your ears, I have a story for them, see, about Icarus Evans and his feathers. But stories need fuel they do, and it is a while since I had something to eat.’

  Someone will bring him a coffee with two sugars made in the ticket booth by Prinny Ellis, and maybe someone will open a bag of mintoes, or toffees for him to suck. And Ianto Jenkins begins.

  ‘Ah, that Icarus Evans, he always loved wood. Even as a small boy. Loved the feel of the trees, the roughness of bark and the smoothness of the flesh underneath. The smell of wood when he scraped a twig with a nail, gentle. And the colours, so many he couldn’t name them. Colours that were just green or brown to most, but to the young Icarus Evans no two woods were the same, ever. No two pieces from the same tree, even.

  Icarus Evans’s da was the best carpenter in this town. Up Gylfach Cynon, a little house on the hill with a workshop out the back and Icarus’s mam taking in mending done on the treadle machine in the middle room, a machine she got from her own mam, and she from hers. Not called Icarus at all back then, of course. Not yet, but called for his grandfather, the collier Thaddeus Evans.

  Never met that grandfather he was named for. Not even once – Thaddeus Evans the grandfather died years before Icarus was born, and when his son, Icarus’s own da, was just an apprentice carpenter. Thaddeus Evans the grandfather died up Kindly Light pit one September morning a long time back now, put to sleep by the afterdamp. Terrible, that Kindly Light accident. Terrible.’

  Here, the beggar will pause and rub his eyes. He takes a slow mouthful of coffee and shakes his head. Then he continues.

  ‘Before Thaddeus Evans the collier died sudden like that, he left his son the carpenter with a question, the answer promised but never given. A secret taken down Kindly Light pit and left down there in the dark, sure as anything. You will see.

  But now, the boy Icarus learned to breathe in an air heavy with the scents and sounds from his father’s workshop. The green scents of the wood wound themselves about his head, Icarus just a baby in his basket by the sewing machine, as his mother turned collars for men who worked in insurance offices. So the tick tick tick of the machine and the shunt and pulse of the treadle were his sleeping song.

  And in his workshop out the back his da made chests for the big houses high on the hillsides out of town. Oh and there were chairs for the chapels, and boxes for lovers to keep their secrets in. Kitchen tables for Tredegar Street and Plymouth Terrace. Careful wedges decorated with robins for the doors of the old houses strung along the river, where the old ladies live.

  The boy Icarus learned to crawl among the sawdust and the curls of wood under the plane bench in the workshop, and he learned to love in that very same place. First, he loved the softness and the scents of the sawdust, he loved it for its colours, how they flickered away from the colours of the sawn wood. He grew, and saw how mahogany unreds itself, how beech whitens in its own dust. He learned how walnut and apple smell of their own fruits. How oak lifts its ribs in the pews and chairs of the chapels, and how beech wood feels as soft as the fine powder his mam used on Saturdays.

  Learned to work in wood, then, shown by his da. The best apprenticeship, unpaid except in something that is not money. Learned everything about wood, and more. All except for one thing . . .’

  Here, the beggar will stop, and sigh. And the listeners, who have forgotten all about the showing, will shake their heads, ‘Aww, don’t stop now, just the one thing his da kept from him, did he?’

  ‘Just the one thing, and not something his da could have told him, either. Listen. For all the scents of the different woods, and for all the dovetails, butts and mitres, for all the straight grains of beech and the wave-grains of walnut, for all the hidden music in ebony and cherry, for all Icarus learned, that was not enough for his da. Listen to his voice down the years, “When you can make me a feather out of wood, only then are you a real carpenter. This is what your grandfather Thaddeus told me, and who am I to say it is not so? Never, ever done it. You make me a feather that does not only look like a feather, and that is hard enough. But a feather that will float on the slightest up-draught, the air that finds its way through a closed sash . . . then you will be a carpenter to make your grandfather proud, and your own da as well.”

  Then Icarus’s da, back there in his workshop, saw, caught on a cobweb in the window, a real feather. The smallest piece of down from the breast of a pigeon preening itself on the roof. Took the feather between finger and thumb, took it through to the middle room, empty that day, the sewing machine still. And the air, still as the machine. Took the feather to the window, to the dance of the dust in a small shaft of sunlight in a middle room up Gylfach Cynon. Then he loosed his finger and thumb and let the feather fall.

  Did it fall to the floor? It did not. Fell a hand span, maybe, that feather did, curled like it was sleeping. Fell, hardly at all, from his father’s fingers, then it woke, like a hand had passed underneath, invisible, but moving the air enough to play with a single mote of dust. As if that hand held the real feather suspended while Icarus and his da watched, that feather hardly moving, side-slipping slow, lower and lower, to land on that basket by the sewing machine and the pile of insurance men’s shirts.’

  Ianto Jenkins pauses again. The cinemagoers will shake their heads. ‘Can’t be done.’

  ‘Not from wood, it can’t.’

  All except the boy Laddy Merridew, sitting there on the steps of the cinema, the film forgotten, watching the beggar telling his story, as intent as he watched his teacher Icarus Evans in the workshop. Listening, and thinking, and in the end saying nothing at all. And someone gives the beggar another toffee, to carry on.

  ‘And so it started, because Icarus Evans’s da said it could. And he said it could be done because his own da, the collier Thaddeus Evans, said so. The boy Ic
arus Evans went straight to the workshop to find the thinnest piece of wood he could see, and his da nodded, and said: “Ah, not so daft then?” And he watched closely, to see if his son might fathom the secret . . . something he had never managed himself, see?

  Icarus picked up a shaving of beech wood from the floor under the workbench. Another of ash. And out the back the boy Icarus went, with those curls of wood and the sharpest blade he could find, out to sit on the step of the brick path that ran up the little garden, and he turned the curls of wood in his fingers to find the best place to begin. And he started to carve.

  It is a carving that has lasted for years, for all its smallness. And it is never done, not yet. And soon after, young Icarus’s father fell sick with the coughing like so many in the town back then, and he coughed his way into his bed, then into the ground, and that was that.

  In the end Icarus learned to work in wood better than anyone else in the valley, and further. And now, he teaches the lads, but he sits there each evening, outside his caravan, to carve the smallest pieces of wood. Still trying to make the perfect wooden feather. Never done it though. The voice of the dead collier Thaddeus Evans his grandfather – it echoes at him, as it did to his da. “When you can make me a feather out of wood, only then are you a real carpenter.”

  And each year, when he gets the lads into the school workshop, he sets them his own task, and hopes that one day, someone will do it and show him a little piece of magic.’