The Carpenter's Bench Read online

  The Carpenter’s Bench

  Michèle McGrath

  The Carpenter’s Bench

  The day was very hot and she was exhausted. She stumbled along the dusty path, intent on reaching her favourite place one last time. Once she used to dance along this lane. A girl then, newly married and in the first stages of her pregnancy. The top of the hill, where she could look out into the valley, had always been special to her. Some old olive trees grew there, twisted together, their branches making a pleasant shade, even in the heat of the day. She would sit on a large stone and watch the lads tending their sheep or the women gossiping around the well. Sometimes she would bring her sewing, small garments for the child she carried or clothes that needed mending. Often she did nothing except sit and think, wondering what life would hold for her. She felt happy as she daydreamed, quite content, not yet thinking of terror and pain.

  Her husband noticed how often she came this way and he followed her. She was surprised to see him, but pleased when he seated himself beside her. She always remembered the beauty of the sunset sky that first time they sat there together. He never told her what he intended to do. One day, when she arrived as usual, she found a surprise waiting for her. A wooden bench had been placed beneath the olive trees, made out of sweetly-smelling cedar wood, just big enough for three people to sit on. She knew instantly who had made it. No one could mistake her husband’s work; he was such a fine craftsman. That day she did not stay. She ran home as fast as she could and she met him halfway down the path, coming towards her.

  “Do you like it?” He smiled at the delight on her face.

  “It’s a wonderful surprise. Thank you. Come and sit on it with me now, so we can watch the sun go down together.” He laughed at her, but he did as she asked.

  That was one of her favourite memories in a life often hard, but always full of love. Happy times. It was the first thing she did when they returned from their difficult journey, as soon as she set their house in order and satisfied the curiosity of her neighbours. She broke away and went to see if her bench was still intact. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw it, a little more weathered but still firm and unmarked.

  She brought her son there often. He was a toddler then, almost three. She walked slowly up the path with him, holding his hand, so he did not stumble on the stones and hurt himself. He sat happily, playing with pebbles and sticks, building a tiny house, while she watched him. When he grew older he would often come to her there. After the rains fell, he carried newly opened flowers in his hand to give to her.

  Sometimes her husband would sit there after work, taking his ease and discussing with her boy the teachings of God. It always surprised her to find her son so learned, more so even than her husband. He seemed possessed of some inner knowledge, which he seldom displayed except to those he loved. Once though, she lost him in Jerusalem and found him talking to the priests in the temple. She recognised some of the arguments he used to practise with her husband and smiled in spite of her fear of losing him. Rarely did her husband win any discussion with her son, but they both seemed to enjoy themselves and she rejoiced to see it. Those were the happy times, but there were sad times too.

  She came here on the night her husband died. He lay in her arms, holding her son’s hand and just went to sleep. The sky had been strangely light and filled with shooting stars. She stood looking at them, aware of their magnificence even in the depths of her sorrow. She remembered running her fingers over the cedar wood of her bench, touching the places where her husband’s hands had shaped the planks. If this bench talked, she thought wistfully, what tales it would tell of their time together. How he loved and protected her, ever since they took their betrothal vows. Now he was gone and she would never see him again, until she, too, died. Her life would be lonelier without him, for, although he had been older than she was, he shared many of her memories. Her son did not recall the carefree years of her childhood or the early months of her marriage. He was too young even to understand the things they had seen on their travels.

  When her husband was alive, her troubles never seemed quite so bad. Now the years passed and she grew from a girl to a care-worn woman. The bench linked her to her husband’s memory and she felt closest to him when she sat on it in the evenings. Now she must leave and her memories might grow hazy, away from the places they lived together. She prayed she would never forget the shape of his face or the touch of his hand on hers, out there in the wilderness.

  She sighed, pulling off the veil from her head, so the slight wind would ruffle her hair. Here no one would see her, no one would be shocked. Today, the last day she would ever spend in her beloved home, had been filled with hard work, but it was finished now. Everything was ready for this new journey out into the unknown. She had travelled before, but rarely, once to be enrolled, once to visit her cousin and occasionally to go to the temple in Jerusalem. She had been much younger then. Now she wondered if she would be able to walk so far; the way was hard and she tired more easily. She did not want to be a burden to anyone, especially her son.

  Time was passing and now she must say goodbye to this place and go back to the village. She stood up, ready to go. Then she heard sandal scraping on the path below her. The wearer was still hidden by the trunk of one of the olive trees, but she knew that step. She smiled and held out her hand to her son. His face lightened when he saw her and his frown disappeared.

  “Mother, I thought I would find you here.” He took her hand and they both sat down together.

  “Everything is prepared for our journey tomorrow,” she told him, opening their conversation. She realised that, if he had come searching for her, he had things to say to her alone.

  He nodded. “I have something I must say to you…” he hesitated and then he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “You are going to tell me that we will not return here, aren’t you?”

  “You knew?”

  “From the moment when you gave your father’s tools to young Jacob.”

  It cost her a pang or two to see the lad carry them away. He had been joyous, for the tools were fine ones, worthy of true craftsmen like her husband and son. The boy could never have afforded to buy them. An orphan, his parents died when he was barely out of childhood and he grew up with few to help or care for him. He found work as a shepherd and the hours he worked were long, but he often came to her husband’s workplace. He seemed fascinated by the process of shaping wood. Her husband recognised his interest and had given him scrap wood and an old tool to work with. In return Jacob had carved out the shape of one of his sheep. It was so realistic; she thought it would turn its head to look at her. Her husband had been proud of young Jacob’s skill and told her he intended to train him to be a carpenter. Unfortunately he did not have time to fulfil his intention; he died shortly afterwards. Her son had continued Jacob’s training, although he often went away and did not have much time to spare when he returned home. The boy proved an apt pupil for all that. She thought it fitting that the tools should go to him. Jacob had enough skill now and they would earn him his living. He would also cherish the memory of the man who had given them to him and the man who first taught him how to use them.

  It was the right thing to do, yet another link to her husband and the life she had known snapped that day. Her son would never have given his tools away if he had any intention of returning. So she, too, would never return either. All that was left was the future, the future she had been afraid of all her life. It had been a small worry, when her son was still a boy. Now it was upon her, a raging fear, bubbling inside. Many nights she did not sleep for thinking of it. She tried hard to keep her fears from other eyes, especially from her son but she knew that, with him at least, she failed,
as she always did.

  He was speaking again and she had missed some of his words, thinking her own thoughts.

  “…he will use them well and he is skilful, far better than I was at his age. I’m glad to be able to help him on his way.”

  She smiled as she remembered his own first attempt to fashion a small gift for her from some of the scraps in her husband’s workplace. So small then, his baby hands could hardly hold the blunt knife her husband gave him to work with. Yet he had not given up. He kept chipping away until the shape he wanted appeared, rough and lop-sided but all his own work.

  She had it still, a small brooch in the shape of a flower. She reached into her clothing and pulled it out, then she laid it on the palm of his hand.

  “You made this, the first gift you ever gave me.”

  He turned it over, looking closely at it and laughing as he said, “You have this still? I remember making it and not letting my father help me. How old was I then, three or four?”

  “You were three. Your father was very proud of you when you had finished it.”

  “I have made better since.”

  “This was your first present and so very special to me, but I have kept the others too.”

  Silently she gave him two other shapes, carved as the boy grew into a man. Both were far finer as his skill increased, but not so dear to her as the baby’s tribute. He took them, as they both remembered the occasions when he had given them to her. Finally she handed him the last gift her husband had ever made her, a spindle.

  “Father’s work. How well he fashioned the wood. It is as smooth as silk.” Her son stroked his finger over the wood.

  “I cannot bring many things with me,” she told him. “This journey will be hard and I, too, will not be coming back. I will take these small gifts remind me of our life here together.”

  “You could return if you wanted to,” he said but she thought his eyes looked bleak as he stared out into the valley. “I cannot, but you could. I will arrange it if you want me to.”

  “What is left here for me? Your father is gone and you will be too. My parents are dead and there is no one else but you and your followers.”

  “Sarah will miss you.”

  She smiled. Sarah was one of her friends. They had grown up together. She was fond of her, but she would not return for her sake. If she did, it would heighten her grief. Grief there would certainly be, he had told her that before. What need to make it worse? She smiled and said,

  “Sarah is not one to grieve over long and she has her family to comfort her if she does. I will miss her more than she will miss me.”

  For a while silence fell between them, as each was absorbed in their own thoughts. Eventually her son spoke.

  “Mother, you remember I told you why I must go to Jerusalem?”

  “To fulfil your Father’s command.” How hard the words were for her to say. She tried to speak calmly, but he knew her too well not to read the emotion she held in check.

  “And also to fulfil the prophecies. This was ordained from the beginning.”

  “I know.” She smiled again, willing the tears back into her eyes. “But I am a woman and your mother. For many years I put thoughts of the future out of my mind. It was weak of me, but I wanted to give you happiness, while you were still a child. Time enough for sorrow and brave deeds now you are a grown man.”

  “You did give me happiness; no one could have done more.” He kissed the hand that lay in his.

  “That does not make anything easier, now the moment has come.”

  “You could remain here…”

  “We have discussed this. How could I stay, knowing that you might need me? The path before you is difficult and all men quail before horror and pain, even you, my son. Perhaps at the end, you would look for me and I would not be there.”

  “I will always want you with me, Mother, but I hate to give you pain.”

  “It would be more painful for me to stay behind. I want to be with you for as long as I can.”

  “Very well then, let us go home.”

  He took her hand and helped her to her feet. She turned and ran her hand over the wood of the old bench.

  “Goodbye, Joseph,” she said softly.

  “Goodbye, Father,” he echoed her words.

  Together they walked down the stony path, alight with the sunset glow, and into their future.

  Copyright © 2013 by Michèle McGrath

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the author.

  Some characters in this publication are real, the events are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  My books are fiction set in history.

  Front cover artwork:

  Written in English (UK)

  Published by Riverscourt Publishing

  Thank you for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or the site where you bought it from.

  I send out new and exclusive stories to my email list. If you wish to join, please sign up on my website http://www.michelemcgrath.co.uk

  About Michèle McGrath

  Award winning author, Michele McGrath, was born on the beautiful Isle of Man in the middle of the Irish Sea. She has lived in California, Liverpool, France and Lancashire before returning home. Living in Paris and Grenoble taught her to make a mean ratatouille and she learned the hula in Hawaii.

  Michele is a qualified swimming teacher and manager, writing self help books on these subjects. Although she writes in many genres, her real loves are historical romance and fantasy. She has won numerous writing competitions, had second places and been short-listed many times. She has had tens of thousands of sales and downloads.

  **Visit her blog at http://www.michelemcgrath.co.uk/blog

  **Follow Michele on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/michele.mcgrath.books. She loves to chat with readers.

  **Follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/benvoirrey

  What others are saying about Michele's books:

  "From the very first and magical sentence, I was hooked on this novel."

  Eddie on Kindle, reviewing Manannan's Magic.

  “Set in post-revolutionary France, Duval and the Infernal Machine captures the atmosphere of suspicion and intrigue that reigned in Paris at the time. The author does a splendid job of immersing the reader into the darker corners of the city." Simon on Kindle reviewing Duval and the Infernal Machine.

  “I have been terrified of the water ever since nearly drowning in Lake Michigan. My wife has tried to teach me to float - with no success - for 40 years. The techniques outlined in this book are easy to follow. Maybe finally, after all these years, I'll be able to swim and NOT be afraid of the water. Thanks Michele, wish you lived in the States so I could get private lessons." Steven on Kindle reviewing Learn to Swim, even if you are terrified."

  “An intriguing and haunting short story, which the author says is based upon a real wartime experience. The fitting and satisfying ending will stay with me for a long time. An excellent story."

  Gunnar on Kindle reviewing Five Lamps.

  “Beautiful! Just 12 short pages, but it left me in tears. The author has such a delicate, lovely way with words that the sentences and sentiments were whispered over the pages. I will save this on my kindle to read again."

  Tina on Kindle reviewing The Carpenter's Bench.

  Books by Michèle McGrath

  Easy Business Skills:

  Easy Business Skills Box set

  Easy Self Confidence

  Easy Time Management

  Easy Assertiveness

  Easy Communication Skills

  Easy Presentation Skills

  Swimming:

  Learn to Swim even if you are Terrified

  Teach your Child to Swim: The Easy Way.

  Novels:

  The Manannan Series (Historical Fa
ntasy)

  Manannan’s Magic: Manannan McLir flees from a blood feud in Ireland and finds a tragic love with a young Celtic girl, Renny. Betrayal, a Viking invasion and a narrow escape all feature in this novel.

  Niamh of the Golden Hair: Niamh is captured by Viking raiders and unexpectedly falls in love with her captor. When he is badly injured, she must find her father, Manannan, who may be able to cure his wound.

  Emer’s Quest: Emer, Manannan’s granddaughter, dreams that her father will be shipwrecked. She rides after him to prevent him leaving but she is too late. She persuades friends to follow him. On her journey she meets Atli, a trader who offers to rescue her father if she will marry one of his sons. Unfortunately his son Hari does not want her.

  Manannan Trilogy:Box Set

  Ghost Diaries Series (Paranormal Romance)

  Gigi’s Guardian: A romp through an unusual sort of Heaven and Swinging Sixties London. Ariane helps Gigi choose the right man to marry, after many trials and tribulations. A comedy romance with serious overtones.

  Duval Series (Napoleon’s Police)

  Duval and the Infernal Machine 1800: Rookie police agent, Alain Duval investigates the attempted assassination on Napoleon Bonaparte. The book features romance, terror and an unexpected ending.

  Duval and the Empress’s Crown 1804: Police Agent Alain Duval is tasked with finding the crown but time is very short and his suspects many. Present when the crown disappeared are Napoleon's sisters, Princess Elisa, Princess Pauline and Princess Caroline. Are they involved or merely witnesses? Aided by his wife Eugenie and his friends Lefebvre and Fournier, Duval sets out to unravel the mystery.