The Carpenter's Children Read Online Free PDF Page B

builder’s firm such as Harry Hutchinson’s, who employed a bricklayer, carpenter, plasterer and painter, and towed his sacks of sand and cement on a trailer attached to his Ford Model T, the wonder of North Camp. Tom Munday had advised his son to choose the latter course, because he was clearly never going to be up to his father’s standard of craftsmanship, and the boy felt this; he suspected that Dad did not even like to see his precious tools being used, or rather misused in Ernest’s uncertain hands. Tom Munday’s toolbag was his trademark, and he carried it with pride; it was cut from leather instead of the usual strong calico, and when opened it was in the form of a circle with pockets for the various kinds and sizes of tools, the hammers and chisels, bradawls and screwdrivers. It folded in half and was tied with sturdy tapes, with leather carrying handles. Larger tools like planes were kept in a separate bag, as were the saws, their teeth protected by narrow wooden shields into which the blades slotted; everything was cleaned and polished to shining perfection. The toolshed was Tom’s own creation, built from elm, its roof sealed with pitch and its window kept as sparkling as those of the house. Shelves lined the walls, holding tins of paint, creosote and varnish; brushes were graded according to size, and cleaned with white spirit. There were small wooden boxes with a variety of nails and screws, and a locked cupboard where he kept his paperwork, the invoices and receipts; here too were his carpenter’s pencils, rulers, tape measures, set squares and compasses. Nobody was allowed in the tool shed, which was kept locked; Mrs Munday called it the holy of holies, and Ernest never felt comfortable in it. He dreamt of books and of writing poetry – which he did, secretly in his room, and sometimes in his head while working, to the detriment of his concentration.
    ‘Ernest! What the devil are you dreaming about now?’ his father would ask with increasing exasperation as the months went by and Ernest seemed as slow to learn as when he’d begun. Worst of all, he showed no pleasure in woodwork, no keenness to improve.
    Violet Munday sensed the lack of camaraderie that ought to exist between father and son, and renewed her suggestion that Ernest should be sent to the commercial college at Guildford to learn basic office skills that would stand him in good stead as a junior clerk with a legal firm or bank. At first Tom had disagreed with her, but now that Ernest was almost eighteen and was clearly never going to be apractical man, he began to wonder if she was right. What he dreaded most was to hear his son spoken of disparagingly, as not being up to his dad’s standard, not a chip off the old block; Tom thought he would feel the shame of it perhaps more than his son. But commercial college would have to be paid for, and the boy would need to get lodgings in Guildford, a good fifteen miles away, and there was as yet no regular railway service from North Camp. Ernest would have to cycle to Everham Station to board the Guildford train, and Tom pointed this out to Violet who disliked the idea of her boy living in lodgings.
    She frowned. ‘He’s very young, Tom.’
    ‘Good heavens, there are boys of eleven or twelve working in mills up north where every penny counts for families living in poverty, they’ve got no choice. What that boy needs is to start fending for himself and learning a bit of independence.’
    And to get away from your mollycoddling, he added to himself. Much as he loved his only son, he occasionally felt like giving him a boot up the backside, and it would be good for him to get out from under the too comfortable parental roof.
    And so it was decided. Mrs Munday made an appointment for Ernest to attend an interview with the superintendent of the college, and she accompanied him. They learnt that Ernest would be enrolled as a student for a one-year course in business studies, commencing in