Thursday, September 08, 2011
“THE FATHER’S HANDS”
by Declan J Connaughton
Originally published Ireland’s Own Sep 9th, 2011
Sean stood alone in the hallway of his newly constructed home, his nose drawing in that particular smell which came from days accompanying his late father to building sites such as this; that peculiar aroma of plaster still in the process of drying out, before it was succeeded by paint and newly laid carpets. It was a clean smell, a finished one.
He walked several adult steps, noting the sheen of the plaster work, before running his hand gently across its surface. There was artistry to it, in the work which had gone into the making of these walls. He could never do it, despite his best efforts and felt regret. The wiring protruded neatly from different places in anticipation of the electrics going in. As he entered what would be his spacious living room, the echoing footfalls upon bare, untreated floors conspired with that sense of smell to infiltrate his memory of childhood so that he was in a similar place, many years past, and had run ahead of his father and was waiting for him to come trudging in behind.
As Sean stood on his own, his minded wondered who the people were who would eventually take up residence here; whether they had children. He looked out through the curtain less window, stained with dust and splotches of dried milky white water on them, into the large back garden. In his minds eye, he could see them running and playing. Maybe they’d even have swings. With a back garden as big as this, he felt sure they would. Probably a slide as well.
There was a bang, as his father stood behind him, having dropped a bucket full of tools.
“This will be a very comfortable room, once it’s finished”, he said, taking in every minute detail of symmetry. Sean smiled and his father walked to the window, both of them looking out now.
“Need a fair sized lawn mower to cut that. I’ll just get the horse and we’ll get started”.
What the boy especially liked was the large ornate fireplace, which had been built with marble, according to his father. White, with small specks of black stained through it. Sean thought they could be like flowers about to bloom, but just as easily have been darkest tears.
“Yeah, top class stuff, all right”, his father said returned with the stand under his arm, which Sean thought was more like a dog or a pig. A horse was a strange thing to call it; it wasn’t big enough. His father loved horses, even owning one once. He wondered where it was now, maybe grazing contentedly away in some field somewhere, without a care in the world. Animals had a great life!
Dad’s horse, the one he carried with him, was just bits of old timber, cobbled together effortlessly, but he half expected it to come to life and start running around the room, with his father chasing after it. The fact that it had been made without any nails made it all the more possible for it to take on real form. Watching his father make things like that, sometimes even taking discarded bits of this and that out of a skip, and setting them to use again, even when people thought it was rubbish, made him seem even more like a magician.
“It’s in the hands”, his father would say, proudly.
Sean wished he could be like that, but wood and nails never came out the right way whenhe tried. He wondered did it make his father disappointed.
Setting the horse down gently, his father lit a cigarette, and then sat down on it for a moment. Blue smoke engulfed the air, creating a dramatic effect on the early morning streams of sunlight which spread their threads across the floor, but also mixing with the other mixture of smells which would stay in the boy’s memory forever.
There was an unspoken camaraderie; the genuine pleasure his father exuded by the mere fact that his son was with him on this particular day. Sean was glad as well, now that they were here, although he would have been just as happy having another turn in the bed at home.
Their day had started at seven o’clock.
Sean had half hoped his father would just slip out without bothering him, just as the hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from his comfortable oblivion. Daylight had begun her early morning ritual and shone weakly through the curtains, as if apologizing in her duty to banish the darkness away and shake working men from their rest. His parents were moving around downstairs now, and Sean could hear them talking and the distinct sound of plates moving about.
The boy clambered out of bed slowly before shuffling his half sleepy way down to the bathroom, where he washed his face and hands, and dressed. Pausing at the top of the staircase, he listened for sound, but knew his sister was soundly and blissfully still in the Land of Nod, having whatever adventures girls had in that fairytale kingdom. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way towards the kitchen, his eye was drawn to the living room on the right, and the television which rested in the gloom, perched high on its shelf which his father had made several years before. He wondered what images were hiding themselves behind its black screen and what would happen if he pressed the on button.
His mother was in her dressing gown and the delicious scent of sausages and rashers greeted his entrance. The radio was talking in the background and a newscaster was informing them all with a grave and serious tone. Sean sat next to his father and began to eat, savouring every bite, relishing the crisp rasher and the way it seemed to make his stomach jump for joy. His father could eat an entire meal in two mouthfuls; and Sean wondered did he even have a chance to taste it. He always seemed in a hurry to begin the day, and, as if knowing what his son was thinking, quickly gulped down his tea. Hi son sipped at his own cup, and slipped an extra spoon of sugar into it when his mother wasn’t watching. This act always made his father smile. The bemusement was on his face now, as he pulled back from the table and headed out into the garage to get the gear needed for job they were going to today. The few moments allowed him time with his mother.
“Looking forward to your day”? she asked, as usual, and good naturedly.
“I suppose”, he replied, with a hint of self pity.
The clock on the wall not declared seven thirty as his father re-emerged into the kitchen.
“Time to go. See you later, Love. Won’t be too late”.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and then both father and son were filing out the front door. Sean smiled weakly back at her and she returned his gesture in sympathy, but was just as glad to be sending bother her men out to work, so she could be alone with her own thoughts and day for a while.
The gear had been taken through the garage and now reclined neatly in the back seat of the car, which now erupted into coughing and wheezing life, before settling down as they pulled off on their journey, winding their way through countryside with an abruptness which always surprised Sean. A thick blanket of ghostly dew rose up from the fields as they passed and it seemed to the boy as if no one was alive yet, just Sean and his father.
Now the water was running from a hose, and his father began mixing the bag of plaster, like a chef creating a cake. He plunged the scutter through the pink coloured molasses, testing its thickness, moving the steel took back and forth and rotating it with his strong wrist, until the right formula had been reach to his satisfaction. Sean felt like dipping his finger in and tasting it, but had made that mistake before, like a puppy with its first encounter with a hedgehog.
“Here, you keep mixing it, and I’ll grab the bucket”.
The steel scutter had a top on it like an outside tap, and ran three feet in length, ending with a circular base which was worked through the plaster paste; refining and smoothing over and over again. Sean was well versed in its use and began the usual routine, his mind wandering again, where he could see himself in a lush forest, on his own, where the songs of birds wound down from the highest tree tops. Completely unburdened.
“You dreaming again”?
His father took the implement from his son and tested the mix, nodding.
“Good enough”, he said, as he dipped the bucket into it, like drawing water from a well.
Once back inside, all Sean had to do was watch, which was fine with him. It had often been commented that his father was a perfectionist, and that word was always said with a hint of fear by other builders who knew him. It was an ominous word but the boy couldn’t have said why, as this stage in his life. Maybe it was because he was one too. His father emptied the contents of the bucket out on the hawk, which he held in one hand, grabbing the trowel in the other, then began turning the great wet and flowing mass this way and that and hopping up on the horse.
Bits of plaster fell here and there, but not much. Sean was transfixed, watching his father’s trowel glide like a great painter, laying a smooth canvass of rich and delicate plaster, creating something immaculate. Lovingly but with authority, jumping down and moving this way and that with his foot, amazingly fast, but with the grace and agility which came from a gift bestowed by God.
When his father was finished he sat down and lit another cigarette, his eyes intense and dancing. He squashed the half finished cigarette under his boot.
“Ah, it’ll dry out okay”, was his comment.
Sean was back in the present, trying to survey his surroundings with his father’s eyes, seeking for that perfection which had died three years in a hospital bed, while all he could do was look on and watch the brilliance and energy which had been the man he loved drift away. Those eyes had been tired then, from sickness and years of minute inspections, often burnt with stinging lime as the very act of creating would have its price and demand payment. The irony wasn’t lost in Sean’s own life, and he always remembered, as he looked down upon the old man laid out in his pinstripe suit and carefully brushed hair, his father’s hands folded over one another , his work done.
End
by Declan J Connaughton
Originally published Ireland’s Own Sep 9th, 2011
Sean stood alone in the hallway of his newly constructed home, his nose drawing in that particular smell which came from days accompanying his late father to building sites such as this; that peculiar aroma of plaster still in the process of drying out, before it was succeeded by paint and newly laid carpets. It was a clean smell, a finished one.
He walked several adult steps, noting the sheen of the plaster work, before running his hand gently across its surface. There was artistry to it, in the work which had gone into the making of these walls. He could never do it, despite his best efforts and felt regret. The wiring protruded neatly from different places in anticipation of the electrics going in. As he entered what would be his spacious living room, the echoing footfalls upon bare, untreated floors conspired with that sense of smell to infiltrate his memory of childhood so that he was in a similar place, many years past, and had run ahead of his father and was waiting for him to come trudging in behind.
As Sean stood on his own, his minded wondered who the people were who would eventually take up residence here; whether they had children. He looked out through the curtain less window, stained with dust and splotches of dried milky white water on them, into the large back garden. In his minds eye, he could see them running and playing. Maybe they’d even have swings. With a back garden as big as this, he felt sure they would. Probably a slide as well.
There was a bang, as his father stood behind him, having dropped a bucket full of tools.
“This will be a very comfortable room, once it’s finished”, he said, taking in every minute detail of symmetry. Sean smiled and his father walked to the window, both of them looking out now.
“Need a fair sized lawn mower to cut that. I’ll just get the horse and we’ll get started”.
What the boy especially liked was the large ornate fireplace, which had been built with marble, according to his father. White, with small specks of black stained through it. Sean thought they could be like flowers about to bloom, but just as easily have been darkest tears.
“Yeah, top class stuff, all right”, his father said returned with the stand under his arm, which Sean thought was more like a dog or a pig. A horse was a strange thing to call it; it wasn’t big enough. His father loved horses, even owning one once. He wondered where it was now, maybe grazing contentedly away in some field somewhere, without a care in the world. Animals had a great life!
Dad’s horse, the one he carried with him, was just bits of old timber, cobbled together effortlessly, but he half expected it to come to life and start running around the room, with his father chasing after it. The fact that it had been made without any nails made it all the more possible for it to take on real form. Watching his father make things like that, sometimes even taking discarded bits of this and that out of a skip, and setting them to use again, even when people thought it was rubbish, made him seem even more like a magician.
“It’s in the hands”, his father would say, proudly.
Sean wished he could be like that, but wood and nails never came out the right way whenhe tried. He wondered did it make his father disappointed.
Setting the horse down gently, his father lit a cigarette, and then sat down on it for a moment. Blue smoke engulfed the air, creating a dramatic effect on the early morning streams of sunlight which spread their threads across the floor, but also mixing with the other mixture of smells which would stay in the boy’s memory forever.
There was an unspoken camaraderie; the genuine pleasure his father exuded by the mere fact that his son was with him on this particular day. Sean was glad as well, now that they were here, although he would have been just as happy having another turn in the bed at home.
Their day had started at seven o’clock.
Sean had half hoped his father would just slip out without bothering him, just as the hand shook his shoulder, rousing him from his comfortable oblivion. Daylight had begun her early morning ritual and shone weakly through the curtains, as if apologizing in her duty to banish the darkness away and shake working men from their rest. His parents were moving around downstairs now, and Sean could hear them talking and the distinct sound of plates moving about.
The boy clambered out of bed slowly before shuffling his half sleepy way down to the bathroom, where he washed his face and hands, and dressed. Pausing at the top of the staircase, he listened for sound, but knew his sister was soundly and blissfully still in the Land of Nod, having whatever adventures girls had in that fairytale kingdom. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way towards the kitchen, his eye was drawn to the living room on the right, and the television which rested in the gloom, perched high on its shelf which his father had made several years before. He wondered what images were hiding themselves behind its black screen and what would happen if he pressed the on button.
His mother was in her dressing gown and the delicious scent of sausages and rashers greeted his entrance. The radio was talking in the background and a newscaster was informing them all with a grave and serious tone. Sean sat next to his father and began to eat, savouring every bite, relishing the crisp rasher and the way it seemed to make his stomach jump for joy. His father could eat an entire meal in two mouthfuls; and Sean wondered did he even have a chance to taste it. He always seemed in a hurry to begin the day, and, as if knowing what his son was thinking, quickly gulped down his tea. Hi son sipped at his own cup, and slipped an extra spoon of sugar into it when his mother wasn’t watching. This act always made his father smile. The bemusement was on his face now, as he pulled back from the table and headed out into the garage to get the gear needed for job they were going to today. The few moments allowed him time with his mother.
“Looking forward to your day”? she asked, as usual, and good naturedly.
“I suppose”, he replied, with a hint of self pity.
The clock on the wall not declared seven thirty as his father re-emerged into the kitchen.
“Time to go. See you later, Love. Won’t be too late”.
He gave her a peck on the cheek and then both father and son were filing out the front door. Sean smiled weakly back at her and she returned his gesture in sympathy, but was just as glad to be sending bother her men out to work, so she could be alone with her own thoughts and day for a while.
The gear had been taken through the garage and now reclined neatly in the back seat of the car, which now erupted into coughing and wheezing life, before settling down as they pulled off on their journey, winding their way through countryside with an abruptness which always surprised Sean. A thick blanket of ghostly dew rose up from the fields as they passed and it seemed to the boy as if no one was alive yet, just Sean and his father.
Now the water was running from a hose, and his father began mixing the bag of plaster, like a chef creating a cake. He plunged the scutter through the pink coloured molasses, testing its thickness, moving the steel took back and forth and rotating it with his strong wrist, until the right formula had been reach to his satisfaction. Sean felt like dipping his finger in and tasting it, but had made that mistake before, like a puppy with its first encounter with a hedgehog.
“Here, you keep mixing it, and I’ll grab the bucket”.
The steel scutter had a top on it like an outside tap, and ran three feet in length, ending with a circular base which was worked through the plaster paste; refining and smoothing over and over again. Sean was well versed in its use and began the usual routine, his mind wandering again, where he could see himself in a lush forest, on his own, where the songs of birds wound down from the highest tree tops. Completely unburdened.
“You dreaming again”?
His father took the implement from his son and tested the mix, nodding.
“Good enough”, he said, as he dipped the bucket into it, like drawing water from a well.
Once back inside, all Sean had to do was watch, which was fine with him. It had often been commented that his father was a perfectionist, and that word was always said with a hint of fear by other builders who knew him. It was an ominous word but the boy couldn’t have said why, as this stage in his life. Maybe it was because he was one too. His father emptied the contents of the bucket out on the hawk, which he held in one hand, grabbing the trowel in the other, then began turning the great wet and flowing mass this way and that and hopping up on the horse.
Bits of plaster fell here and there, but not much. Sean was transfixed, watching his father’s trowel glide like a great painter, laying a smooth canvass of rich and delicate plaster, creating something immaculate. Lovingly but with authority, jumping down and moving this way and that with his foot, amazingly fast, but with the grace and agility which came from a gift bestowed by God.
When his father was finished he sat down and lit another cigarette, his eyes intense and dancing. He squashed the half finished cigarette under his boot.
“Ah, it’ll dry out okay”, was his comment.
Sean was back in the present, trying to survey his surroundings with his father’s eyes, seeking for that perfection which had died three years in a hospital bed, while all he could do was look on and watch the brilliance and energy which had been the man he loved drift away. Those eyes had been tired then, from sickness and years of minute inspections, often burnt with stinging lime as the very act of creating would have its price and demand payment. The irony wasn’t lost in Sean’s own life, and he always remembered, as he looked down upon the old man laid out in his pinstripe suit and carefully brushed hair, his father’s hands folded over one another , his work done.
End
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