Helen Vardons Confession | Page 6

you what we'll do, Jimmy. I'll just
telephone down to the office and see if there is any silly nonsense there
that may distract me from serious pursuits, and, if there isn't, we'll have
tea in the workroom and then we'll polish off that coal-scuttle."
"Finish it! But there's quite a lot to do."
"Then we'll do the lot."

"But why this hurry? There's no particular reason for getting it finished
to-night, is there?
"I don't know that there is; but we've had the thing hanging about long
enough. Better get it finished and start on something else. Now you trot
off and see about tea while I ring up Jackson."
As he turned to the telephone, I hurried away to give instructions to the
maid and to set the workshop in order so that we might start without
delay on our evening's task, concerning which a few words of
explanation would seem to be called for.
My father was by nature designed to be a craftsman. He was never so
happy as when he was making something or in some way working with
his hands; and remarkably skilful hands they were, with an inborn
capacity for the dexterous manipulation of every kind of material, tool
or appliance. And to his natural skill he had added a vast amount of
knowledge of methods and processes. He was an excellent woodworker,
an admirable mechanic, and a quite passable potter. Our house
abounded in the products of his industry; stools, cupboards, clocks,
fenders, earthen ware jars; even our bicycles had been built, or, at least,
"assembled" by him, and a bronze knocker on our door had been
finished by him from castings made in our workshop. If his powers of
design had been equal to his manual skill, he would have been a
first-class art craftsman. Unfortunately they were not. Left to himself,
his tendency was to aim at a neat trade finish, at smooth surfaces and
mechanical precision. But he knew his limitations, and had been at
great pains to have me instructed in the arts of design; and, as I
apparently had some natural aptitude in that direction, I was able to
help him by making sketches and working drawings and by criticising
the work as it progressed. But my duties did not stop at that. In our
happy, united life, I was his apprentice, his journeyman, his
assistant--or foreman, as he pleased to call me--and his constant
companion, in the house, in the workshop, and in our walks abroad.
As our maid, Jessie, laid the tea-tray on a vacant corner of the
work-bench, I examined our latest joint-production, a bronze
coal-scuttle, the design of which was based on a Roman helmet that I

had seen in the British Museum. There was a good deal more than an
ordinary evening's work to be done before it could be finished. A
portion of the embossed ornament on the foot required touching up, the
foot itself had to be brazed to the body and the handle had to be rivetted
to the lugs, to say nothing of the" pickling," scouring, and oxidizing. It
was a colossal evening's work.
But it was not the magnitude of the task that troubled me, for I shared
my father's love of manual work. What had instantly impressed me
with a vague discomfort was the urgency of my father's desire to get
this piece of work finished and done with. That was not like him at all.
Not only had he the genuine craftsman's inexhaustible patience, but he
had a habit of keeping an apparently finished work on hand, that he
might tinker at it lovingly, smooth and polish it, and bring it to a state
of even greater complete ness and finish.
Why, then, this strange urgency and impatience? And, as I asked
myself the question, all my fears came crowding back on me. Again
there came that dreadful sinking at the heart, that strangling terror of
the storm-cloud that hung over us, unseen but ready to burst and
overwhelm us in ruin at any moment.
But I had little time for these gloomy and disquieting thoughts. The
tinkling of the telephone bell in the study told me that my father had
finished his talk with his managing clerk, and a few moments later he
strode into the workshop and began taking off his coat.
"Where's your apron, Jimmy?" he asked (the pet name "Jimmy" had
been evolved out of an ancient fiction that my name was Jemima).
There's no hurry, Pater, dear," said I. "Let a person have her tea in
peace. And do sit down like a Christian man."
He obediently perched himself on a stool as I handed him his tea, but in
less than a minute he was on his feet again, prowling, cup