Held Fast

Held Fast

The path was too short. Too narrow. The whole garden felt as if I could reach any corner from wherever I stood.

I moved towards the rickety wood archway, where a gate made of spare bits of wood hung underneath. The whole thing was held together with rusty screws and green garden wire, and yet it had been that way for over thirty years.

Through the gate I stared at the wall of the neighbour's garage. At the base was a small vegetable patch he had dug over, sat bamboo uprights and threaded wire through. For many years runner beans were plentiful. The bamboo still stood and the wire, although slack, was still held fast.

I turned around and faced the garage. Wooden tongue and groove door, which had no right to still look this good. It was painted a rich brown. The horseshoe was still there, its silver colour long faded.

I reached for the long key in my pocket. As I approached I instinctively put the key in upside down. To this day I still don't know why my dad had put a lock in upside down.

I turned the key.

Dad had passed away five years ago, and he was ill for two years before that. I really had no idea when he had last opened this lock. Nobody else had bothered to come in here.

I held my breath, expecting something to jump out.

It opened easily. Nothing jumped out. Just silence.

I peered inside. The wardrobe he had salvaged from a bedroom years ago and filled with tools still stood. It was like seeing an old friend who'd never aged. The workbench was adjacent to that — four panes of glass where light entered, picking out dust from the door opening.

But it was the empty space where his car used to be that I stared far too long at.

The moment sprang to my mind. His petrol cap hanging down by a piece of plastic. I had inserted a clear plastic tube down inside the tank. I held a petrol can in my hand — I remembered the can well, I'd used it to refill my broken-down car numerous times. I bent down and sucked on the hose, on edge that I could be caught, or misjudge and drink the petrol. I felt the fluid through my hand first, then saw the clear tube go dark. I moved it from my mouth just as my lips felt the burn and my nose the powerful odour. I quickly placed the tube in the can and let gravity do the rest.

Light suddenly burst inwards. I looked up to see the shadow of my father standing there.

My body froze. He'd followed me in.

He made me pack my bags. I was gone for three weeks. Then I was back.

But I hadn't really changed.

I looked towards the bench. A half-made miniature wooden boat waited in the vice, its cocktail-stick masts stood proud, waiting for rigging. A black coil of cotton stood half pulled out, ready to fit through tiny drilled holes. An opened Airfix paint pot — white — stood by the cotton reel, a small brush rested on the tin's lid, resting upside down on the surface. I wanted to pick it up. To stop it waiting.

But I couldn't.

Standing in this very spot, he had placed the chisel down, then pulled at the cotton reel. Then someone had interrupted him. Maybe for dinner. A phone call. He never knew he would never return.

I turned my gaze to the woodgrained wardrobe. The two doors were closed. I pulled at them both, surprised at how effortlessly they opened. As if it had finally let out its breath. Inside were jars of screws and nails, old Holborn and Golden Virginia tobacco tins that held various small fixings. I ran my hand over two old wooden hand planes. "Figure of eight to sharpen the blade, son," he'd said.

I pulled it out, brushed a finger over the blade, and set it back down. "Always lay it on its side, never blade down." I turned it on its side. On another shelf were two empty clear glass spirit bottles — I paused briefly, resting a hand on the frame of the shelf. Two old Jack Daniel's whisky bottles. He had searched months for these particular types. The necks were just the right length to put a miniature boat into, pull the rigging up, cut it, then add another smaller boat halfway along the neck. I looked at the ship in the vice. And back to the bottle.

I turned to face the back half of the garage. Wooden ladders held to the joists with twine. Halfway down the ladder a small metal box, with a dial on the front — two leads dangled down where crocodile clips clasped onto a small piece of wood. His car charger — once a month he would raise the bonnet, undo all the caps on the battery, connect the clips and turn the plug switch on till morning. It was still plugged in — just beside a crate.

I removed a wooden lid from the crate and pulled at the white cloth. Bits of shredded paper fell to the ground as a pair of trousers appeared. They had a very narrow waist with a lace for a fly.

I looked back at the crate, more shredded paper and bits of straw and white threads. I brushed this off, revealing another white item. I pulled this out, straightened it out. It was a kind of tunic, it was small, like a young lad's.

In the neck of the tunic was a white tag — with black penned writing — my father's name and the warship he served on.

My shoulders hunched forward, my eyes fell to the cold concrete floor and a long dried-up oil stain. I looked up to a vision of him standing in front of me. I was 13 or so and had to make my school subject options — "Son, join the navy, it will make a man out of you — go see the world. Like I did." A sentence I wished I had followed, but I hated being told what to do.

I folded the tunic and rolled the trousers, noticing small bite marks and fraying material around the bell-bottom end. I ran my hand through the fabric, noticing how heavy and stiff the material was. I pushed the material back into the crate and placed the lid back on. I turned towards the door and walked out.