Blood on the Wood by Gillian Linscott Read Free Book Online Page A

man took his hand and said it was good to see him again, in a deep voice with a West Country accent. A woman was kneeling by the big window with another woman standing beside her holding a baby. When we came in they’d both been staring at a big wooden cabinet and the kneeling woman had her back to us. She turned when she heard Daniel’s voice and got up in one easy movement, smiling.
    â€˜Daniel, we expected you yesterday.’
    She was in her early thirties, stylish in an unconventional way: dark crinkly hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb, a few tendrils hanging down to frame an intelligent oval face with dark eyes that had a slight upward slant to them like a cat’s, a straight nose and lips as finely shaped as on a classical statue, but with a satirical twist. Her dress was damson-coloured, softly draped from a high bodice with a few spirals of wood shavings clinging to it. She reminded me of the woman in the William Morris tapestry, only less yearning and more active. Her voice was deep-toned and attractive. When Daniel introduced us the hand she held out to me was slim but had a firm grip. I was surprised that she seemed to take my presence for granted until Daniel said, ‘I’m afraid she’s not a customer, Carol. There’s a little problem. Tell you in a minute.’ A moment’s disappointment showed in Carol’s dark eyes, but she recovered well.
    â€˜When wasn’t there a little problem? Have you been up to see Felicia yet?’
    Daniel shook his head and turned to say hello to the baby, giving it his finger to grip. The woman holding it – mother, presumably – smiled but seemed a little nervous of our invasion, although she’d looked quite at ease with Carol Venn. She had a round face, a mass of red-brown hair, and wary grey eyes.
    â€˜You should have, Daniel. She’s waiting for you.’
    â€˜She won’t mind.’
    Daniel pulled his finger gently away from the baby, took Carol by the arm and guided her towards the shadowy back of the room. ‘You’ll excuse us for a minute, Miss Bray. Get Mr Sutton to show you the pole lathe. He’s an artist.’
    The big man went back to the treadle. Behind him the long pole that powered the lathe rose and dipped to the rhythm of his foot and the machine hummed. He was making a chair leg, pale shavings curling away from his chisel blade like apple peelings. The woman with the baby watched him, smiling. The air was full with the sweet smell of wood. Above the noise of the lathe I could hear the murmur of Daniel and Carol’s conversation, but not what they said. Once she gave a sharp little laugh. Mr Sutton finished his chair leg, took it out of the lathe and fitted in another cylinder of wood. Daniel and Carol came back.
    â€˜Carol’s going to ask Adam about it,’ Daniel said. ‘You’re staying at the camp until tomorrow, aren’t you? I’ll let you know what he says.’
    I think that was probably my signal to go. He’d mentioned that he had something else to discuss with Carol and I supposed it was family business. But she had other ideas, perhaps reluctant to give up the idea of me as a customer. If she’d seen my home or my bank balance she’d have known better.
    â€˜Do look round while you’re here, Miss Bray. We encourage people to come in and see things being made.’
    She led me round the big room, talking lovingly about different kinds of wood, glowing red cherry wood, dark burr yew with its grain patterned like clouds in a stormy sky, coro-mandel, rosewood, ebony. I asked her if she designed the furniture herself.
    â€˜I’m not trained as a designer. I have ideas and do sketches and Mr Sutton makes them work. He’s a kind of genius. Would you believe that before we rescued him he was working in a factory at Swindon fitting out railway carriages? Isn’t that terrible? Like making a thoroughbred pull a milk cart!’