U3A Writing: Favvy
In this recollection Norma Malcolm recalls delightful mornings when, as a child, she helped her grandfather - Favvy - in his workshop.
Saturday was a special day. It was the day that I went to help Favvy. (As a very young child ‘grandfather’ had been too difficult to pronounce.) it was the day that I entered wonderland.
A well-worn path led from the house to the workshop, a cave of delights for a small girl. The entrance to this wonderland was marked by a large grindstone standing forever on sentry duty at the door, a bucket of water at its side, essential for the sharpening of the tools which lived inside.
Even before opening that door the mixture of glorious smells came in greeting. Once over the threshold the air was thick with the many odours. In the far corner a potbellied stove gave off the heady aroma of wood smoke. On its top the ever ready pot of glue simmered, adding its evocative scent to that of the fire, the shavings and sawdust, the collection of woods. Already as a child this mixture was imprinted, rich and familiar. It is with me still.
To that same child the shavings which littered the floor were knee-deep. It was here that the fun began. My grandfather, who seemed positively ancient to me, had difficulty in bending down, so it was my job every Saturday morning to earn my penny pocket money by searching for and retrieving lost tools -- my own private treasure hunt. The joy of finding chisel, files, awls and giving them to the warm, outstretched hands that used them all so carefully and splendidly.
The next job was to select the correct slot for returning them to their rightful place. All around the walls leather brackets awaited them. You had to be very careful with the chisels. They were razor sharp, necessary weapons of his trade. Careful too of the rows of shining teeth flashed by his collection of gradated saws. Would they snap like crocodiles?
Opposite the doorway stood a battered old bookcase which held the precious volumes containing the ideas for his craft -- names like Sheraton and Chippendale headed the pages. No screw or nails used here in the manufacture of furniture. Wood was treated with great respect, lovingly handled. In another corner a beautiful cabinet waiting its final coat of French polish, another smell that brings instant recollection of the whole scene.
Different sized vices, clamped to the work benches, holding here a chair leg for turning, there a drawer section being glued together. Even when empty, the workshop seemed full of the spirit of the man who, like the all-pervading odour of his tobacco, gave a feeling of warmth, comfort and love. No wonder that Saturday was the best day of the week.
Some years later I was the proud recipient of a mahogany desk, beautifully inlaid, brilliantly polished, Favvy’s gift to me on the occasion of my winning a scholarship to the grammar school. There were two cut glass inkwells set in the top and a section for pens and pencils. Lifting up the lid there were several pigeonholes and a small drawer for secret papers. I was in heaven. My very own Favvy piece.
