Arthur Upfield: The New Shoe

“That’s right,” agreed Penwarden, proceeding to adjust the plane. “I’ve a flash house down the road a bit. Old woman had to have her built the years war came, and she’ll be rotted out afore this shop starts to wobble in a sou’-easterly gale. Houses! They build ’emwith raw wood full of borers and plaster and putty and a dab or two of paint. There’s mighty few jobs left these days for a real live tradesman. Me, I won’t work with such trash…exceptin ’ on a certain kind of job which no one looks at for long.”

“That’s a beautiful board you’re working on now,” Bony observed. “Looks to me like red-gum.”

The blue eyes shone.

“Ha, ha! So you know a thing or two, eh? Thought you might when I set eyes on you. Red-gum she is. I get these boards sent down special from Albury. They come from ring-barked trees on the Murray River flats, and ring-barked wood or wood killed by water will last for ever. None of your three-ply veneered to look like silky oak is good enough for my special customers. One time I could give ’emteak. Now it has to be red-gum, and Iain’t sure Ilikes teak the best, neither.”

“And what are you going to do with it?”

“Build her into a coffin. Like to see one almost done?”

“I think I would,” answered Bony, a trifle slowly. The coffin-maker put down his plane with care not to jar the blade, and said:

“Lots of us take comfort inthinkin ’ we’ll be lying snug when we’re dead. There’s graveyards and graveyards. Some is nice and dry, and some is as wet and cold as a bog. Then again, cremation is against The Book, which says that on the Last Day the bones of the dead shall be drawn together. Can’t be if they’re all burned up.”

He turned from the bench and Bony stood to follow him. Waving a hand contemptuously to the stack of “boxes’, he went on:

“Don’t look at them over there. Three-ply and gum and tin-tacks to hold ’emtogether. They’ll give you a squint if youlooks at that trash what I send to Melbourne for ten pounds apiece and are sold to the dead for fifty. Come this way, and I’ll show you what a coffin should be.”

Bony accompanied the carpenter to a small room and stood beside trestles set up in the centre and supporting something covered with an old and moth-eaten black velvet cloth.

“You don’t see a coffin like this every day,” Penwarden said as he faced his visitor above the pall. “Timesis changed. People don’t think about next week, tomorrow. They don’t worry about being a nuisance to their relations or the State when they perish. No pride these days… get through work as quickly as possible for as much as possible… and refuse to do anythinkin ’ becausethinkin ’ hurts.”

He whisked away the cloth.

The casket was like a slab of ruby-red marble, producing the illusion of colour-depth as does red wine. Save for the two plated handles either side, there was no ornamentation. The surfaces were as smooth as glass and the colour matchless.

The old man lifted the cover, watching always Bony’s face to detect his reactions. Bony bent over the lid, and stooped to examine the ends and the sides… and failed utterly to see the joins. The casket might have been fashioned in one piece from the heart of a tree.

Their gaze clashed, and the old man closed the lid when the air faintly hissed at the final compression. Again he raised and closed the lid, and again there was the sound of air being caught in a trap. The lid was raised yet again and poised on the side to which it was hinged, and Bony bent to see into the interior and to note the curved floor to take the back and the curved rest for the neck. Finally, he stood away and gazed at the coffin maker without speaking.

“Inside is only the natural gloss,” Penwarden said. “I do a lot to the outside to bring up that colour in the wood. Nothing wrong with her to sleep in for a long time, is there?”

“Nothing,” softly agreed Bony.

Penwarden caressed the lid before closing it, and his hands fluttered like butterflies as he wiped away the finger marks and drew the cover over the casket.

“Got two like it at home,” he said, cheerfully.“One for me, andt’other for the old woman. They rest under the bed. Our shrouds are in ’em, too. Now and then the old woman opens ’emup and airs the shrouds and pops a bit of lavender in. My father and mother had their coffinswaitin ’ for ’em, and my grandfather broughthis’n with him on the ship from England. Ah yes, times is changed, but usPenwardens don’t change, and there’s others what don’t change, neither.”

“They must be rare, these people,” Bony commented, when following the craftsman back to his bench.

“You say true, Mr Rawlings, sir, you say true. Andgettin ’ rarer.”

“How long does it occupy to make a coffin like that in the other room?”

“Well, it would be guessing. I don’t work on one continuous. Tallying the time, I suppose it’d take me thirty ten-hour days… I must have begun that one threemonths back. You see, there’s them other jobs to slap up with glue and tacks. I’m always behind orders with them.”

“And the cost?”

“Depends,” replied the old man, and the note in his voice barred further questioning on this angle.

Pensively, Bony watched the plane glide to and fro along the red-gum board, and the shavings which fell to the floor, already deep with shavings, were wafer-thin. The over-long white hair tended to obscure the workman’s vision, and now and then he would toss back his head. The bare arms were fatless and hard, the legs encased by drill were sturdy and strong. Bony wanted to ask how old Penwarden was, and remembered he had said he had built the shop when twenty-one, nearly sixty years ago. From the firm throat issued a deep chuckle.

“Got to fit me special customers, you know. Generally takes afittin ’ afore Iputs the boards together, and then again just after I lays the bed to make the lying nice and comfortable. Nothing worse than an uncomfortable coffin you have to lie in for years andyears maybe. That casket inside is for Mrs Owen. She be getting on, too, and for years wouldn’t have no coffin to lie alongside Tom’s under the bed. Took him a time to persuade her to take a first fitting. Then one day he brings her along, and we talk and talkpersuadin ’ her tolieatween the boards I just leaned together, sort of. Got her legs straight at last, and her arms nice and cosy, and I’m making me marks when up she jumps screeching like a hen what’s laid her first egg. Took Tom a long time to quiet her down, and my old woman had to lend him a hand. Now we’rewaitin ’ for the final fitting, but we don’t haveno hope of getting her again.”

Bony was quite sure that no amount of persuasion would induce him to “take” a fitting and he said:

“Old English name, Penwarden, isn’t it? Cornish?”

“Devonshire, me father came from. There’s people here called Wessex. That goes way back. Used to be a part of England called Wessex. Had its kings, too. This local Wessex was born here. His father took up land in them hills back of the Inlet. The Owens lives this side of the Wessexes. Dearie me! The Lord blesses some and thrashest’others. He blessed the Owens and thrashed the Wessexes, and with usPenwardens, He seemed to take turn and turn about.”

The plane was placed carefully away, and the coat was taken from the nail in the wall at the end of the bench.

“Time for grub,” announced the old man. “Staying up at the hotel, eh? Sound people, the Washfolds. Ain’t been there long, but they’re sound.”

“Thank you for being so neighbourly, Mr Penwarden,” Bony told him. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you and viewing your work.”

“ ’Tain’tnothin’, Mr Rawlings, sir. Come along again some time. Allus glad to see you.”