The Toy Maker
By Noo
- 1254 reads
1. In to the light
Valentine opens the door and walks in to the dark of the shop. He’s been dying to go inside it since he came to stay with his aunt over a month ago. He’s walked past it a few times on the way to church and he’s dawdled by its entrance, but it’s never open on a Sunday. Besides his aunt has always pulled him past briskly.
He misses his parents of course, but he knows they’ll be back once their lecture tour has finished (Valentine’s eight year old brain doesn’t really understand what a lecture tour is, but he knows it’s important). He enjoys being with his aunt anyway and he loves her kind smile and twinkling, brown eyes. He’s glad, though, that she’s got errands this Saturday afternoon and he’s finally got chance to go into the toyshop.
It’s a hot day with no breeze and as Valentine steps in, he feels grateful for the cool of the shop’s interior. From the pavement, the smell of the lilies from the flower seller’s stall is strong and sweet.
No one seems to be around in the shop, so Valentine has chance to look round undisturbed. It’s a small space and dust motes are swirling and glittering in the sharp shards of sunbeams that cut through the window. He looks at the toys, wide eyed and curious. He sees the rows of wooden soldiers, the dolls with their frozen expressions, the crates of brightly coloured balls.
On the far wall, a magic lantern projects its flickering mages and clicks as it rotates. A mechanical monkey twists its head and Valentine jumps at this movement and the sudden spring of its mechanism.
He’s comforted by the lazy tick-tock of the clock hung above the tangle of puppet strings. The smell of dust, mixed with over-cooked cabbage, is intense. He becomes aware of a change in the air –a sense of it being fuller than before. And then a man appears from behind the counter that runs along the left hand side of the shop.
He’s old, with gleaming, wet eyes that reflect the little light there is in the room. Valentine can see how jagged his teeth are when he smiles, but the smile is wide and true. “Would you like to see where the toys are made?” he asks.
Valentine follows him through a door behind the counter that he hasn’t noticed before and he’s in another dark room; although this one is lit by low, glass pendant lamps that pool light on to the huge work bench that dominates the room.
The work bench is covered in work tools – chisels and saws, drills and planes. Everywhere in neat, orderly lines, there are wooden toys, half finished, half painted, but Valentine can see the shapes of what each block is going to be emerging from the wood.
The toy maker leans over a section of the bench where a battalion of wooden soldiers are drying and with the largest hands Valentine has ever seen, he prises one of the soldiers off the newspaper and offers it to Valentine. “This is for you.”
Valentine takes it and cups it in his hand, closing his fingers over it. He’s thinking about the size of the toy maker’s hands and how delicately and lovingly he gave him the soldier.
A few minutes later, he’s outside in the sunlight and when he opens his hand, he has chance to see the intricate detail on the toy soldier. The depth of its colours. Valentine brings it to his nose and sniffs it. It smells of new paint and of the toy maker’s hands – tobacco, possibly leather and something else that Valentine isn’t sure of. He’s old enough already to know people can be silly and fanciful, so he smiles at himself when he wonders whether the other smell could be what a promise smells like.
*
2. In to the dark
A few minutes later, he’s outside in the sunlight and when he opens his hand, he has chance to see the intricate detail on the toy soldier. The depth of its colours. Valentine brings it to his nose and sniffs it. It smells of new paint and of the toy maker’s hands – tobacco, possibly leather and something else that Valentine isn’t sure of. He’s old enough already to know people can be silly and fanciful, so he smiles at himself when he wonders whether the other smell could be what a promise smells like.
Valentine takes it and cups it in his hand, closing his fingers over it. He’s thinking about the size of the toy maker’s hands and how delicately and lovingly he gave him the soldier.
He’s comforted by the lazy tick-tock of the clock hung above the tangle of puppet strings. The smell of dust, mixed with over-cooked cabbage, is intense. He becomes aware of a change in the air –a sense of it being fuller than before. And then a man appears from behind the counter that runs along the left hand side of the shop.
On the far wall, a magic lantern projects its flickering mages and clicks as it rotates. A mechanical monkey twists its head and Valentine jumps at this movement and the sudden spring of its mechanism.
Valentine follows him through a door behind the counter that he hasn’t noticed before and he’s in another dark room; although this one is lit by low, glass pendant lamps that pool light on to the huge work bench that dominates the room.
He’s old, with gleaming, wet eyes that reflect the little light there is in the room. Valentine can see how jagged his teeth are when he smiles, but the smile is wide and true. “Would you like to see where the toys are made?” he asks.
The toy maker leans over a section of the bench where a battalion of wooden soldiers are drying and with the largest hands Valentine has ever seen, he prises one of the soldiers off the newspaper and offers it to Valentine. “This is for you.”
He misses his parents of course, but he knows they’ll be back once their lecture tour has finished (Valentine’s eight year old brain doesn’t really understand what a lecture tour is, but he knows it’s important). He enjoys being with his aunt anyway and he loves her kind smile and twinkling, brown eyes. He’s glad, though, that she’s got errands this Saturday afternoon and he’s finally got chance to go into the toyshop.
Valentine opens the door and walks in to the dark of the shop. He’s been dying to go inside it since he came to stay with his aunt over a month ago. He’s walked past it a few times on the way to church and he’s dawdled by its entrance, but it’s never open on a Sunday. Besides his aunt has always pulled him past briskly.
No one seems to be around in the shop, so Valentine has chance to look round undisturbed. It’s a small space and dust motes are swirling and glittering in the sharp shards of sunbeams that cut through the window. He looks at the toys, wide eyed and curious. He sees the rows of wooden soldiers, the dolls with their frozen expressions, the crates of brightly coloured balls.
It’s a hot day with no breeze and as Valentine steps in, he feels grateful for the cool of the shop’s interior. From the pavement, the smell of the lilies from the flower seller’s stall is strong and sweet.
*
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Comments
flickering [i]mages and
flickering [i]mages and counterpoint. It's not all black and white.
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This is beautiful, the detail
This is beautiful, the detail and the way you draw hope and promise with a kiddy's full to bursting heart and then the different routes taken. Writing an article on Anderson's Steadfast Tin Soldier at the minute and this really enticed me.
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Good descriptions in the
Good descriptions in the first. Love the line wonders whether the other smell could be what a promise smells like. I am not sure I understood completely the going back in 2. Though I followed the idea, just repeating the paragraphs wasn't as effective as it could have been. But that is only my opinion. The writing was very good and the story had tension and mystery and promised adventure that didn't materialise.
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Beautiful, full of wonder and
Beautiful, full of wonder and promise.
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