The Unfinished Chair

Roscoe had written LEFT REAR on a piece of tape attached to the chair leg. Veda stood over it with her hands in her pockets, obeying his request not to touch anything until he had cleared the bench.

“Does it object to being on the right?” she asked.

“It objects to being put back in the wrong place.”

“So would I.”

He had finished work before she arrived. The tools were put away; a little lamp lit the disassembled beech chair, and the rest of the workshop held the muted smells of wood and a day’s labour. Through the open door she could see his kitchen window beyond the yard.

He wore no badge. She felt a treacherous pleasure at that, then reminded herself that a man could take a badge off to work without revising his convictions.

“Whose is it?”

“Mine. I bought two at a sale. This one’s the less cooperative.”

“Which explains why you invited me to see it.”

“I thought you’d recognise a temperament.”

She nudged his hip with hers. He smiled down at her, and the entire reason for coming threatened to become very simple.

“Show me,” she said.

He picked up the rail and turned its end towards the lamp. The tenon looked smooth to her until he showed her the worn edge and the space it left in the joint.

“It can look right from this side,” he said, rotating it. “Put weight on it and it moves.”

“Can you just add more glue?”

“Not to make missing wood return.”

“A screw?”

“Through there? I’d rather repair the fit.”

“Now I know how to annoy you.”

“You knew before you came.”

There was a little packet of thin beech on the bench, measured and not yet fitted. He described the repair without making her an apprentice: clean out the failed adhesive, fit the small addition, test it dry, glue only when the joint sat properly. It would need time before the chair could carry anyone.

Veda studied the leg. “I’m sorry about your left rear.”

Roscoe closed his eyes.

“You labelled it.”

“I begin to regret that.”

“You should. I’ve got years of material.”

He laughed then, properly, bending his head so she could see the silver through his hair. She wanted to put her mouth there. It was an absurdly domestic desire for a second date.

Instead she asked him what he would do if the repair didn’t fit.

“Make another.”

“Even if this one looked handsome?”

“Especially then. It’s tempting to forgive it.”

He held the little fitted piece against the joint, frowned, and put it aside.

“That one?”

“Too loose at the shoulder.”

He did not hide it from her. She knew men who would have explained the flaw until it became the customer’s ignorance, or hers. Roscoe merely placed his unsuccessful bit of work on the bench. It made her want to show him something she wasn’t good at.

That was considerably more dangerous than wanting his mouth.

She moved towards the finished chair by the wall. “This one safe?”

“Yes. Lift it by the seat, if you move it.”

“I was going to sit.”

“Also a traditional use.”

She sat, crossed one ankle over the other, and let herself watch him finish clearing the bench. There was no urgency in his movement now. He looked back at her twice, not pretending either time that it was an accident.

“Are you glad I came?” she asked.

He put down the cloth. “Very.”

“You haven’t kissed me.”

“I was going to ask.”

“You still can.”

He came to stand before the chair. “May I?”

“Yes.”

He bent. She met him halfway, one hand against his chest, and felt his heart beneath the shirt. For a moment the only thing in the workshop that mattered was that small rapid testimony. He wanted her. Not hypothetically, not as a tolerant exception to a principle. Now.

She stood without breaking the kiss. His arms came around her, and she made a satisfied sound she would have found embarrassing if his breath had not answered it.

They moved a step, then another, until the cleared edge of the bench met the back of her legs. Veda sat on it with great confidence and immediately regretted the decision.

“Ow.”

He let go. “What?”

“That is a terrible piece of furniture.”

“It’s a bench.”

“I had gathered.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Only in my ambitions.”

Roscoe started to laugh, stopped himself, then failed. She laughed too, one hand over her face. The height was wrong, the edge unkind, and there was no elegant way to get down while maintaining the impression of a woman who knew what she was doing.

He offered both hands. “Shall we abandon this design?”

“Immediately.”

Back on the floor, she leaned against him and let the laughter end where it liked. His hand moved once over her hair. There was no attempt to turn the mishap into a test of whether she still wanted him.

“I’ve been thinking about more than kissing,” she said against his shirt.

He became still. “So have I.”

“Frequently.”

“Yes.”

She drew back enough to see him. “I don’t want to hurry because we happened to get as far as an unsuitable bench.”

“Neither do I.”

“I’m not being coy.”

“I wasn’t hoping you would.”

His expression was so serious that she kissed the corner of his mouth to soften it. Desire could survive a pause. Hers was thriving under the indignity.

They went walking instead, after he locked the workshop. The evening paths ran between houses with small front gardens, then opened onto the upper harbour. Her hand fitted into his more easily now. She could feel the places where work had roughened his skin, the contrast with the softer inside of his wrist.

He bought them tea at a kiosk. She paid for two buns and refused his offer of the larger one.

“You’ll resent it at eleven.”

“I would never resent you a bun.”

“That sounds like the start of an implausible promise.”

They found a bench that had been designed by somebody with an understanding of human thighs. Roscoe put his arm along the back, waiting until she moved nearer before letting it rest around her.

Across the harbour, the campaign’s blue banner had been taken down for the evening. Its absence did not alter anything. Veda watched a workboat move through the fairway and felt a question arriving that she had hoped to defer.

“Can I ask you something unpleasant?”

“Please don’t call it that before I hear it.”

“Do you want me as I am, or as somebody you’re hoping I’ll become?”

His arm stayed warm against her shoulders, but his hand did not tighten.

“As you are.”

“That’s the quick answer.”

“Yes.” He looked towards the water. “I don’t expect you to wake up agreeing with me. I can’t promise I won’t hope the argument changes. I suspect you hope mine will.”

She did. It was infuriating to hear it said without accusation.

“I don’t want to be your private proof that fishers are nice.”

“You aren’t.”

“Or the one who makes it easier to tell the others they must change.”

He took his arm from her shoulders, turning so he could look at her fully. She missed the weight and was grateful he had not used it to soften what came next.

“I want you because you asked me for a kiss as if you were allowed to want one,” he said. “Because you notice when I’m giving you the answer that will make me look best. Because I’ve been laughing at an anatomical misunderstanding of a chair for half an hour. I don’t know yet how we do the difficult part.”

She held his gaze.

“I don’t either.”

They finished their tea. The paper cups grew cool between their hands. After a while she put hers down and reached for him again, not because he had solved the problem but because he had left it where she could see it.

On the walk back she told him the boat would keep her late on Saturday, but she could offer supper if he didn’t mind a woman who might need feeding before conversation.

“What should I bring?” he asked.

“Something that survives me being late.”

“And after that?”

She looked at him. “Yourself. We’ll see what survives that.”