Family Lessons

(Sudden fiction)

Family lessons

The shed door burst open, admitting that dollop of grunts who, not too long ago, used to be a bundle of joy.

            Fred lay down tools and crafted a smile. ‘Hi, Mason. Come to tell me dinner’s ready?’

            ‘Ugh.’ Mason perched on the three-legged stool then pushed his hands into that sloppy sweatshirt. It lived on his back.

            Fred started sanding down the planter he was making for his daughter-in-law, Mason’s Mum. ‘It can’t be far off that time. Sun’s creeping in through the window.’  He saw Mason pull down the sweatshirt hood and glance in that direction. Those spots on his face looked like mini-moon craters. ‘Hope your mum’s put chutney on my sandwich.’

            The lad turned, allowing Fred to take in the distress beyond. The red face, tight lips, hidden tears.

            Mason’s voice shook. ‘I can’t do anything right.’

            Fred’s son had lectured him last week about adolescence and hormones, telling him not be too hard on the lad. Kids these days!

            He just needed to hammer that bit on the end. There, that should do it. Mason shuffled his feet in the sawdust.

            ‘What’s up lad?’

            He was wriggling all over the place. Anybody would think he’d sat on an ants’ nest. ‘Dad wanted me to tidy my room. Said it looked like a tip.’

            ‘And did you?’ Fred found a bit of planter to sand down. Not that it needed it. Mason’s trainers slid across the floor into his line of vision. They made little hills with the sawdust.  

            ‘That old sledge, under the bed. You was out yesterday, so I brought it in here and chopped it up.’

            Fred reached into his pocket, retrieved the inhaler, held it to his mouth, and took a deep breath.

            Mason’s face looked like it was burning up. ‘Mum said last week they were running low on stuff for the wood burner.’

            Fred glanced out of the window at black smoke belching from the chimney. ‘No new Pope yet,’ he said out loud. He didn’t mean to.

            ‘What?’ The lad grabbed the door handle.

            ‘Sorry. Look, sit down.’

            Mason dragged the stool across. ‘Dad went mad. For no reason.’ He thrust a sharp nail into the pad of his thumb. ‘I told him. You can buy sledges for £7.99 at the petrol station. Plastic ones. Ones that go faster than that old relic.’

            Fred’s memory conjured up an image of being with his Dad, in this shed, planing down that sledge. Dad wore that old, checked shirt underneath those green overalls with millions of pockets. His son’s lecture, though, resonated firm and strong. ‘Mason, I can see why your dad was angry. When I was a lad_____’

            Mason’s eyes glazed over.

            ‘Seriously, listen. When I was a lad, we couldn’t afford fancy stuff like sledges. So, we made them, with help. I made that sledge, with my dad, who made that stool you’re sitting on.

            Mason’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Grandad. I didn’t know.’ His gaze was beyond Fred, on the tools pinned up neatly along the back wall.

            Fred knew what he was thinking. ‘Mason, I know that sledge never went fast. I know how to make a better one now. And, I know where I can find some wood.’

            Mason’s eyes lit up.   

            Fred felt a blast of wind as the door flew open. It was his son, James, looking ready for a round with Tyson Fury. ‘Has he told you, Dad?’ he boomed.

            Fred thought of a response: the words were on his lips.

            ‘Yes, Dad.’ Mason stood, tall, lanky, hair badly in need of a wash. ‘Grandad’s explained. I’m sorry. I understand now. You were right.’ He turned to face Fred. ‘I’m going to ask Grandad to show me how to make a new one. Once I’ve helped him to finish Mum’s planter.’

            That’s my grandson, Fred wanted to say, bundling up his hopes.