Elizabeth had used to feel lucky when she had treasured her family and worked to keep it safe and well. Then the war came. All the men felt brave and she and the children were full of hope. But so many, including her husband, had lost their lives and everything had changed. Endless hymns were sung but they just bounced off the hard stone walls of the church, uselessly, pointlessly.

Now her children had grown and left. Every day she worked at the village shop serving customers but everyone that really mattered to her were faraway. She felt invisible. That morning she reached the shop five minutes before 8:30am, rang the doorbell and waited. It took five minutes for Mr Creasey to open the door. He looked at his watch as he did so. ‘Late again,’ he sneered.

‘’Sorry,’ Elizabeth mumbled as she squeezed past his mountainous form in a dressing gown.

‘The delivery is in the yard. I need to go back to bed – indigestion kept me awake in the night.’ Elizabeth smiled faintly and was relieved to see him leave. Single-handed she’d have to unpack supplies, stack shelves, register the stock, mop, and then open the shop. Mr Creasey used to work with her but increasingly he’d keep away. When working, he’d only find fault with her.

Soon everything was ready, Elizabeth turned the sign and released the latch on the door. As Mrs Buckley perused the shelves, Elizabeth was transfixed by the swing of her elegant long coat. She thought of Josephine and the skill she had as a seamstress. All the clothes she made seemed to say something about who she was. A bit of her was speaking through them. Her style and technique were changing and developing too. The choice and combination of fabrics said something about her and everyone looked up to her because of it. Whereas however hard Elizabeth worked in the shop no one seemed to notice, she simply felt pride in the fact that she was earning her living. If only she had a special skill where she could express who she really was.

After work as she walked back through the woods, she realised this was the part of the day most precious to her. Listening to the birds, feeling the branches reaching up to the heavens and surrounding her safely with their cover.

That evening, Josephine called by and they sat together by the fire drinking tea. Josephine, as usual, got out her sewing.

‘What are you making?’

‘This is a collar for a shirt for Mr Anderson.’

‘I really admire your skill. Mrs Buckley was wearing a wonderful deep red coat today in the shop.’ Josephine started smiling. ‘You made it!’ Josephine nodded bashfully. ‘Wow, I wish I could make beautiful things.’

‘You used to bake delicious buns. I’m sure you could sell them.’

‘Once they’re eaten, they’re gone and anyone can cook.’

‘I’ve always loved fabric and sewing has always comforted me. What makes you happy?’

‘I was just thinking that walking in the woods is the best part of my day. Apart from seeing you of course. The best thing about Mr Creasy’s shop is that it’s the other side of the wood.’

‘You’re always bringing back wood for the fire.’

‘That’s because I like the feel of it too. Looking at the grain, knowing a tree has seen all of life, year after year and every spring it draws up new energy. On and on it grows. Nothing can stop it.’

‘Apart from when its cut down.’

‘They’ll always be another seedling taking its place. All a tree needs is earth, light and rain. So simple but always beautiful to look at, inside and out.’

‘I’ve seen you handling the wood when you lay the fire.’

‘Yes, I always like to have a pile of wood in the house and wooden furniture almost breathes like a person. I think it keeps me breathing.’

Over the next few weeks Elizabeth thought more about wood until one day Ned, a young apprentice from the wood working workshop in the town, came in the shop and asked for some plasters. He had a piece of fabric wrapped around his finger.

‘How did you hurt yourself, Ned?’ Elizabeth asked.

‘I’ve been wood carving and the knife slipped.’ Ned replied. ‘Just a little cut, I just needed to be more careful but I’m learning.’

‘That’s interesting. What are you making?’

‘I’m carving a wooden spoon. Do you want to see it? I’ve got it here.’ Ned got it out of his bag and handed it to Elizabeth. As soon as she took it in her hands, it was then that she knew. This was something she would love to be able to make. ‘It’s made of the wild cherry tree that used to grow in my Grandad’s garden. He had to cut it down as he’s building a shed on that spot now.’ The colour of the wood was light pinkish brown. Elizabeth loved to see the grain and feel it in her hand, like something living, solid and dependable. Soft and hard at the same time. ‘It won’t stay that colour, over time it will get darker, more beautiful, I reckon.’

‘How do you carve it?’ asked Elizabeth eagerly.

‘The tools have to be sharp and that’s why you must be careful. Would you like to buy it?’

‘I would. But I’ll pay you more if you show me how to carve my own wooden spoon.’

‘That’s a deal, lime wood is a good soft wood to start with.’

‘I can find some of that in the nearby wood. That’s not a problem. I live on Marsh Avenue, number three. Let me know when you can call by to give me a lesson. This is something I want to learn.’ Ned shook her hand and Elizabeth could see a way ahead for herself now. When she told Josephine, she was delighted and knew this was something Elizabeth could put all her energy into.

At first all the knives and tools needed to keep them sharp alarmed Elizabeth, but she saved up to buy them. It was never a problem finding wood. She loved to seek out the perfect pieces for all her different projects when she was walking. The carving took patience and strength which wasn’t a problem either because Elizabeth always had the beauty of the wood to keep her feeling strong and inspired. Never a day went by without her chipping away at a piece of wood. Josephine worked at the other side of the room sewing when she visited. She admired and encouraged Elizabeth’s persistence and skill. In time, others too came to value the beauty of the spoons and bowls she carved. Together they grew as crafts people, refining and exploring new techniques, creating beautiful work, respected by everyone that came to know it.

As usual, the next morning Elizabeth walked through the wood on her way to the Village shop. But today, she walked as if in a daze, trying to process this new position of manager of the village shop. With her mind in turmoil, she was suddenly stunned by the beautiful sound of birdsong. It was a sound that should have been completely familiar and commonplace. But strangely it was as if she was hearing it for the first time. It felt as if for the first time in her life she was hearing something extraordinary. It was like a door had opened to show her a place she never knew existed. The birds were making such a strange mix of calls, so many different rhythms and pitches. So surprising was the sound they were all making that morning. Did they always sound like this in May? Of course they did. Truthfully, Elizabeth had never taken much notice of it. Yet this morning, it was aware of. The noise was such a happy sound, so free, almost like hysterical laughter. They sounded so delighted with the day and determined to live their lives to the full. How strange she’d barely noticed it before. As she carried on walking, she simply bathed in the sound.

Arriving at the shop, she turned the key in the door and tried to hold onto the joyful feeling. There was no Mr Creasey but, instead, there was an office which had piles full of confusing paperwork which she would now have to try and make sense of. New orders for food were needed otherwise the shelves would empty, and she’d have nothing to sell. Could she really live here, in the flat above the shop? Mr Creasey’s belongings were still everywhere. She’d been promised they’d be taken away but there was so much to do. Inside her head, Elizabeth tried to hold onto the new sound of paradise she’d heard that morning in the wood. Before, only the strong branches of the trees had mattered and the feeling of the tall trunks surging up from the ground. The beauty of the woodgrain had absorbed her, with the different shades of warm amber and dark brown and the markings which revealed all the years the tree lived.

So much had happened this past year. She would now be living on the other side of wood away from her dear friend Josephine. On her own, she had to face the responsibility of running the village shop which sustained everyone in the village. There was an undercurrent of excitement and thrill in the challenge, but it also felt slightly crazy. Could she really do it? That taste she’d had of the wild, shrill birdsong seemed a form of nourishment to help her stay hopeful. Maybe strange times like this were perfectly normal, nothing to worry about. After all, bird song is normal and that morning it had sounded extraordinary.

By Lucy Houbart