Saturday, 19 September 2015

The Toymaker.

Here is my story for Sunday Scribblings 2 where this week's word is Funeral 

No one ever saw inside his little garden shed. As kids, we used to climb his fence and try to peep through the dusty window hoping to see what he was doing. We never did though.

Every Christmas,  the children of our village found a little painted toy in their stocking. 'It’s from Father Christmas' my Mummy would say.

He worked in his shed until the day he died. On the morning of his funeral, his dear wife invited the older children to visit the mysterious shed.  She threw open the doors and for the first time in our lives we saw inside. Hammers, chisels, saws, and screwdrivers hung from hooks on the walls. Paint pots stood on shelves like rows of solders.

Sitting on a pair of trestles was a coffin. It was intricately carved with smiling faces, tractors, butterflies and lambs. It was a riot of blue, red, green, and yellow. Sitting on top was a wreath of wooden flowers.

Later at the church, each of us placed one of the toys hed made for us on the lid of the coffin. It was probably my imagination, but I'm sure I heard the hiss of sandpaper on timber and smelled the scent of lacquer.


  1. What a delight this is Rosey. My own Dad did make a few things but I much preferred to stand outside the toy shop and frustrate everyone because I couldn't make up my mind how to spend my one shilling pocket money.

  2. Rosey - you have excelled yourself this week..i hope it was toys he was making - even if not..pretty boxes make people smile too remembering what some people can make of their lives..and give to others in return