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 he’d 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.