The Furniture Shop

Catherine Nolan

The village was always peaceful.

Folk would come in from the country to buy those things that peddlers did not carry, and doubtless to them the rows of shops and the market bustled with bright life and action, but to one who had been born there an underlying stability was perceptible.

Every year snow fell, and the market dwindled, and the shopkeepers lit candles in their windows and the taverns were cozy. Then the snow melted and children played in the streets, and the market sold mostly carrots and cabbages and apples. Summer came, and the men stood outside the tavern to drink and talk; and autumn came with its festival, and countrymen brought wagonloads of vegetables of all sorts and wandered the streets with gay faces or sad ones, depending on the prices the merchants set that year. Then snow fell and it began again.

One who was not caught up in the changes of this seasonal flourish could watch these changes happen around him and witness the peace which glowed perpetually in the little village. Hans was perfectly fitted for such observation since he kept a furniture shop on a street which was neither the busiest nor the quietest. Perhaps he sold a little more furniture in the spring when the women cleaned and rearranged their homes, and in the fall when the men had money to spare, but on the whole his business did not change much.

Hans took great pride in his furniture, which he made himself, as had his father and grandfather before him. He had a little shop with a nondescript, blackened brick face, but it was always well-lit within, showing off the flawless polish of every piece of oak or cherry. While some of the cheaper furniture shops would set out their wares in the street to draw the attention of the folk passing through, Hans scorned such tactics and kept his work inside, away from the mud and stones tossed by horses’ hoofs, the bleaching sun and thoughtless passers-by. Those who knew of the shop respected Hans and his workmanship, and it was a rare thing for someone to enter his shop but once.

Because he had no family, being young and still more of a spectator than an actor in village life, Hans decided, several years after his father’s death, that he ought to take in a boarder. Hans and his mother could easily accommodate themselves in the shop and the two little rooms behind it, and someone else could live in the rooms upstairs. It wasn’t that money was tight; Hans was indebted to no one and still had enough to add a little each year to his stock of wood to be worked. Still, it seemed sensible to use only what they needed and to invite someone else to share the rest. And in the long winter days when his mother knitted by the fireside and Hans sat fluting and detailing the legs for tables and chairs yet to be made, it would be nice to have another man to chat with.

Very soon after Hans and his mother made this decision and posted a notice by the marketplace, a young man came by to see the rooms. His name was Will, and he was very talkative; he was slightly taller than average and had straight blond hair that lay flat against his head. He was very polite to Hans’ mother and very enthusiastic in speaking to Hans.

“You have a wonderful place here. I’m so lucky to have found it. I only recently decided to move into the village, since I sold my share of the farm to my brother, and I am going to set out on my own. It was only recently that I found the courage to do so. I was here to sell some cattle, and spent all night talking with the innkeeper at the Yellow Bird, and he convinced me it was possible. Even before I made my way home again, I had the courage to think of working for the blacksmith – keeping his accounts and such – but unfortunately he wasn’t looking for anyone. But the fact remains to comfort me that I had the initiative to ask! After so many years on the farm!”

Hans nodded. “Yes, this is a good little village, and if you want to work hard, there will always be an opportunity somewhere. Have you found work yet?”

“Not yet,” Will answered. He continued quickly, “but don’t worry about the money. I will pay you exactly what you have asked for the rooms.”

Comment

1. I like the way you treated the first line in this short story. A small sentence and yet a paragraph by itself!

   — gabe · Jan 31, 03:57 PM · #

2. I envy talents like yours; my only consolation is in accepting the truth, that if I had them, I wouldn’t command them to the same degree as you have in this work. soooo thank you and :P (that’s from my jealous side)

   — Gamez · Jan 31, 04:48 PM · #

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