Page 80 of A Christmas Celebration
‘Is he up to mischief again?’ Albert smiled.
‘You know about his impish antics, do you?’
‘I can’t imagine there’s a soul for miles who doesn’t. What’s he up to that’s got you so vexed? More Christmas tomfoolery? Mr Connelly’s Christmas reputation is legendary in these parts.’
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Mr Connelly’s Christmas Reputation would be a great film title. Or even a stage play. A farce, of course.
‘Surprisingly,’ I smiled, ‘it’s not his idea of festive fun that’s got me worried.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s the hall,’ I sighed. ‘There’s some stonework around the top windows on one side that needs some attention and Angus has got it into his head that he can fix it himself.’
Albert’s horrified expression was exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for.
‘Why isn’t he looking to get an expert in?’ he demanded.
‘He reckons there aren’t any around here and it will be too expensive to have someone come from further afield.’
‘It might cost a bit,’ Albert said wisely, ‘but if the daft beggar makes a hash of it, which he undoubtedly will, it will end up costing more than double to fix it.’
‘You sound like an expert, Albert,’ I said, but he didn’t take the bait.
‘It’s just common sense.’
‘That’s what Archie, his son, said.’ I sighed again. ‘But you’ve heard what Angus is like and once he’s got a bee in his bonnet about something, he always sees it through. Shall I make another pot of tea?’ I said, standing up. ‘Then I’d better get off. It’s getting late.’
I left him to mull over what I’d said and busied myself in the kitchen, checking there was still plenty of food in the fridge freezer and cupboards. As well as trying to get Albert to spread his wings a little I was going to have to get him officially added to Anna’s rota.
‘How’s that tea coming on?’ he called to me.
‘All done,’ I said, carrying it through. ‘And there are biscuits too. That should keep you going for a while.’
I sat back down, ostensibly to retie the laces on my boots, but really to see if he was going to say anything further. I was on tenterhooks waiting to find out if my subterfuge had worked.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘I used to do that job.’
‘What job?’
‘Stonemason.’
‘You were a stonemason?’ I asked, sounding suitably surprised.
‘A stone carver actually,’ he said, his chest swelling with pride.
‘Oh, Albert,’ I said. I was already genuinely in awe having made an online search of the work stone carvers carried out. ‘That’s amazing. Stone carving requires so much skill. It must have taken years to learn how to do it.’
‘I worked in the trade for nigh on five decades.’
‘My goodness,’ I gasped. ‘That’s a lifetime. You must have loved the work to do it for that long.’
‘Well,’ he said, his chest deflating and his tone losing its former lightness, ‘I don’t know about that, but my father told me at fifteen that he knew where there was an apprenticeship going and that it would be a solid career for life. And he was right.’
That was the second time since my arrival in Wynbridge that a man had told me their father had played a part in influencing their careers. I wondered if Albert’s father had been as demanding as Brodie’s?
‘So given that you gave almost fifty years of your life to the craft,’ I said with emphasis, ‘you must have a pretty good idea of what’s what.’
‘I suppose,’ he said, sounding suspicious.
