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Fretting

The hut had a magnificent view across the shingle beach and out towards the North Sea. On a clear day it looked out on a vista of water, clouds and sky. On a foggy day - as it was today - there was no distinction between these. Instead, there was only a monolithic sheet of grey that the eyes refused to focus on.

Coleman made his way up the shingle, the myriad pebbles crunching underfoot, and climbed the wooden steps that led to the hut's verandah. He paused before knocking on the door, listening for any sign that somebody was inside. The sound of voices reached him, muffled by the walls of the small structure. Satisfied there was someone inside, Coleman knocked on the door before opening it.

"I didn't know you had ... ," Coleman began, he was shushed by the hut's occupant.

"I want to hear the end of this," she said.

Coleman waited quietly, listening to the end of the radio play. When it finished, the woman in the hut looked at him. "Right. Now we can talk."

Coleman put his guitar on the table in the centre of the hut's only room. Its neck was broken, splintered by some recent blow, and its strings hung limp across the wood. "Can you fix it?" he asked, pointing at the damage.

The woman looked at him. "May I?"

"Of course."

She picked up the damaged instrument, gently cradling its body in her arms to examine it. "Nasty. How'd that happen?"

Coleman shrugged. "I was in the High Street, busking. I was doing alright until some tanked-up thugs came along. They didn't like what I was playing, so they smashed my guitar." He paused, looking around the interior of the hut. Guitars of various sizes and designs were arranged on shelves above workbenches and neat rows of tools. "I'd probably be better off with a new one, but I'm not sure I can afford it."

The woman continued her inspection of Coleman's guitar, seemingly oblivious to his words. But, when he stopped speaking, she turned her attention back to him. "You definitely would be better off with a new one. I can repair this. If I do, it will never sound like it did - but it will be cheaper than buying one of these."

Coleman felt a sense of mixed relief. "Good. This guitar really means a lot to me. I couldn't bear to just get rid of this."

"Of course." The woman selected a piece of wood from a stack under the window and began to mark it up with a piece of charcoal.

"How much will it cost?"

The woman smiled, wrinkling the freckles on her nose. "Don't worry. I've seen you in town, and I've heard your playing. I won't charge you any more than you can afford." She put the wood into a pair of vices, then retrieved a small saw from her collection of tools.

"But, I haven't even - !"

Again, the woman shushed him. "Leave it to me," she said. "I'll have it ready for you in a week. Is that alright?"

"Yes," Coleman said. "Please."

The woman bent over the wood and began to work. Coleman watched her, waiting for her to say something, to give him an excuse to stay just a moment longer in her presence. But she said nothing. Unsettled by the silence, Coleman turned to leave.