The Yew Box

The jackplane felt good, an old friend, fitting snugly in Henry's hands but it shaved nothing off as it skimmed over the wood. He felt for the ribbed adjusting screw and tightened it a quarter of a turn. Why had he left it so long to take up woodwork again? This time the plane cut with the satisfying zip of finely sharpened steel on seasoned wood and scrolled out a delicate paper-thin shaving, the colour of tanned skin. Another quarter of a turn and the plane cut deeper until, halfway along the length of the timber, it jammed with the jarring shock of metal on metal. The blade had struck something inside the wood.

"There are some power planers in the tool store," said Matt taking a break from polyurethaning his coffee table, "You don't want to bother with those old jackplanes, you spend forever sharpening the damn things. Christ! There's a lump of iron inside your bit of wood. How'd that get there? You'd be better off with an angle grinder on that."

Whenever Henry felt he was out of balance with those around him, or that there were just too many young people in the world, he would remember the old woodland he had discovered a while back. On the outskirts were young hazel and birch trees, which, as you walked deeper into the older part of the forest, gave way to ancient beech and oak trees. These trees gave no ground to saplings, satisfyingly killing off any youngsters that dared take root beneath them, draining all moisture from their roots and blocking out the light from their leaves. Then, in the deepest undisturbed centre of the forest in a sprawling coppice, even these oak and beech centenarians yielded to the oldest of them all - the yews. Supported on twisted limbs, their centres long since dead, they are living husks of trees from over two thousand years earlier. That is the yew's secret of longevity; the inside dies while the sapwood lives on. Henry's piece of yew did not come from these trees or the huge yews he had found in churchyards. His yew came from a farm hedgerow, felled ten years earlier to make way for the widening of the A10.

Henry dismantled the jackplane, dripped some oil on the stone and braced himself for a long session of sharpening. Who would have thought there would be a lump of iron hidden right inside the heartwood? Could it be a fragment of shrapnel? The farmer had told him that the yew had survived centuries of medieval barons scouring the land for longbow timber, and that it had also escaped the German bombs dropped on a nearby Battle of Britain airfield, but it had not withstood a Department of Transport's road widening scheme. The tree must have absorbed its injury and carried on growing. By the time it was felled there would have been no sign of damage. He rocked slowly from side-to-side, feeling the stone slowly grind the steel away from the damaged edge. The German bombers had not quite wrecked Henry's plane. You cannot rush sharpening blades and it would only take a fraction of the time that he would need to build his new box. He had time, lots of time.

Working with yew again had brought it all back, that "misunderstanding", as his head master had called it all those years ago. However, to be honest, the thing had never gone away. Unlike the yew tree with the piece of shrapnel in, he had not absorbed the impact and continued to flourish. Many times the memory of the events had broken through and threatened to topple him. Over the years, the affair had occupied his fantasies and insidiously wormed its way into his whole life. When he was young, he had wanted to be a carpenter but had only managed to get work with an undertaker, as a carpenter's boy. After working there for a year, they began buying-in prefabricated coffins, then made the carpenter redundant and gave Henry the job screwing the coffins together. He rarely needed to use more than a screwdriver for the next three decades. When he retired, he enrolled at the evening institute and took up carpentry again. Whilst others built shelves and coffee tables, he worked on his box. Henry had learnt to keep himself to himself, had never married and blamed his social shortcomings on his occupation's uneasy image. However, to be truthful, he found getting on with people difficult. By the time he had realised the attraction of relationships, and the possible rewards of being part of a family, it was all too late.

Making a new box, could possibly, after all these years, take out some dead wood and let a little light back into his life. Henry had made his original box at school, at a time when confusion was abundant and explanations were not. The woodwork room had, for Henry, been a tranquil summer glade, far from the surrounding wintry landscape. He grew to love the place. The warm animal smell of molten glue, cut with the fresh clean scent of pine, comforted him the moment he entered the workshop. He loved the ordered rows of tools hanging from the walls, the sets of drawers containing a tool for every task and he was impressed by the power lathes, bench drills, band saws and circular saws, all immaculately oiled and turned out guardsmen standing silently waiting to receive their orders.

Henry uttered very little at the right time or right place. His teachers assumed that he was not good with words and that therefore he was the sort of boy for whom secondary modern schools had been conceived. Few teachers bothered to penetrate Henry's hardened exterior to find out what lie beneath. Mr Warne used few words himself, preferring to explain by examples and drawings. Henry watched Mr Warne's demonstrations in awe of his skill. He studied the technical drawings as if they were examples of fine art hanging in a gallery. He learnt the names of the tools and the uses for the various joints. Unlike his friend Peter Nichols, who spent weeks hacking and planing in a wholly unenthusiastic effort to produce a smaller square sided piece of wood, Henry progressed quickly through all the exercises. After a year, Mr Warne asked Henry what he would like to make. It took Henry by surprise; no one before had ever asked him what he would like.
"What about a box, sir?" he asked.
"You'll need hard wood for that, lad. Have a look through the store and find something you fancy." Henry lifted down a piece of timber from the top shelf. It looked big enough.
"That's yew," said Mr Warne wiping it with a damp rag. "Look at the beautiful grain. This light coloured wood was the sapwood, the outside of the tree, it looks like marble, don't you think? The dark wood is the inside, the heartwood. Did you know that yew was used to make longbows?"
"Oh," said Henry, "so, it's no good for boxes?"
"Oh, it would make a beautiful box alright but it's difficult to work and I've been saving that piece of timber for … well, all right, perhaps this is what I have been saving it for, go ahead, lad. It will be a difficult job. You will have to use hidden dovetails, one of the hardest joints to cut. When you've finished they are hidden inside the box and no one will ever see them. You'll need to use the dark heartwood for the outside of the box and the sapwood for the inside."

It was a long project; three hours a week for over a year and Mr Warne had insisted that Henry make mock-ups of the hidden dovetails out of deal before he let him have the yew.
"The yew is the oldest tree in Britain." Mr Warne told him. "That wood was growing when Julius Caesar came to Britain. Feel its beauty; run the back of your hand over the grain. Feel it tingle? A box made from yew will last forever. Careful though, yew is poisonous."
"Wow, is it deadly, Mr Warne?"
"Every bit of it's poisonous, except the red berries but don't chew the seeds inside the berries because they're poisonous. The Druids used yew for a poison. Making a box from seasoned yew won't kill you, but don't go chewing too many lumps of it. Tell you what, if you can get it finished in time, you could put it into the end of year exhibition. You'll have to work some though, not sure that there's enough time. What do you do on Saturday mornings?"
"I work, at Timothy Whites the Chemist, washing bottles but it's boring. I was gonna pack it in."
"Well, if you're sure. I usually come in on Saturdays to sharpen the planes and such. That would give you enough time to get it finished. It would look wonderful in the exhibition; it'd take pride of place, a thing of real beauty. Your mum and dad would be proud."
"Don't suppose they'll come."
"You never know. Next Saturday, then?"

"Gonna keep yer fags in it, Henry?" asked Peter.
"No, it's too big for a cigarette box. It's not really for keeping things in."
"What's the point of spending all that time making a box and keeping nufink in it? Why don't yer get a shoebox? They're good for keeping nufink in. You wanna do some swapsies with Kenny Handle; he's as daft as you, keeps his collection of nufinks in an album."
"Shut up, you don't have to keep things in it, it's a thing of beauty," said Henry, wishing straight away he'd kept quiet.
"Ooooh! A fing of beauty, is it? Bet it'll be worth a bob or two then. You crafty sod, how much you gonna get for it?"

The woodwork room still had the familiar comforting smell of melting glue but there were little differences on Saturday; jazz, playing on a record player in Mr Warne's office, which was always locked during the week. Planing yew was tricky. He had to be careful with the knotty areas, change direction, follow the wood and go with the grain. His plane had to be kept sharp and Henry spent a lot of time waiting for Mr Warne to sharpen the blade. "Sharpen your own, lad," he said.
"I can't."
"Come here, I'll show you how. A few drips of oil and, here, hold it like this, lean over the bench and get your weight on top of the blade." Mr Warne leant over Henry, holding his hands on the plane's blade. "Spread your feet and stand like a boxer. Rock the blade gently until you feel the flat and then sway gently from side to side."

It was a summer morning and the hazy sun was shining through the high windows of the woodwork room. Henry could hear the gluepot bubbling away in the corner and smell Mr Warne's pipe tobacco. Mr Warne's sashaying matched the slow blues of Big Bill Broonzy. His hands on Henry's hands, rocking, rocking… "You can't rush sharpening a blade, said Mr Warne, "just keep the flat on the stone, backwards and forwards." Henry felt Mr Warne's strong arms around him, holding him, rocking, side to side, like a child being cradled. Henry was getting warm and, like the pot of glue, which stood inside a pan of boiling water, he was gently simmering. He liked the feeling, wanted more but he did not know what it was that he wanted more of. His excitement made him feel guilty. He had felt like this the time he laid in the sunny woods after cycling to Epping Forest and, then again, a few nights ago in the cinema when the woman in the cowboy film had ripped her blouse. Oh no! He was getting hard. Mr Warne would spot it if he moved away from the bench. He'd have to keep his back to him. Mr Warne was softly singing along with Bill Broonzy, I cry when the sun go down…

Henry tried to think of something boring to get rid of his erection. He thought of Julius Caesar sitting under a yew tree in the sunshine, sharpening his sword on a stone but that reminded him of his Epping Forest experience and made him harder. Mr Warne must have had his pipe in his pocket because it was pressing hard up against Henry. He tried to wriggle his backside out of the way but the pipe seemed to follow him. He wriggled some more, then the realisation struck Henry like a mallet on the back of the head; it wasn't Mr Warne's pipe. At that moment, Henry's gluepot boiled over.

Henry was still confused on Monday morning. Too many thoughts and emotions at the same time and he was scared. He needed to tell someone, anyone, to get it straight in his head. Peter had always seemed to know what was going on, to understand things better than Henry, probably because he had older brothers. Yes, he needed someone to talk to. Could he trust Peter?
"Pete, promise you won't tell anyone."
"What, nicked some fags, have you?"
"No. You know I said I was coming into school to finish me box on Saturday?"
"Never catch me in school when I don't 'ave to, you must be bloody crazy."
"Well a weird thing happened. Mr Warne was showing me how to sharpen a plane blade and, well, he was leaning over me and …"
"What, bloody 'ell he gave you one, in the woodwork room?"
"No, it weren't like that. He was just pressing himself against me. I thought it was his pipe at first. Then I realised that his pipe was in his mouth."
"His bloody pipe? Christ, Henry, you ain't 'alf a dope. Can't you tell the difference between a pipe and someone's knob?"
"Well it was a surprise."
"I bet it was. Warny, eh? Dirty old sod. Who you gonna complain to?"
"Complain?"
"The Head's a waste of time, he's rubbish," said Peter, "the police, yeah, the police would be better. Or better still the papers. The News of the World would pay you handsome for a story like that. A few weeks back they had a story about a vicar who took these kids camping on an island in Loch, somefink or other, in Scotland and made 'em all run around with no clothes on for a week.
"Why should I tell the police, or the papers?"
"Because it's against the law and there's a good chance you could a lot of money out of this. Those kids must have got a couple of 'undred nicker from the News of the World."
"What's against the law?"
"Poking your knob where knobs ain't supposed to be poked."
"I don't want to get Mr Warne into trouble. He might not help me finish my box."
"Stick your box, Henry. These teachers have been 'aving a go at us for the last four bloody years. It's time to get our own back. What about old Bill Clinker last week, he gave you the stick and it weren’t even you what threw the flower pot at him, was it?"
"It didn't hurt."
"That flower pot would've hurt, from three floors up, if it had hit his head and not his cup of tea."
"Anyway, Mr Warne is not like the others. He's been good to me."
"Yeah, and now we know why. So he'd get 'is evil way with you. The next fing is, he'll be wanting more, probably kidnap you, and take you off, locked in that sidecar of his, to that island in Loch … Oh, what's the bloody name of that loch, where the monster is?"
"Loch Ness."
"Yeah, that's it. You'll end up running around in the nude for a week, 'Oh, Mr Warne the Loch Ness Monster's popped up! 'Now, now young Henry, I've told you to call him Willy!'"
"Ah, shut up Pete. I wish I'd never told you now. Promise me you'll keep quiet about it."
"Now, would I say a dickey-bird?"
"I don't want anyone to know what happened. It was probably nufink. And well I sort of… "
"Sort of what?"
"Nufink."
"Bloody hell! You enjoyed it, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't."
"Nice, was it?"
"No! Nufink like that. Just don't tell anyone, Pete. Right?"

The next day someone had chalked "Horny Warny" on the bike shed wall. Then Henry overheard Kenny Handle telling a group of kids that Warny had been seen sitting in his office with his knob out. The graffiti was cleaned off and it all went quiet until Friday when it was Mr Warne's turn to be on playground duty. He was standing half way up the flight of steps leading to the upper floors, where all the teachers stood when they blew the whistle, so that they could see who to shout at for not standing still. Henry couldn't tell who started it but when Mr Warne blew his whistle a lone voice called out, "Horny Warny! Horny Warny!" More joined in, then more and more until all fourteen hundred boys were chanting it. Mr Warne looked angry, scowled around for someone to shout at, or hit. Then he did a strange thing, he sort of crumbled and loped across the playground, like a crouching monkey with his arms wrapped around himself, as though he was holding himself together and might disappear, if only he could get low enough. The crowds of kids ran towards their wounded prey. Suddenly the chant speeded up and changed to, "Horny! Horny!" Mr Warne reached the double gates next to his woodwork room and struggled with a key and padlock as the crowd began to press up against him, their words stabbing, "Horny! Horny!" He slipped behind the gates and disappeared, and the chant gave way to a mighty victory roar, which carried on despite a staircase full of enraged teachers shouting names in a useless attempt to weed out ringleaders. The sudden unexpected roar of Mr Warne's BSA 250 from behind the gates silenced even the posse of teachers and the crash of splintering wood, as Mr Warne's bike and sidecar smashed open the double gates, knocking several children aside, made everyone gasp. The baying pack of wolves turned into a flock of scared children that ran away bleating, as the bike roared through them, slaloming through the up-rights of the open gates and roared off down the road.

"Come." The headmaster's voice churned Henry's stomach. The office was the most comfortable looking room in the whole school, it was the only one with a carpet and easy chairs but the cosiness was a cover; Henry had been here before.
"Sit down, Lowe." said the headmaster. The headmaster had the look of a man who had a piece of gristle in his mouth and was looking for somewhere to spit. He only lost the bitter look when he was talking about his great joy - English grammar.
"Now, Lowe ... Henry, isn't it?" The head was finding it difficult to swallow his gristle. "It has come to my attention that you may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick," Henry shivered at the word, "and consequently have become rather upset by something that... well you needn't have been upset about." Henry had heard the head's opening ploy before. "Have you mentioned this business to your parents?"
"What, sir?"
"I have already spoken to Nichols, so I know exactly what happened. Now, have you spoken to your parents?"
"I don't know, Sir. I ain't told me mum nufink."
"That's very wise, Lowe. Telling people about misunderstandings, often leads to… more misunderstandings. Now, this graffiti has to stop straight away, it's not the sort of behaviour we expect here at William Crookes. It is extremely distasteful. I should punish you severely for it. Boys have been expelled for less."
"It weren't me, Sir."
"We have eyes and ears, Lowe, eyes and ears. For goodness sake, Lowe, the chanting! Why did you start that?"
"That weren't me, neither, Sir."
"You have caused a lot of trouble for yourself, and for everyone in this school but worst of all, Lowe, you have attempted to drag the name of Crookes down into the sewers. But… I propose not to punish you in this instance, provided you promise, that all this disreputable behaviour will stop and that you will not say another word about this… misunderstanding again."
"What about me box, Sir?"
"My box, Lowe. My box."
"But I spent a year making it, Sir, Mr Warne said I could have it after the end of term show and take it home."
"Personal pronouns, Lowe. Remember how we use our personal pronouns."
"It's special, Sir. Julius Caesar walked past it."
"What has Julius Caesar to with anything, Lowe?"
"He walked passed the tree, Sir. What we used to make me box."
"My box? I have told you, you should say, 'It is my box!'"
"But it's yew, Sir."
"Me? What on Earth, are you talking about, boy? In the circumstances, it is probably best to forget all about boxes."
"Mr Warne said it was a thing of beauty."
"Yes, well, as I said I think that there has been a misunderstanding. Now, Mr Warne will not be in school until at least next term, and no one will be using the woodwork room until then. If I were you, boy, I would just forget about beautiful things and concentrate on getting a good reference, which will give you a splendid opportunity for a promising career. "
"But I spent a year making that box. It's got hidden dovetails. They're the hardest joints of all, especially in a difficult wood like yew."
"Just forget about the box, lad. You'll be leaving in a couple of weeks, a job in the docks with your father, I believe?"
"He's not my real dad. He's me mum's boyfriend."
"My, it's my, my mum's boyfriend… oh never mind."
"I don't want to work in the docks. I want to work with wood."
"Before all this misunderstanding, I was thinking of writing you an acceptable testimonial, which you will need for a career in the docks, or wherever. Now, promise me that you will not talk about this to anyone, and let us get back onto the straight and narrow."

That afternoon, at the end of school Henry went to see the metalwork teacher.
"The Headmaster said you'd open the woodwork room for me, Sir," Henry lied, "so I can get me box before the end of term." The metalwork teacher opened the door for Henry. "This is a good piece of work. Going to finish it at home, lad?"

Henry didn't take it home. He stopped off at some waste ground, an old bombsite, lit a fire with some junk wood. He ran his fingers over the lid, and then put the box into the fire. It was slow catching; it's a tough wood yew. The flames began to melt the glue. Henry hated the smell now. He found some dumped tins and threw them onto the fire. Blue paint spilt out covering the box and making the fire flare up. Still he could smell the glue. He lifted up a broken concrete post above his head and smashed it down on to the box, splitting it open and letting the flames reach the tender sapwood inside. Now it began to spit, grunt and grudgingly his box went up in flames.

And now, almost a lifetime later, his new box was completed. The last coat of french polish was dry. The shrapnel in the wood meant that he had to use an angle grinder on the lid. Matt, the coffee table maker, said, "You're learning the wonders of modern power tools, then Henry. I prefer a nice piece of oak, myself, with straight grain. You know where you are with oak. The next thing we'll have to get you using is this new One Coat Gloss. It dries in two hours. How many weeks did you spend french polishing your box? Your box looks good, though but I've never heard of iron being used as a decoration. You can't quite see what it is, can you?"
"It's a lump of shrapnel," said Henry.
"Christ! What are you going to keep in it?" asked Matt, as Henry wrapped his work up in newspaper and placed it in a plastic carrier. "Nothing, really. Just some old memories."

It was a warm summer evening when he made his way by bus across town, then on foot up the hill, through the gates, past the chapel and to the back end of the graveyard. He pulled some ivy from the stone. The inscription read:

Here lie the remains of Arthur Warne, 1918 to 1961. Taken from his loving wife and children, too soon.

Henry took an envelope from his jacket pocket and careful removed a newspaper article. It was faded and falling apart along the folds. He read:

William Crookes Teacher Dies in Motorbike Crash

Arthur Warne had been a prisoner of war for three years after his plane had been shot down over Germany. Until six months ago, when he retired due to ill health, he was the Woodwork teacher at William Crookes Secondary Modern School. He died when his motorcycle and sidecar left the road at over sixty miles an hour hitting the sidewall of a house in Upton Park. Mrs Overall said, 'One moment we were sitting listening to the radio, the next there was a motorbike inside our living room.' Mrs Overall 49 was shaken but unhurt. The coroner, Mr Justice Boroughs-Browning stated that suggestions Arthur Warne took his own life could not be substantiated in the absence of a written note from the deceased.

He carefully replaced the cutting. Mr Warne had died six months after Henry had left school. He had found out about the death not from the papers but when his body had arrived at the funeral parlour. He went off sick that morning but returned in the afternoon to ask the carpenter if he could make the coffin out of yew.
"Yew, lad? No one makes coffins out of yew. Elm, oak or pine, but never heard of a yew coffin. They made longbows from yew, didn't they? No, we'll make him a good solid oak coffin. You have to use the right wood for the job. You know where you are with oak, nice straight grain. Being a carpenter he'd appreciate that."

Henry picked up a couple of small red berries fallen from the tree above, raised them towards his lips, smiled and threw them towards a pair of blackbirds rooting around amongst the leaf litter. "Here you are, eat these and plant them somewhere for us. Don't chew the seeds though, they're poisonous." He unwrapped his box, rubbed the lid with his cuff and ran the back of his hand over it, feeling the hairs on the backs of his fingers tingle. The lid had a depth, like a hologram. The piece of shrapnel in the lid was a starburst of bright steel, an image from deep space, a supernova exploding in a distant swirling blood-red nebula, light years away, a glimpse of a frozen moment in time, reaching him at last, after all those years, and shining through. He could see it clearly now, and it was a thing of real beauty that would last forever.