Screwtop Thompson

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For a long time I lived beside a railway viaduct that took the trains past my house at rooftop level. It was a brick structure almost a quarter of a mile in length, and ran along the far side of our street. This being a busy commercial district, the rail-freight company had at some date closed up the supporting arches and let them out as business premises. Some spaces were rented by wholesalers who used them for warehousing. Others had been converted into workshops. The one opposite me was presently occupied by a joiner called Nesbitt. It was a noisy place, with lathes and power-saws going at all hours of the day, augmented every now and then by the trains trundling overhead. A locomotive pulling a heavy load could make all the buildings vibrate as it went past, but fortunately the line was only used for shunting and therefore traffic was infrequent. To tell the truth, I quite liked all the coming and going. It was nice arriving home in the afternoon and seeing the joiner’s shop in full swing, especially when Nesbitt had a big job underway. On these occasions there would be staircases or window sashes leaning on the outside wall awaiting collection, while he and his two assistants busily prepared the next piece. One of these helpers was a youth who was supposed to be serving an apprenticeship, but seemed actually to spend most of his time sweeping up wood shavings. The other was an old hand called Stanley. Nesbitt’s business methods appeared at first glance chaotic, as he tended to write down his estimates on used envelopes which he then inevitably lost, but the fact that he always had plenty of work was testimony to his basic abilities. I used to go over to the workshop sometimes and have a cup of tea with the three of them.

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