Part five



Grandad Marsh was a tall, striking man, a trait that Pugdeon had not inherited. He had worked in a sawmill where he lost four and a half fingers to the machines he operated. On the rare occasions Pugdeon opened the box that housed his keepsakes and trinkets he lingered on how remarkable a man his late mothers father must have been.

 
It was a box befitting priceless treasures. Made from off cuts of river red gums chosen by his Grandfather. Halving joints, from Pugdeon's experience, were tricky to perfect at the best of times. With four and a half less digits than normal and worn tools that had been discarded along with off cuts, the hinged perfectly joined and latched box was no less than superb. Without a doubt, thought Pugdeon, Grandad must have been one very remarkable man.

The scent of the bush where Pugdeon had grown up was not the least of the things he kept in that box, although done so by default. His Grandfathers harmonica, one small blue lace glove that had belonged to his mother when she was a child, numerous scraps of paper with his fathers handwriting, one half used bottle of aftershave retrieved from his fathers top dressing table drawer the day he died, and a precisely folded incredible paper plane.