three stories not about birds: crane 2052

I wrote this in spring 2020, because I read that if you write a story a week at the end of the year you have 52 stories and it's unlikely they'll all be completely without merit. It's unedited, and I do know which parts of it are clunky. I pasted together all four stories and put it on Kindle Direct Publishing, where it made about £4.50.

In March 2025 I'm off Amazon, so here you go.

On Tuesdays, Mr Soon took out and folded the laundry that had been spun overnight, listened to young Julianne next door play Holst very well on her cello, and drew cities he remembered from his childhood. On a Tuesday in late April, he did all this while looking out of his open window at the birds’ nest in the crook of his shed’s guttering. Rain had knocked it slant, and he wondered if he should go and reach up to straighten it or if that would upset the bird tenants.

He drew a very large nest on the roof of a little terraced shop in the foreground of his city. If it were real, it would have been built out of sticks the size of broom handles. He added a cloud in the sky and lightning rods to the office buildings in the middle ground.

Mr Soon smiled at his drawing, put it in a flat box with a stack of others and pulled his metalworking tray towards him. Mrs Tiler, the glass maker, had asked for twenty lightbulb filaments to be coiled out of good wire and tested, in exchange for a second magnifying glass to replace his scratched one. This had seemed obviously fair to Mr Soon, so he had not bargained with her at all.

He leaned in close to his desk while he coiled the little wires. Spring sunlight shone on his deft hands and on his tin of brushes and tools. More than thirty years previously, as a young man, he had painted enormous multicoloured murals of scenery, stretching bird-bright streaks of paint to the very edges of his ambition. After everything changed, he found that he had a natural gift for small work. He mended locks, cut tiny cogs for old clockwork, twirled wire into filaments and dynamos and bracelets.

In late winter before the farm animals had their young Mr Soon travelled further out into the country to fix fencing that had become damaged by wind and ice, with a little backpack brazier and a belt of tools.

In early winter the farmers sent him his payment, cut into steaks and chops, packed in salt and sawdust and snow.

In late autumn old ladies visited him to have their jewellery cleaned, mended and sometimes reset in more modern metalwork, before they went to shine it in people’s eyes at family parties. Sometimes they brought their daughters or granddaughters with them to advise on design, and sometimes these visits ended in arguments. On these occasions Mr Soon pretended to examine the smiths’ marks on the jewellery very closely and intently.

After the tenth lightbulb filament cooled into its shape, Mr Soon straightened up and stretched out his shoulders and neck. He deliberately yawned, focused his eyes on an imaginary point far outside the room and counted backwards from seventeen breaths out. Then he let his eyes soften into the room again and stood.

Next door, young Julianne drew out an ending note like toffee, and peace crept in at the edges.

Mr Soon went to the washroom, where a clean cotton shirt and trousers hung on wires over the tub. Their creases from being folded had dropped out overnight, he noted happily. He would look smart enough.

He cleaned his nails and rubbed swirls of softening liniment into the skin on each knuckle. Leaning in over the sink, his face very close to the back-speckled mirror, he applied more softening oil to his cheeks and jaw before shaving carefully.

The boiled water in the kettle, from his earlier tea, was a delightful temperature for rinsing his face, and he looked approvingly at his reflection when he was done. He dried his hands precisely before going back to his desk to fold a crane.

Tuesday’s crane’s square of paper was cut from a flower seed catalogue. The paper was unbleached, uncoated, and printed in only black and green ink.

Mr Soon washed again and changed out of his work clothes into the smooth cotton shirt and trousers. He put canvas boots on, picked up his wallet and left his flat with plenty of time to walk to the tea shop for his meeting.

Outside, Mr Soon’s street looked bright and fresh after the night’s rain. It smelt of warm engines and sawdust, batter and sugar, and he could still hear young Julianne’s cello practice until he was seven front doors away from home. A pet shop drowned her out there, its neatly-hooked racks of caged birds trilling and scuffling. He looked in through the shop’s window at a broad-shouldered young pale brown lizard, who gave him a contented nod and closed its eyes.

Next to that, a blue door led to the flats above the pet shop, but after that the next door was to the tailor’s. Mr Lockyer was leaning in his doorway in a sunbeam, his bright sleeves rolled up to the elbow, watching people pass by.

“Good morning, Mr Soon,” he said. “You look smart today.”

Mr Soon smiled and slightly bowed. “Thank you, it’s the good stitching on these trousers that makes me look so fine.”

“That must be it. Where are you going today?” asked Mr Lockyer.

“For tea with Mrs Mason.”

“Oh, young Julianne’s aunt?” Mr Lockyer said, unfolding his arms in interest.

"Yes. I must get on," said Mr Soon, walking away while still politely smiling at his neighbour. He turned right at a corner and deliberately unfocused his eyes away from people's faces, as though he were deep in calculation.

As it happened, nobody else greeted him on the rest of the short walk to the tea shop. He carefully dropped his protectively thoughtful expression as he entered, in case it offended the staff.

Indoors, Mrs Mason, wearing dark orange, waved cheerfully at him from a table against the back wall. "Mr Soon!" she said, happily. "How are you today? So kind of you to meet me."

"It was kind of you to invite me, Mrs Mason." Mr Soon said, bobbing his head as he took the chair facing her across a small table. He tugged at the knees of his cotton trousers as he sat down, so that they would remain neat. "I'm perplexed that we could not take tea at Julianne's as usual, but it is always nice to see you."

"Well," said Mrs Mason, leaning conspiratorially across the table, "I do have a reason. Shall we discuss the weather and how smart you look and how charming I look first, or shall we progress?"

"You do look very -" began Mr Soon, but she flapped her hand at him impatiently.

"Of course, of course. Now, do you think Julianne is a good musician?"

He blinked a little. "Yes, I do."

"Do you think she's improving constantly?"

"I don't know. I never hear her make mistakes any more," Mr Soon offered, unsure of his part in the conversation.

"No, I think she is as good as she will get, and I appreciate that, but she is young and she needs more than one gift. Imagine if she damaged her hearing, or her hands, if she was only good at music!"

Mr Soon was very uncomfortable, but obediently imagined this. "That would be terrible!"

Mrs Mason tapped his forearm delightedly. "I knew you'd agree with me. So she should live with me in town for a year and learn dressmaking!"

He blinked rather more.

"And you should come too, so that she has someone with her when she's lost and feeling small. When I first moved into the town I had a schoolfriend with me, who was a great comfort."

"Are you still friends?" Mr Soon asked faintly.

"Naturally! We both married and she has grown children." The tea arrived at the table and Mrs Mason fell quiet as she poured both their cups.

“So you must convince her,” said Mrs Mason, after the quiet, as though they had been agreeing. “You and I know she will benefit from seeing more of the world - my town is no capital but at least it doesn’t close for weddings.”

Mr Soon smiled absently, looking down at his thumb tracing a spiral in a wet patch on the glossy table.

“Mr Soon!”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you remember the time I visited and nowhere was open for lunch?”

“Yes! Mr Pollard’s wedding. They are very well, thank you.”

Mrs Mason looked at him shrewdly, but decided to move on. “She will want to stay where she is. She’ll want to believe that your villagers will always be willing and able to trade her goods for music, but you and I know she can’t rely on that.”

“Do we?”

“You’re very sweet, Mr Soon, but when everything changed you had the sense to make practical things and let people see you could be useful. I’ve seen your paintings. There are men with less talent than you who are still paying their lodgings with art. Eventually, cooks and tailors run out of wall.”

Mr Soon tilted his head. “But that isn’t the limit of music. Julianne can play for people every night and they never run out of ears.”

“She’ll still have that option if she learns how to make clothes in the day. Mr Soon, you mustn’t think I’m saying the arts aren’t valuable. I’m only saying I never want my niece to be hungry, and we’re old enough to know that in some years, people stop paying for music and painting.”

Mr Soon drank his tea, thinking.

“You lived in a city, before things changed?” Mrs Mason asked conversationally. “I have a friend in the town library. She found an interview with you that was printed in an art magazine in the twenties.”

“That’s very clever of her.” Mr Soon said politely. “I was only ever in magazines of very limited circulation. I hope I said sensible things.”

“I imagine so, I don’t remember them. Perhaps while you live in town you will paint again?”

Mr Soon began to say something neutral, but was interrupted by a sudden vivid memory of scarlet acrylic paint sweeping extravagantly across a white wall. He looked down at his right hand, almost surprised to see his cuticles and knuckles free of paint.

“Perhaps you’ll paint something in my shop, among the dresses and suits.” Mrs Mason watched him intently, trying to work out if he was about to agree. “There are enough rooms above for Julianne’s cello and your paint.”

*

On the first day in town, Mr Soon woke abruptly, joints tense from a day's travel. The new bed was good but the wrong side of the room. He lay flat and listened for birds but heard only the scrapes and chatter of deliveries. Mrs Mason's home was above her shop on a street of shops.

Mr Soon rolled out of bed where there ought to have been a wall and stepped to the middle of the unused space, where he stretched slowly, concentrating on his breath.

He picked up the amber slip of paper that was his travel ticket, creased and tore off enough to make a square, and folded it into a crane.

He put a robe on over his pyjamas and padded along the corridor to Julianne's door, where he knocked.

"Mr Soon?" she asked faintly.

"Yes. May I visit?"

"Yes, come in."

He pushed the door. Julianne was sitting on her made bed, dressed for the day except for shoes, hugging her knees.

"Did you sleep well?" Mr Soon asked, politely.

"Yes, thank you. It's quieter than I expected."

"I believe the window frames are of a high quality." Mr Soon sat down on a white chair, careful not to dislodge the leaning cello case. "I think we should add colour to our rooms."

*

On the fifth day in town, Mr Soon woke in a better temper, but still took some minutes to stretch before putting on his robe and going to Julianne's room. He knocked and she called out, "Come in!"

She sat at her desk, turning brightly to face him as he entered. "Good morning, Mr Soon! I'm copying patterns for a bag. Look!"

He leaned over to see her sketches on pale green paper. "These are very elegant. I recognise the instructions for folding."

"I wondered if they were the same." Julianne sat back, regarding her illustrations happily. "Would you like one of these pages for today's crane?"

Mr Soon smiled and nodded, accepting a sketch-covered square and creasing it carefully between his thumbs. A green crane took form.

"Will you paint more of my cellist today?" Julianne asked.

Both turned to look at the outline on the bedroom wall. Mr Soon had held his loaded brush a long time before letting it touch the clean wall, but then the line of a woman's neck and lifted arm had flowed as though he had always been painting it.

"No, today I am painting on the shop's steps, for Mrs Mason's customers to see. I think I will paint branches with birds' nests on."

"I miss seeing nests, too."

*

On the eleventh day Mr Soon woke, stretched, drank cool flat-tasting water from an aluminium bottle he had bought in town two days before, dressed for the day and sat at his new workbench.

He folded a crane from a square of red tissue paper. It had been part of the packaging in a shop delivery of wooden beads. The crane was flimsier than the other ten and couldn't stand up on its corners, so he leaned it against a sturdier one in the little flock on his shelf.

Mr Soon slid a small tray of pliers and wire towards him, thinking about making a bracelet.

Unusually cheerful music began to pour from Julianne's room, as though the cello had slept well and was skipping. Mr Soon stood, checked his hair and face in his wall mirror, and left his room.

The corridor between their doors was no longer all white, but a channel of sun-sparkling silver glints on intense sea-blue waves, with a pencil-drawn outline of a sailing ship waiting to be painted in.

"Good morning, Mr Soon!" Julianne called out, not pausing in her music. "Will you give my cellist her necklace today?"

"Yes, I found a design of square emeralds in one of your aunt's catalogues. I believe it will suit her."

"I love emeralds!"

*

On the twenty-first day Mr Soon woke with homesickness as strong as a toothache. He lay very still in the centre of his bed, his eyes shut tight to keep tears in, and tried to lift his mind up through the white ceiling, through the tiled roof, into the cool blue air.

"You are ungrateful," he told himself, out loud. "A cultured woman has given you a home and paint and a seat at her table."

His voice trembled in the room.

Outside, town people called out confidently to each other.

Mr Soon did not shave and dress until midday, and after that he went to sit near Julianne in her seat in the sewing room.

He watched her musical hands assemble rows of small beads on a cotton jacket and sew them on with thread so fine it was as though they were held together only by someone's wish for decoration.

When Mrs Mason left the sewing room for the shop to welcome a customer, Julianne said quietly, "You're not happy today, Mr Soon?"

"I am trying to be."

"So am I."

They looked at each other.

Julianne put her sewing down carefully, reached for a stack of pattern paper, and said, "Show me again how to fold cranes. I might get to a hundred this time."

*

On the fifty-first day Mr Soon sat at his desk and made three cranes, one after another, not looking up in between them. He used a sheet of white tissue paper from a delivery, a nearly-white waxed-paper wrapper from a sweet bun he had bought, and a pale green bus ticket someone had left on a bench.

He had too many cranes to flock on his windowsill, so a few days earlier he had borrowed a slim piece of wire and stacked them all on it, piercing them through the crests of their backs like beads.

After he dressed and shaved and looked long into his mirror, he went down into the shop to continue adding detail to the decorations he had made on the stair risers.

With a very fine brush, Mr Soon added cracks to two of the blue eggs in a nest on a cherry tree branch.

Young Julianne came in from an appointment looking fresh and cool despite the bright sun outside. He moved his paints out of her way and she passed him without comment. She was carrying a dress bag that rustled with lace.

Mr Soon bent to his work again, his hands not wavering, and added a small amount of sun-scorched umber to the edges of some of the cherry petals.

*

On the hundred and first day, after making seven cranes in orange waxed paper from a box of expensive biscuits, Mr Soon was in the shop from the time it opened. Mrs Mason had arranged for him to be interviewed by a young city-haired man from a magazine about the Arts.

Mrs Mason said, "Let me bring the little table from the kitchen out here, and then you can drink tea in the sun!"

The man from the magazine said, "Thank you very much, Mrs Mason, you have been very kind."

Mr Soon said, "Mrs Mason is always very kind. I am grateful for the opportunity to live here and decorate the shop."

"Do you find your paintings influenced by the clothing for sale?" asked the young man.

Mr Soon thought about that, looking at the ceiling. "Yes, I believe they are. I enjoy colour, and many of these costumes combine colours I wouldn't naturally mix on a flat surface."

Mrs Mason returned with a small table, beaming proudly, and set it between their two chairs. "Mr Soon has such a wonderful gift in blues and greens, I hope your photographer caught the details of his work here."

"I'm sure he did, madam," said the man from the magazine, affectionately. "We like to show artists at their best."

*

On the hundred and second day, Mr Soon tried again to lift his mind up out of his bed, through the ceiling - which was now a very pale blue, with clouds like distant music - and through the tiled roof into the autumn sky. He tried to send himself across country, flying silently above a grey road to his village, and down through his own slate roof, his own yellow ceiling, into his own old bed.

In late afternoon, after she finished sewing and before she returned to her cello, Julianne took him a tray of tea and homemade spiced biscuits and sat beside his bed.

"I want to help, Mr Soon," she said.

"I don't know what I need, I'm afraid," said Mr Soon, gaze fixed on his ceiling.

"I bought you a notebook. I thought you'd like to be able to draw while lying down."

"Have there been so many lying-down days?" Mr Soon asked, surprised.

"Here, I chose a grey pen. You can make it darker and lighter with pressure, it will feel almost like painting." Julianne said instead of answering.

Mr Soon accepted the gifts from her, and felt the smooth paper with his thumb. "This is very good. Thank you. What would you like me to draw?"

"My own room, at home?"

*

On the first day back in the village Mr Soon woke and didn't believe he had woken. The wind in the trees sounded just as it did in his memories; the patter of birds' feet on his roof and the crunch of human feet passing in the street were all too perfect.

He shifted his legs, experimentally, and felt the correct weight of his own sheets against his shins.

The other side of the wall, Julianne's cello hummed deeply as she lifted it from its case.