Tad had spent twenty-three days getting ready to build a bench. He'd sorted his tools by size, then by purpose and, on one particularly daft afternoon, by how nice they looked together. He had a gorgeous notebook. The bench was still three planks leaning against a wall.
We found him on his knees, polishing a tiny mark off his hammer. He said he was fine-tuning his method. Outside, Crumb was eating his snack on a stone. His bum had gone numb.
“Not today either?”
Tad pretended he hadn't heard. For weeks he'd been promising him a bench where they could watch the sunset together. Every evening he said tomorrow. Every evening he sat outside on his own for a while.
Then he showed us his latest discovery for turning his life around. Goblin mode. He said it very solemnly, with his blue hat sitting perfectly straight. We had mud in our eyebrows.
“Has that got anything to do with you woodland lot?”
Well, obviously! You humans have given our way of life a catchy name and now you're explaining it back to us. The bloody cheek.
Let's get this straight, though. The phrase caught on as a way of describing shameless comfort and laziness, without pretending your life is perfect. Pyjamas, sofa, crumbs. Some people have also taken it somewhere more hopeful: accepting imperfections, making do and enjoying the muck. Now you're on our doorstep. We Magikitos, the forest Brownies, had that secret weapon long before you invented courses about it.
Tad wanted to know whether you had to get up at five.
“Do what you like. Just don't bloody wake us.”
Crumb poked his head through the window. His red hat flopped to one side, and he had a green patch on his elbow. He looked at the planks, then at the notebook.
“Can you hold this for a second?”
He came in, dragged a plank into the yard and waited. Tad followed with the polishing cloth still in his hand. Crumb put the hammer on top of it.
His first swing bent the nail. His second mangled it completely. Tad threw the hammer into the grass.
“See? This is why I wanted to prepare.”
His face had gone red. We came over to help and he looked away. Then we understood. He wanted that bench so badly. He could already picture Crumb beside him, swinging his feet. But as long as the planks stayed against the wall, nobody could see what a mess he might make of it.
Crumb picked up the hammer and showed him his bandaged thumb.
“I tried putting up a shelf yesterday. The plant lives on the floor now. Hold the plank, will you?”
Tad let out a little laugh and took hold of the wood. We straightened the nail as best we could and tried again. One of us held things, another hammered, and a third gave advice without lifting a finger. We sent that one to fetch water. Worked a treat.
When our hands got tired, we stopped. Crumb lay down in the sunshine. Tad stayed standing, staring at everything still left to do.
“Are we allowed a rest already?”
“Oh, come here, you muppet. The sun isn't checking your notebook.”
He lay down and closed his eyes. For the first time all afternoon, his jaw unclenched. After a while he pointed out a cloud shaped like a bum. We spent ten minutes arguing about whose bum it was. We had our priorities.
When we went back, Tad asked us to hold the plank. This time he was the one asking. We finished the bench towards evening. One leg was too short and there was a hammer dent that looked like a belly button. We checked it, propped up the leg and sat down carefully.
It held.
Crumb gave his feet a couple of little swings. Tad watched them dangling. Then he looked at him and his eyes filled up. He busied himself picking a wood shaving off his sleeve.
“We'll fix the leg tomorrow,” he said.
Crumb rested his head on his shoulder. The sun was going down. At last they were watching it together.
Under the short leg, that gorgeous notebook was doing a bloody brilliant job.