Read Chapter 6: — HOME WITHOUT HIDING

Daniel asked him to come back to Willowbrook for a while.

This time Martin did not wear sunglasses or a cap.

Willowbrook lay on the edge of the Somerset Levels, a scattered village of stone cottages, damp meadows, willow beds and narrow roads that flooded every winter. Martin had once treated it as the place he escaped from. Now he noticed what he had missed.

Too many houses were dark.

The primary school had closed. The old village hall opened twice a week. Young adults had moved to Bristol, Bath, London or farther. Older residents lived among memories, waiting for children to visit at Christmas.

Daniel still grew vegetables and cut willow. His limp had worsened but his hands were strong.

On their first morning together, he served Martin two boiled eggs, toast, apple chutney and coffee.

"Mum would be furious at that coffee," Martin said.

"Mum thought instant coffee was foreign corruption."

They laughed.

Later Martin walked through the village and met Arthur Bell, eighty-one, leading three geese along the verge.

"Back for good?" Arthur asked.

"Don't know yet."

"Good. Means there's hope. Men who say 'for good' usually leave by Tuesday."

Arthur's son worked nights in a warehouse near Swindon. His pension barely covered heating. A cataract blurred one eye. He missed the days when everyone in the village had a task that mattered.

"We're not poor exactly," Arthur said. "We're unnecessary. That's worse."

The sentence followed Martin home.

Daniel had been repairing an old wicker hen basket beside the shed.

Martin lifted it.

"Who still makes these?"

"Almost nobody."

"Who knows how?"

"Half the old people here. Badly."

"Badly can be trained."

Daniel groaned. "I know that look."

"What look?"

"The one that cost a bank manager his hair."

Martin turned the basket in his hands.

"What if we don't make hen baskets? What if we make garden baskets, log carriers, lampshades, dog beds, storage trunks, hotel pieces? Willowbrook is sitting on a material, a skill and a story."

Daniel shook his head.

"You came home to rest."

"I am resting. This is how my brain rests."

"That's clinically worrying."

By dinner Martin had sketched twelve products.

By breakfast he had named the business.

Sunward Weaves.

Daniel stared at the page.

"You haven't asked if I want to run it."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Good. We'll discuss it after lunch."