Istra Harn: Room on the Bench

The house above the river

Istra Harn repairs small river boats in Reedbank. Her workshop stands below the raised ground occupied by most houses, close enough to the water for hauling hulls onto timber supports. At fifty-seven, she knows which tasks hurt her hands the following morning and remains capable of doing them anyway. Her husband, Baret, repairs household stoves. Their businesses share a store of fastenings and a long-running disagreement about who used the last decent length of wire.

They live in a narrow house with a rear garden, a stove that works exceptionally well and cupboards containing more jars than either admits owning. Their grown daughter writes from another settlement. Istra keeps the letters beside the bed and answers them after Baret has gone to sleep, when she can take her time choosing what to mention. She grows climbing beans, likes pickled river fish and reserves a little money for the travelling musicians who occasionally play above the market.

Her customers bring fishing boats, produce skiffs and battered craft whose history is more certain than their ownership. She charges in silver for most work, sometimes accepting useful materials by agreement. Income rises and falls with the river trade. A dry boat means work can continue, so a repair delayed is somebody else's missed market as well as her own unpaid time. She wants to keep the workshop open without teaching her body to resent it.

A hand offered

The cracked plank would not settle against its neighbour. Istra eased the clamp, shifted the support and tried again. Pain travelled from her thumb into her wrist. She released the handle and rested both hands on the hull, waiting for it to pass.

Outside, Osen was bringing back a borrowed saw. He was twenty-three, earned irregular wages unloading river cargo and had helped her move several boats. He stopped beside the supports. 'Want me on that end?'

'You can hold it. Don't lean.' Istra placed his hands where she needed them. He waited for her signal, moved when she asked and stopped when she said enough. The plank settled. It was an annoyingly straightforward improvement.

Osen watched her mark the fastening positions. 'I'd like to learn that.' His eyes stayed on the pencil. He had asked about work twice before and made both requests sound like jokes.

Istra almost told him to keep unloading cargo. It required less patience, and she would not have to admit how long it took her to explain something she could feel through her fingertips. Instead, she asked which mornings he could promise. They agreed on two paid trial mornings, subject to the repair orders she had available. She named the pay before he could offer to work for nothing.

At supper, Baret listened while she described the arrangement. 'You'll need another stool,' he said. Istra looked towards his workshop. He recognised the look. 'One with all its legs,' he added, and went back to his stew.

The boat goes back

On Osen's second morning, Istra gave him a scrap plank and asked him to practise fitting a fastening. His first attempt split the edge. He swore, glanced at her and began apologising. 'That's why it's a scrap,' she said. She showed him where to drill, then let him choose a fresh spot.

They lowered the repaired skiff into the river after midday. Its owner waited with a coil of rope, running a finger over a patch Istra had made two seasons earlier. Osen stayed on the bank while Istra checked the inside of the hull. A damp thumbprint beneath the new plank dried instead of spreading. She watched a little longer before nodding.

The owner paid the balance and pulled away. Osen followed the boat with his eyes until it rounded the bend. Istra recognised the look. A finished repair could stay in the mind for years, travelling waterways its maker might never see.

She counted Osen's wages at the workbench and entered the smaller remainder in her book. The job had brought her less money than if she had done it alone. Her wrist had also stopped aching before supper. Both belonged in the calculation.

That evening, she and Baret ate in the garden. He had built the stool from sound offcuts and set it beside the workshop door. Istra thanked him. For a while they watched a bee worry at the bean flowers. Then Baret asked whether Osen had found the missing wire.

Where we leave her

Osen has earned two mornings' wages and been offered two more when the next confirmed boat arrives. Istra has gained help without promising work she cannot afford. She has begun a list of tasks she can teach, leaving space beside each for the mistakes worth practising on scraps. In her next letter, she tells her daughter about the new stool.

The boat she would not release

The next confirmed boat arrived with a split hidden beneath a patch of roofing compound. Istra scraped the edge clean and watched the timber move where it should have held still. Osen crouched beside her without touching it.

'How much?' the owner asked.

She named the work, then the cost. He looked towards the river. A basket of unsold greens sat in the boat, leaves already softening in the heat.

'I need it for two crossings. Then you can do the rest.'

Istra knew the request. Her wrist ached, the week's orders were thin, and she could see exactly how to make the patch look respectable. She could also see the joint opening when the loaded hull twisted.

'I'll help unload it,' she said. 'I won't tell you it's safe.'

'I didn't ask for a sermon.'

'Good. I haven't priced one.' The words came out harder than she intended. Osen glanced away. She set down the scraper and made herself explain the split without the anger.

The owner listened. He did not become grateful. Another repairer might accept a temporary job, he said, and reached for the painter.

Istra stepped back. It was his boat; she had no authority to confiscate it. She asked him to remove the greens before moving it. Osen carried the baskets up to the shade while the owner went to find another pair of hands.

The morning she had promised Osen was already spent. She paid him for it, watching the workshop money become smaller without leaving a repaired boat behind.

'I still owe you tomorrow,' she told him. 'We'll sort the sound timber and make up repair pieces. After that, I need another confirmed order.'

Osen counted the coins once. 'I'll ask at the unloading stage for the days after.' He said it matter-of-factly, which hurt more than disappointment would have.

That evening Baret found her still at the bench. He had brought bread, pickled fish and the wire she had accused him of losing.

'Behind your jars,' he said, setting it down.

She should have been pleased to have it. Instead, she began to cry, briefly and furiously. Baret pulled the sound stool beside hers and waited. The boat's painter had left a wet mark on the boards. Neither of them pretended to know where it would be tomorrow.