The Sands

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A light wind ruffled over the deep-blue ocean. The sun, growing even bolder on the sheet of blue overhead. It was determined not to be intimidated by any clouds that had hovered earlier in the day. They had reluctantly drifted away around two hours ago, threatening to be back as they departed, a lot like playground bullies, but in the meantime the beach was bathed in light and warmth. The chills finally gradually lifted off the sands. The Fortune Island squatting on the horizon, looking as if it might cast off any moment and float it's way across the Pacific.

Joseph Lading emerged from out of his shack at the head of the beach, hand curled around the fourth mug of coffee today. The first mug started as he left his miniature stone cottage high up in one of many winding roads that made up the village of Bridgehouse. If he earned a £1 coin for every time someone stuck a note through his door suggesting more than asking if he wanted to sell, he would be able to afford a of the new-build splitting level homes that we're being constructed on the top of the road. The developer's sign proudly boasted that all of phrase one had been sold. There might be a housing slump in the rest of the country, but not here. Not when the air smelled sweeter than any fabric conditioner, the hills were soft and rolling and studded with the fluffiest white sheep, and the view took your breath away. Joseph had never grown tired of it. Not that he'd ever seen much else. His mug of coffee, by dint of a large red heart, might proclaim that he loved New York, but he'd Neve been, and nor did he want to go. It was his daughter who'd brought it back from Christmas shopping. Joseph didn't begrudge her the experience, but he didn't want to share it.

He drained the of the sugary coffee, out down the mug and collected up his tools. Proper tools, with wooden handles that had moulded themselves to fit his hands over the years, smooth and solid beneath his fingers, not like the lightweight plastic efforts they sold now that snapped and bent and buckled as soon as you put them to task. It was all about cost-cutting these days. Shaving down the margins. There was no pride.

To Joseph's mind, there was no point in doing something unless you gave it your best. He never cut corners. He did things properly the old-fashioned way. Someone had sent a flyer round once, undercutting his prices, and a few of the owners had been tempted. Joseph had watched the undercut man trying to hang a new door. It was comical. He felt sorry for him, he was only trying to make a living, but he hadn't a bloody clue.In the end, he'd given up, gone off up country, and Joseph had picked up with the old customers where he'd left off, no hard feelings, nothing said. He wasn't one to bear a grudge.