My dad's Navy tool chest ...

Helping my dad put away the shopping trolley, I saw his old Navy tool chest, stowed away at the back of the immaculate garage, with its rows of shiny garden forks and the gleaming lawnmower - 

My dad had made the tool chest himself - he'd taken it on board the ships he served on - he was a deft young shipwright, arguing with the padre - 

The chest was part of my boyhood - there it was in the garden shed, with my dad's name stencilled on the side - 

We moved three times - each address marked a different stage in my parents' lives - each road had its own unique characteristics - 

There was an alley behind Sedgeley Grove full of jungly bushes where skinny boys could hide in their dens - opposite our house in Palmyra Road was a wool shop where mum had a part time job - I can still smell the rich, oily, scent of the wool - one of our neighbours in Helsted Close read Homes and Gardens - she used to give me a wafer of cream cake, laid upon a tiny china plate - 

Inside the tool chest was a rich hoard of chisels, hammers and hand drills - I treasured the placid wooden box plane - my dad once made me a wooden fort, with four towers and neat crenellations - I tucked my head under his arm even as he cut and sawed the thin wood - 

Seeing the tool chest, I felt like a boy again, shivering in my grey short trousers,  my knees badged with bruises - my dad was no longer a small bent figure - I saw him, once again, sweeping a chisel through wood with the brio of a bullfighter swirling his cape -