The Cobbler

His work had been walked on since he turned 12 when he took the apprentice job. Mr. Darvish, the local cobbler, had instructed him on how to repair the soles of shoes and after a time he felt capable and confident. He would attend to a client now and again - Widow McIntyre, for instance, came in once every six months or so and she had a tendency to smile with her eyes and make the young men on the street look twice. She was always passing by the shop window but, luckily for Seamus, he was always working and had little time for women of her character. It was a sad shame about Mr. McIntyre, though. Old man Johnson, on the other hand, came in once a week - not just for sole repair, but for conversation and carrying a slow sigh. When the boy was young, he remembered Old man Johnson by the sigh.

The bell hanging from the doorway to the shop in East Mickmack rang while the hinges lent their accompanying squeak. Seamus, looking up from his bent over position, noticed the haberdasher as he came in, walked to the counter and sighed with his whole body. Old man Johnson, he thought. The boy was 13 at the time.

"Afternoon, Mr. Johnson."

"Aye. Afternoon. You got any old leathers lying 'round the store I can take home? For the pup, you see."

"Oh, I think I can find something, sir. Let me ask Mr. Darvish to be certain, though."

"No, no. No need. Nevermind it then."

The two of them sat and talked for half an hour about the trout and how they were biting, about the time it took for the sun to set in the evenings now, and the way Mr. Johnson's horses were reacting to the new feed. At the end of that time, the old man shook his feeble frame once more and was on his way.

As Seamus sat back down to his work, he sighed too. Thanks be to Mr. Johnson for breaking up the work.