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The Builder
by David Frankel
EXCERPT
He’s coming. Approaching via the old turnpike, across the hill — the old road. No one comes that way anymore, not on purpose. It’s difficult to guess how far he’s come, how long he’s been walking; he is dressed as if for a long journey but he carries nothing with him.
At the boundary gate he stops, leaning on the post as though he’s waiting for something, or maybe too tired to continue. He stands at the gate until the sun dips behind the ridge. The light dies first in the hollows where the stream cuts through the valley. Shadows collect in the cupped basins of dark water in the boggy fields, and under the short, bitter-leafed trees. They reach out from the folds of the dry stone walls, creeping outwards to join and spread along the steep hillsides.
When the shadow of the fell reaches him, he climbs the gate quickly, seemingly reminded of his purpose, and follows the track towards the house. The buildings seem at odds with their surroundings, misplaced. The house’s heavy stillness seems separate from the motion of the trees and long grass around it, as though it exists in its own world, separate from the wind whipping at the land.
The main part of the house is made from cut grey stone, with tall windows and a wide front door. At one end of the main structure is an added wing, still old but roughly constructed of undressed stone. From it, small windows stare piggy-eyed across the back yard to a line of wooden sheds and an old stone byre. Beside them is a small garden where a rope that might once have been a child’s swing hangs limply from a sycamore tree. His eyes linger on it for a moment as he hesitates briefly at the back door, before he turns the handle and pushes it open. …
… Read the complete story in our anthology Broken Ground.
David Frankel
David Frankel’s short stories have been shortlisted in numerous competitions including The Commonwealth Prize, The Bristol Prize, The Bridport Prize, The Society of Authors’ ALCS Tom-Gallon Trust Award, and the Fish Memoir Prize.
