Taking up one of her screw drivers, she stepped around to the empty space of sand. A quick feeling of the grains, checking the clay texture it held, before dampening it. It was there that she pressed the length of the screw driver into the sand, casting an impression of it before withdrawing. Smoothing away the handle, she replaced where the joining grip would be with a circular nut. Satisfied, she repeated the process with a knife and a claw-ended can opener; on each she rubbed out the handle and placed in the circular nut. She eyeballed the shape of the can opener briefly, ensuring it had enough of a point before pulling herself away.
While the furnace continued to do its work, Gale opened up the shutters. The light of the Dry Season poured in, the sounds of the streets as pedestrians passed by. The forge doors were hooked back, a few greeting nods as the already filthy - from shoveling in charcoal and preparing the fire - smith went to work. She could not remember the last time she washed, but she knew the smell of smoke and metal masked most of it. Tucking in her shirt and rolling up her sleeves, she claimed the leather apron from the row of hooks – her own ragged coat and scarf hanging there too.
Later.
It was the constant sound of the wheel grinding, the foot pressing the peddle as she tended to some other jobs. The butcher’s meat cleaver was one of them, a hefty piece of iron that was due its yearly sharpen. The sandstone wheel prepared, the edge marked up, there were a few chips in the edge that would be smoothed out in the process. A hum of noise, she focused on getting an even edge on both sides as she squinted at it through the lenses of her goggles. After the first go at it she stopped, wiped the fine residue off with a cloth and studying what she had achieved so far.
“What you making today Mister Saunders?”
His gaze looked up. Peering in through the open shutters were a couple of the local children; Mark and Eleanor, twins if she remembered correctly. Too young to work, but old enough to look after themselves and get into mischief. They were watching with curiosity, for how long she did not know. Not that she had anything to hide either.
“I’m not making right now,” they showed them the cleaver, “But I am sharpening Mister Thompsons tools.”
“Oh!” the girl seemed excitable then, the dark locks whipping round to face her brother, “That’s why he told Ma to come back later!”
“That would probably be why. Anyway, I’ve got to get this done so your Ma has something later.”
She began grinding the cleaver again, not pausing as the small voice of the boy picked up, “Can we come in and watch?”
“Aye, sure, don’t come too close though – and no touching the sand.”
Whatever the children found fascinating about the process was beyond her. She distinctly remembered finding it mind numbing watching her father work. Though, she imagined the pair was more interested in the variety of tools and implements that were hung upon the wall. Slowing her peddling down she withdrew the cleaver before making her way over to the workstation. She paused briefly on her journey to see how the steel was melting, and settled up on one of the stools.
“Is that is done?”
“No, need to use the whetstone now. The grindstone helped me get it started; whetstone helps me get it nice and fine.” She placed a large block of stone in front of her, a darker colouration of a coarse grit on the surface. Pinching the edge in one hand and holding the handle in the other, she began the process of sliding the blade forward, a low hum rumbling from her throat as she did.