Mr Little's last

Until I left school for good and joined them, adults bored me. They talked about politics, food rationing and events which happened pre-war, none of which impinged on my often imaginary world.

Mr Little, the local cobbler, was different. Spry, eternally in motion, he welcomed me to his solitary and esoteric workshop, listened to what I had to say, commented, then added his own thoughts, just as if we were the same age. It all happened more than seventy years ago but I seem to remember discussing the attractions of the countryside and of biking.

As he talked he worked, trimming the overlap of a newly attached shoe sole, the hook knife slicing through thick leather as if it were uncooked pie crust. In the corner stood his roller press, lower roller concave, upper roller convex; it impressed a shallow dent on to a shoe sole for reasons I have never investigated.

Mountains of discarded leather offcuts rose from every work surface. On a shelf, covered in thick dust, was a pair of brogues, brought in for repair and never redeemed. The pungent smell of leather has lasted me a lifetime.

It was Mr Little’s own peculiar universe, a rarity for other unrelated reasons. How few adults have the ability to address young people as equals; most patronise, wag an admonitory finger, jollify falsely. I am guilty of all these defects. Yet Mr Little (I’m ashamed to admit I can’t be sure of his surname) responded enthusiastically, revealing he had shared my experience, demonstrating an unspoken bond.

Those few conversations, which ended when I was 12 and moved from the area, must have affected me beneficially, though I can’t say how. But I feel the warmth even now. See his face lighting up. So here’s his tribute.

See also the explanatory re-comment regarding our recent whereabouts.