***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof*** Copyright © 2019 Hazel Prior 1 Dan A woman came to the barn today. Her hair was the color of walnut wood. Her eyes were the color of bracken in October. Her socks were the color of cherries, which was noticeable because all the rest of her clothes were sad colors. She carried an enormous shoulder bag, canvas. It had a big buckle (square), but it was hanging open. The woman''s mouth was open too. She was shifting from one foot to the other by the door so I told her to come in.

The words came out a bit mangled due to the fact that I was wearing my mask. She asked what I''d said, so I took it off and also took off my earmuffs and I said it again. She came in. Her socks were very red indeed. So was her face. "I''m sorry to be so rude, but I''m gobsmacked." She did look it, to be honest. "Did you .

you didn''t, did you . make all these?" I told her yes. "Wow! I just can''t believe it!" she said, looking round. I asked her why not. "Well, it''s not exactly what you expect to find in the middle of nowhere! I''ve been past the end of your lane so many times and I just had no idea that all this was here!" I put my earmuffs and mask on the workbench and informed her that indeed, all this was here. Perhaps I should have pointed out as well that this is not the middle of nowhere. Not at all. Exmoor is the most somewhere place that I know and my workshop is an extremely somewhere part of it.

I did not say this, though. It would have been rude to contradict her. Morning light was pouring in on us from the three windows. It outlined the sloping rafters. It floodlit the curls of wood shavings. It silvered the edges of the curves and arcs all around us and made strung shadows on the floor. The woman was shaking her head so that the walnut-colored hair bounced around her face. "How lovely! They''re beautiful, so beautiful! It is like a scene from a fairy tale.

And how strange that I''ve stumbled across this place today of all days!" Today is Saturday, September 9, 2017. Is that a particularly strange day to stumble across a Harp Barn? I smiled politely. I wasn''t sure if she wanted me to ask why it was strange. Lots of people find things strange that I don''t find strange at all, and lots of people don''t find strange the things that I find very strange indeed. The woman kept looking at me and then gazing around the barn and then back at me again. Then she pulled on the strap of her canvas bag to rearrange it in a different way over her shoulder and said: "Do you mind my asking, have you been here long?" I informed her that I''d been here for one hour and forty-three minutes. Before that I was out in the woods, having my walk. She smiled and said: "No, I mean, have you had this place a long time? As a workshop?" I told her I came here when I was ten years old and I was now thirty-three years old, so that meant (I explained in case her math was not very good) that I''d been here for twenty-three years.

"No! I just can''t believe it!" she said again. She seemed to have a problem believing things. She shook her head slowly. "I think I must be in a dream." I offered to pinch her. She laughed. Her laugh was interesting: explosive and a little bit snorty. The next thing that happened was I went across and shook her hand because that is what you are supposed to do.

You are not supposed to do pinching. I knew that really. "My name is Dan Hollis, the Exmoor Harpmaker," I said. "Pleased to meet you. I''m Ellie Jacobs, the Exmoor . housewife." "Housewife" does not mean you are married to a house. It means you are a woman who is married to a husband and your husband goes off to work every day and you don''t go off to work at all but embark on house dusting, house hoovering and various ironing and washing duties and other things that happen in a house, and in fact you aren''t really expected to go out of the house at all except to get yourself to a supermarket and then you go up and down the aisles with a trolley and a list looking sad.

What a lot of things are embedded in that housewife word. "It''s funny," she mused, her eyes wandering around the barn again. "Harp playing was on my list." I asked if she meant her shopping list. She paused and looked at me with arched eyebrows. "No, my before-forty list. Lots of people have them, apparently. You know--the list of things to do before you reach the age of forty.

Like swimming with dolphins and seeing the Great Wall of China." I asked if she had swum with dolphins and she said no. I asked if she had seen the Great Wall of China and she said no. Then she added that she had a few years to go yet. I asked her how many, but she didn''t answer. Perhaps I shouldn''t have asked her that. There are lots of things you are not supposed to ask, and I fear that might be one of them. So I changed my question and asked her what would happen if she didn''t manage to swim with dolphins or see the Great Wall of China or play the harp before she reached the age of forty.

She said, "Nothing." We were silent for a bit. "It smells lovely in here," she commented finally. "I love the smell of wood." I was glad she had noticed it because most people don''t, and I was glad that she appreciated it because most people don''t. Then she gestured toward the harps. "They''re utterly exquisite," she said. "Will you tell me something about them?" I told her yes.

I informed her that they are Celtic-style traditional harps and they would have been fairly widespread in Britain during the Middle Ages, especially in the north and west. I told her I had carved the Elfin from my own design out of the sycamore tree that had fallen by the brook four years ago. I mentioned that I had made the Sylvan from ancient beech and the Linnet from rosewood. I showed her the drawers of strings and explained about the red ones being Cs, the black ones being Fs and the white ones being As, Bs, Ds, Es and Gs. I told her about each one being a different thickness and the importance of tension. I showed her the holes in the back and how they were anchored inside. I explained the use of the levers for sharpening the note. I told her about the pebbles.

I gave her a couple of pieces of wood so that she could hold them and compare the weight. I expanded on the different resonances of different woods. Then I realized that I had not asked very much about her, so I stopped telling her things and I asked the following eight questions: How are you? Do you have any pets? What is in your enormous shoulder bag? What is your favorite color? What is your favorite tree? Where do you live? Do you enjoy being the Exmoor Housewife? Would you like a sandwich? She answered me the following answers: fine, thank you; no; a big camera and a notepad and a thermos with soup; red; birch; about five miles southwest of here; um; that would be very nice. I made twelve sandwiches using six slices of bread and substantial quantities of cream cheese. I cut them into triangles because I reckoned she was a lady. I''ve noticed that the act of cutting always helps me think. I do some good thinking when I cut up wood to make harps too. That might have been why, over the triangles of the sandwiches, I came to a decision.

2 Ellie "He gave you one?" "Yes." "Just like that?" "Well, pretty much." Clive lowered the motoring magazine and transferred his full attention to my face. His eyebrows drew together and two deep vertical creases appeared between them. "I presume you''re having me on?" "No," I said, and added a "Not" to underline it. "So he offered, and you just took it?" "Well, it was . it was hard to say no." This was going to be tricky.

I couldn''t explain it to myself, let alone offer an explanation to anyone else. Which was why I''d been driving around Exmoor for the last half hour--with frequent stops to look in the back of the car and check that it was true--before I finally headed homeward. Our nice but nosy neighbor Pauline was out in her garden, so I had gone straight in. I had launched myself into the kitchen. I''d swept a brief kiss into my husband''s receding hairline. I''d sought out the kettle, filled it to the brim, spurted myself with water in the process and abandoned it. Then I''d blurted out a tangle of sentences that sounded frothy and ridiculous. I''d blushed, become aware of it, and blushed some more.

Now I stood limply grinning by the fridge. Clive closed the magazine and tugged at the neck of his sweatshirt. "Sorry, El, but I have to ask: Exactly how long have you known this man?" My mind traveled back to the strange encounter of earlier: the huge open door of the barn that had enticed me in, the warm scent of wood, the light falling on the myriad harps, and there, in the center of them all, the lone figure. There had been some sort of tool in his hand, but already my memory was playing tricks on me and I couldn''t say what it was. He had initially appeared to be an alien. His lower face was covered by some sort of blue mask and he was wearing earmuffs, presumably protection from sawdust and machinery noise. But the minute he''d taken them off, I was struck by the beauty of the man. He was tall and sinewy with dark, disheveled hair.

Although his skin looked weather-beaten, there was a strange translucent quality about it. His face was classically sculpted, as if a great deal of thought had gone into every line and curve. But it was his huge, dark eyes that really claimed my curiosity. I''d never seen eyes like that before.