These are alternative readings, not consecutive events. Each of the eight first-chapter routes can continue through four workshop routes and four interview routes: 128 complete readings. You can stop at any chapter ending.
Chapter one · The ferry steps
Room beside the bag
The coat is under you. The paper bag is between you and Eda. Up on the quay, your piece of chalk lies where you left it, beneath a timetable that is still legible because you rewrite it every morning.
From this low down the opposite bank has lost its doorways. There are roofs, a pale wall, the underside of a tree. Somewhere beyond them is a workshop large enough to open three umbrellas at once.
Eda rests both hands on her knees. Her boots are wet. The black shoes in the bag are not.
“I don’t usually sit here,” you say.
“Does somebody?”
There is a pale patch on the stone beside your boot. It might be wear. You have never needed to distinguish a seat from a step before.
“I don’t know.”
She moves her elbow a little, making room for the fact.
Next: Ask about the other workshop → Three umbrellas · Let the river have a moment → A place without a heading
Three umbrellas
“What would you open first?” you ask.
“At the other shop?” Eda looks across. “A damaged one.”
“I meant which sort.”
“So did I.” She smiles, then considers it properly. “Something large. Something whose fault you can’t see while it’s folded. We have to take those outside. Wind gets underneath while you’re looking for what the wind has already done.”
You imagine a room built to contain an open umbrella. Not a particularly large room, until you begin to want one.
“They have a lamp over each bench,” she says. “I keep thinking about that. It was in the letter. They probably didn’t think it was the important part.”
The paper bag makes a small, tired sound between you.
Next: Look at the bag → What the pocket was carrying
A place without a heading
For a while there is only the water against the lowest step. It does not arrive in separate enough sounds to count.
You have a habit of making headings in your mind. Departures. Changes. Things to ask the harbour office. You try to give this interval one, then leave the space above it blank.
Eda takes a folded letter from her pocket and presses its crease flat with her thumb. She does not open it.
“There’s a lamp over each bench,” she says.
You wait.
“At the other shop. It said so in this.”
You look again at the opposite bank. A lamp is a smaller thing than the buildings there, and for a moment it is easier to imagine.
The paper bag makes a small, tired sound between you.
Next: Look at the bag → What the pocket was carrying
What the pocket was carrying
A dark line is climbing one folded edge of the paper. You lift the bag by its bottom.
“Oh,” says Eda. “I should have thought.”
She takes a square of yellowed cotton from inside her coat. It is stiff enough to keep the shape of the pocket. One corner is missing; a neat curve has been cut from another.
“Canopy offcut. Waxed. I use it when a customer brings in something dripping.”
She spreads it on the coat. You lower the bag onto it. The bag stops leaning towards the river.
“You brought work with you.”
“Only the useful bits.”
She touches the damp paper once, checking how far the water has gone. Her finger comes away dry.
Above you, a gust rattles the timetable’s frame. You look back before you mean to.
“Will the chalk blow away?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then it can wait a minute.”
Next: Tell her what you were going to write → A different sort of entry · Offer to hold the bag a little longer → The ordinary offer
A different sort of entry
“I was going to write that someone was waiting.”
Eda looks at you. Not sharply; she seems to be measuring the size of the sentence.
“They’ll think I’m a passenger.”
“You are.”
“If there’s a boat.” She draws one finger along the bag’s handle. “Today I’m a person who wants a better room to work in.”
You can fit passenger into the narrow margin of the board. You are less certain about the rest.
“Does it have to fit?” she asks.
You had not realised you were looking upwards again.
“No,” you say.
Neither of you supplies a shorter version.
Next: Go back to the board together → The dry corner · Stay on the step a little longer → Enough for a corner
The ordinary offer
You put a hand beneath the bag again. “I can hold these, if you want to stretch your legs.”
Eda stands. Her knees click; she gives one a look of mild annoyance, as though it has interrupted a customer.
She walks to the hanging coil and back. She does not touch it. Then she stands facing the bank she cannot yet reach and raises her arms, the way she did on the quay.
This time you know what she is measuring.
When she sits down, she takes the bag back. “Thank you.”
It is a small exchange. You have not kept the shoes for her, only held them while she needed her hands. You find you like knowing which.
The damp edge of the paper is no higher than before.
Next: Go back to the board together → The dry corner · Stay on the step a little longer → Enough for a corner
The dry corner
You go up first and turn to take the bag. Eda folds the cotton underneath it before passing it to you.
At the board, she sees the chalk in its shallow ledge. A fine line of water has collected at one end.
“Here.” She folds a dry corner of the cotton over the ledge. The bag sits on the rest while she puts on the black shoes. She ties the wet boots together by their laces.
“Where now?” you ask.
“Up here, for the moment.”
You put the chalk on the cotton. You do not add a departure, or rub out the word you wrote when you heard the bell. Beside the board there is enough room for Eda to stand in the shoes she chose for the interview.
She takes the bag. The little corner remains beneath the chalk.
The ferry has not arrived. The interview is still across the water. This is where this telling leaves them.
Next: Continue to chapter two → A room for weather
Enough for a corner
Eda folds a narrow strip of the cotton back over the bag’s damp seam. It is an awkward shape for wrapping anything properly; the missing corner leaves one black heel visible.
“I can give you a piece for the chalk,” she says. “Next time I’m down here.”
You almost say that the chalk has a ledge. Then you remember the water that gathers at one end.
“A small piece would do.”
She marks a width against her thumbnail. You do not make a note of it.
The roofs across the river are losing their pale edges as the light changes. Eda shifts the bag half an inch towards herself. You shift your knee to give it room.
The ferry has not arrived. The interview is still across the water. This is where this telling leaves them.
Next: Continue to chapter two → A room for weather
Chapter two · A room for weather
A room for weather
“I ought to fetch something,” Eda says. “Will you come as far as the shop?”
You look towards the water before answering. She does too.
The shop is down a passage behind the quay. With its door open, there is just room for Eda, you, and a long green umbrella wrapped in paper. Closing the door would gain a little floor and lose most of the light.
A row of curved handles hangs above your head. Eda reaches between two of them and pulls a cord. A lamp lights the end of a bench.
“Mind that one,” she says.
You duck.
“The umbrella. The catch is sharp.”
She puts the bag on a high shelf, clear of a basin with a dark tidemark. Then she hangs her coat beneath it. You are still wearing yours.
If you returned to the board:
Back at the landing, the small dry corner of cotton is already beneath your chalk.
If you stayed on the step:
The cotton is still wrapped around the bag. The piece she offered for your chalk has yet to be cut.
Next: Ask about the long umbrella → Where the light belongs · Ask what she wants to take → The other side of the letter
Where the light belongs
“Finished,” Eda says. “Nearly.”
She peels the paper back far enough to show you a repair in the ribs. One short piece of brass is brighter than the rest.
“That was the easy part. The trouble was finding why it kept breaking.”
She slides the runner a little way up the shaft. Nothing opens fully. One rib begins to rise, catches, and settles back when she changes her grip.
“The old repair was straight. This one needed a bend.”
You lean towards the lamp. The brass disappears into your shadow.
“Sorry.”
“Hold this.”
She gives you a little mirror with a chipped corner. You tilt it until a patch of light finds her thumbnail.
“Lower.”
The light moves onto the brass.
“There.”
She works the catch twice. From where you stand, you can see the gap that lets the rib pass.
“Could you put the lamp over here?” you ask.
“Then I'd have your shadow when I worked at the other end.”
You hold still until she is finished. Afterwards, she finds a place for the mirror among three others, each a different shape.
Next: Help clear a space on the bench → Something that fits
The other side of the letter
Eda takes out the interview letter. It has been folded often enough that a small white hole is beginning at the crossing of the creases.
“Would you take work?” she asks.
“To the interview?”
“If I walk in carrying an umbrella, they'll ask for my name and give me a ticket.”
You look at the long green parcel.
“It does look very much like an umbrella.”
“I've tried turning it the other way up.”
She gives you the letter. You read the arrangements she already knows, then turn it over. There are four questions on the back. Three have lines through them.
The last says: Can I move the lamp?
“That wasn't what I meant to ask first,” she says.
“What was?”
“How much they pay.”
You turn the paper back. The amount is there, near the bottom.
“Yes,” she says. “I found it.”
You return the letter. She smooths it on the bench with the heel of her hand.
“I still want to ask about the lamp.”
Next: Help clear a space on the bench → Something that fits
Something that fits
Eda moves a tray of screws into a drawer. Beneath it is a square of brown paper and two small pieces of brass.
One is cracked across a screw hole. The other curves gently before the hole. She lays them side by side.
“From that one,” she says, nodding towards the green umbrella. “The failed piece and what I made to replace it. I made a spare while I had the tools out.”
She folds the paper around them. You hold the folds while she ties the packet with thread.
If you watched the repair:
Now you can tell the two pieces apart without asking which one worked.
If you read the letter:
“That looks less like a customer,” you say.
“Only if they don’t make very small umbrellas.”
The packet goes beside the letter in her pocket. She pats it once, making sure the corners lie flat.
“There,” she says. Then she looks at the long parcel. “One thing left.”
Next: Ask to hear it open → The green umbrella · Offer to be the interviewer → A question with room around it
The green umbrella
You carry the umbrella outside while Eda puts the tools away. The passage is narrow enough that you have to wait for her to come out before turning it.
“Up a little,” she says.
You raise the handle.
She slides the runner. The ribs lift, hesitate together, then spread the green cloth above both of you. The catch closes with a small, definite click.
On the underside, somebody has painted yellow leaves. Most are hidden when the umbrella is folded. One has been cut in half by a seam.
“That's a shame,” you say.
“He asked me to keep that one.”
You look again. The two halves are almost meeting.
Eda turns the umbrella a quarter turn and examines the brass through the spokes. Then she closes it, listening. You stand back to give her the room.
She hangs it just inside the door. A paper ticket is tied to the handle.
“Ready?” you ask.
She takes the bag from the high shelf and checks the packet in her pocket.
“As far as the board.”
You leave her enough space to lock the door.
The green umbrella is ready for its owner. Eda has a sample of her work. The crossing and the interview are still ahead.
Next: Continue to chapter three → A boat with a different job
A question with room around it
You sit on the only stool. Eda stays standing.
“Shouldn't you sit?” you ask.
“Then you'll have to stand.”
You decide the interview can manage this much informality.
“What would you like to know?” you ask.
“Can I move the lamp?”
You look at the lamp beside you.
“Ours are all—”
“You don't know.”
“No.”
“Just let me ask it.”
You begin again. This time you say nothing after the question. Eda waits too. From the passage comes the rattle of somebody dragging an empty crate.
“I think that's enough,” she says.
You get up. She sets the stool beneath the shelf, takes down the bag, and reaches past you to switch off the light.
The green umbrella is still in its paper.
“I need to test that before I go back down,” she says. “Would you take the other end?”
You turn sideways in the doorway and wait for her to tell you when.
The question stays on the letter. The umbrella still needs its final test. Eda has a sample of her work; the crossing and interview remain ahead.
Next: Continue to chapter three → A boat with a different job
Chapter three · A place at the bench
A boat with a different job
Before you reach the board, a woman calls from the landing.
“Either of you know the umbrella shop?”
Eda stops.
The woman is standing in a low workboat beside two empty wooden cases. One has GLASS painted on its end. She wants to know whether there is a shop on this bank that can replace a small pane in a lantern.
“Not mine,” Eda says. “But I know who can.”
If you tested the green umbrella:
She glances back towards her locked door. The green umbrella is hanging inside, tested and ticketed for its owner.
If you rehearsed the interview question:
You have just helped her finish testing the green umbrella in the passage. She opened it, listened to the catch, and closed it again before hanging it inside for its owner. The shop is locked now.
If Eda already put on the black shoes:
While the woman writes down the glazier's directions, Eda checks the narrow strap of one black shoe. Her wet boots hang by their laces from her hand.
If the black shoes were still in the bag:
While the woman writes down the glazier's directions, Eda sits on the step and takes the black shoes from the protected bag. She puts them on, then ties her wet boots together by their laces. The cotton offcut goes back around the bag; the little piece she promised for your chalk is still to come.
“I'm taking these cases back across,” the woman says. “There's room if you can mind your feet.”
You look at the board. Nothing you have written there describes this boat.
“It isn't the ferry,” you say.
“No,” she says. “It isn't.”
Eda touches the letter in her pocket, then the small packet beside it.
“Would you come as far as the door?” she asks you.
Next: Step aboard with Eda → Between the cases
Between the cases
There is a plank across the cases for a seat. You sit at one end and Eda at the other. Her boots knock gently together whenever the boat turns.
The woman pushes away with a pole. Beyond the last piling she starts a small engine beneath a wooden cover. For a while it is too loud to speak.
Eda opens the interview letter on her knees. She reads the line about coming the next time she can, then folds it with that line on the outside.
Halfway across, you notice she has stopped holding the bag clear of the floor. The bottom of the boat is dry.
On the far bank, the woman lifts out one empty case.
“Back when these have glass in them,” she says. “Ask at the little loading door if you've missed me.”
You thank her. Eda waits until both her feet are on the landing before letting go of your sleeve.
The workshop is two streets from the water. Before you see its sign, you hear a sound like a large bird shaking rain from its wings.
Next: Find the workshop door → Three umbrellas' worth
Three umbrellas' worth
The door opens into a room with a drain down the middle of the floor. Three umbrellas stand open above a long rail. Their wet edges almost touch.
Eda puts out a hand as you pass beneath them. She is measuring the room without using a measure.
A woman at the nearest bench looks up.
“A repair?”
“An interview,” Eda says, and gives her the letter.
The woman turns it over, finds the date, and turns it back.
“I'm Sella. I wrote this.”
“I couldn't get across on Thursday.”
“You're here now.” Sella moves a wooden frame off the spare stool. “May I see what you brought?”
Eda takes out the little packet. The thread has pulled tight around one corner. You hold the paper while she loosens it.
Over the empty bench, a lamp is shining directly into the face of a small metal vice.
Next: Hold the paper flat → The bend in the brass · Move out of the lamp's light → An answer with hinges
The bend in the brass
You set the paper on the clear part of the bench and keep a finger on each corner.
Sella picks up the bent piece.
“This is the one that failed?”
“The straight one failed,” Eda says. “At the hole.”
She turns the cracked piece until the split catches the light. Then she holds the spare against it, lining up their ends.
“It needed room here. Making it thicker wouldn't have given it any.”
Sella gets an unfinished umbrella from the rail. Eda holds the two pieces beside one of its ribs, although neither would fit this particular umbrella.
“It was catching before it reached this point.”
She shows where with her thumbnail. Sella opens the runner a little, then closes it.
“I see.”
Eda waits while Sella does it again. You have begun to lift one finger from the paper when a draught catches the corner, and you put it back.
“Can I move the lamp?” Eda asks.
“Of course.” Sella reaches for it, then stops. “Show me where.”
Next: Make room beside the bench → A place at the bench
An answer with hinges
You step aside. Eda looks from the letter to the lamp.
“Can I move that?”
“Yes,” Sella says.
Eda takes the handle and draws it towards the far side of the bench. It reaches halfway, then stops.
“It doesn't come quite as far as I thought,” Sella says.
Neither of them lets go. Eda looks at the joint, then at the vice.
“Does this stay here?”
“Usually.”
“Could we put it at this end?”
Sella finds a spanner in a drawer. You steady the vice while they loosen its clamp. It leaves a dark clean-edged square on the bench.
With the vice moved, the light reaches both Eda's hands. She opens the sample packet and shows Sella the crack beside the screw hole, then the bend she made to keep the replacement clear.
“Your own bench?” Sella asks.
“Smaller.”
Sella looks towards the three open umbrellas. “I expect so.”
Next: Put the spanner back → A place at the bench
A place at the bench
Sella brings over a folded brown umbrella. Its runner will not stay closed.
“Would you try this one?” she asks. “A morning at the rate in the letter. If you need a part, ask. If it needs longer, tell me before you make one.”
Eda tests the runner once.
“You want a repair, or to see how I work?”
“Both. I'll pay for the morning either way.”
If you held the sample paper:
Sella folds the sample paper again, leaving the two brass pieces where Eda can reach them. The vice is still at its old end of the bench; there is room to move it.
If you helped with the lamp and vice:
The vice stands where you helped them put it. A pale rectangle beside its clamp shows how far it has moved.
Eda looks at the umbrella, then towards the window. You can see a narrow piece of river between two buildings.
“I have a customer coming back,” she says. “For the green one.”
Sella nods. “When?”
“This afternoon.”
You still have your coat on. Eda's wet boots are beneath the stool, tied together.
Next: Offer to find out when the workboat returns → The first repair · Ask for something to write on → A morning of her own
The first repair
The glass cases are still empty when you reach the loading door. The boatwoman is eating a pear with a small knife.
“After midday,” she says. “They haven't wrapped the last pane.”
You take that answer back exactly.
Eda looks at Sella.
“I can begin. I need to leave when the glass does.”
“Then we'll stop you in time.”
Eda takes off her coat. Sella writes her name in a narrow book and leaves it open on the bench.
You fetch the spare stool. Eda takes hold of the brown umbrella and finds a loose thread wound beneath the catch.
“Hold it there?” she asks.
You turn the handle until she nods.
For the first time that morning, neither of you is looking towards the water.
Eda's interview has become a paid trial morning. A return trip has been checked for today; the missing ferry and the earlier bell remain unexplained.
This reading ends here.
A morning of her own
Sella gives you a square of paper. You set it beside Eda's letter.
“I want to try,” Eda says. “But I'd rather not spend the whole time wondering whether I'm leaving.”
Sella looks towards the loading door.
“Friday is another glass trip. I'll ask the boatwoman before we put it down.”
She comes back with the woman, who has half a pear wrapped in a cloth. They talk about which landing, and how early the cases have to arrive. Eda makes them repeat one part.
You write Friday, the landing, and the morning's pay. Sella adds her name. There is no hour that depends on the missing ferry.
Eda reads it through before folding it inside the old letter.
“Could you leave the bench like that?” she asks.
Sella moves the vice within reach of the lamp, then ties a blank repair ticket to its handle.
“Write your name on it.”
Eda takes your pencil. Her letters are small enough to leave most of the ticket empty.
On the way out, she stops beneath the three open umbrellas and looks up. This time she does not measure the space with her hand.
The interview is finished. Eda has an agreed paid trial, a particular workboat trip, and a bench prepared for her. Her customer still has an umbrella to collect.
This reading ends here.