Barbara Davey

When my father-in-law began secondary school in North London in the early 1930s, this was the first exercise of the boys woodwork class. The sturdy pine box sat in the shed for years, I hadn’t the heart to discard it, but what to do with it?
Recently signed up to a dairy delivery – fresh milk on the doorstep in glass bottles that are rinsed and returned – of course I needed a crate! Bob is long dead but his box has come into its own, sanded down and re-varnished with holes drilled in the base so rainwater doesn’t pool. The box seems pleased with its new life, an unasssuming resilience that speaks to me of its maker.