Source A: The last slate

From the pavement, the town hall roof looked almost finished. Ivo had been replacing the broken slates since breakfast, and the neat grey rows made the damaged section hard to spot. He worked from a low platform, laying each slate over the one below it. Before fixing it, he checked that its edge lined up with the marks on the timber. When one sat crooked, he lifted it and began again rather than hide the mistake beneath the next row.

“You learn to listen to the roof,” he told me. He tapped the slate lightly with his knuckle, then shifted it until the sound was even. His hands moved without fuss: measure, cut, fit. A small pile of offcuts sat beside him, each trimmed to a different angle for the awkward space around the chimney. From below, the pattern seemed simple. Up close, every piece had its own place.

By mid-afternoon, the clouds had thickened. Ivo's supervisor glanced at the wind lifting the tarpaulin and said they should stop. The last slate was still loose. Rain began with a few drops that darkened the timber at the platform's edge. Ivo looked at the gap, then at the rope tied to his belt. “One more,” he said, and reached for the slate.

The wind tugged at the tarpaulin again. He waited for it to settle, fixed the slate against his knee and edged towards the gap. The platform creaked. For a moment, his shoulder vanished behind the chimney; from the pavement, I could see only his boots and the rope drawn tight. Then he reappeared, pressed the slate into place and drove in the final nail.

He tested the row with his fingertips before climbing down. The supervisor said nothing. Ivo gathered the offcuts and carried them under cover as the rain strengthened. By the time I looked back, the roof was a single unbroken surface, and the loose tarpaulin had been pulled down over the platform.