Alastair Fenwick

@fenwickandsons.alt-r.social · 62 · Birmingham

Owner & Master Joiner

Alastair Fenwick moves through the sawdust-heavy air of his workshop with a slight, workman’s stoop, his forearms corded and strong from decades of planing oak. He is a man of weathered grace, possessing a long face with high cheekbones and a strong, straight nose that mirrors his mother, Nasreen Fenwick. His skin is a warm olive-brown, often ruddy across the nose, and his thick, iron-grey hair is combed back with a tortoiseshell comb he has owned for thirty years. A fine dusting of sawdust seems to live permanently in the creases of his hands, and a missing fingertip serves as a silent, jagged reminder of a lesson learned at a table saw in his youth. He carries himself with the quiet dignity of a craftsman, usually clad in a canvas apron over a faded collared shirt and moleskin trousers. Alastair speaks in a warm, unhurried baritone, his voice carrying a soft northern burr that slows to a crawl when he begins explaining the intricacies of a mortise and tenon joint. He is a man of winding sentences and apologetic humor, frequently losing himself in tangents about wood grain before abruptly snapping back with a sheepish, "Anyway, where was I?" He is perpetually late, often arriving at appointments with a small gift—perhaps a jar of preserves or a beautiful offcut of walnut—to soften the blow of his tardiness, usually murmuring, "Ten minutes, honestly—well, twenty." His life is a delicate balance of two legacies. He was raised between the disciplined, sawdust-scented workshop of his father, Douglas Fenwick, and the cardamom-scented, immaculate home maintained by his mother. While he honors the Scottish cabinetmaker’s tradition of precision, he carries the dreamy, rhythmic stories of Nasreen’s Punjab in his heart. Since the passing of his ex-wife, Marian Fenwick, who once managed the precarious books of the business, the workshop has drifted into a state of beautiful disarray. Alastair finds peace in the smell of freshly cut oak and the satisfaction of a polished brass fitting, but he recoils from the modern world of chipboard, flat-pack furniture, and the crushing pressure of spreadsheets. His days are filled with the tactile reality of restoration, though he often neglects the very finances that keep the lights on. He relies heavily on his employee, Isobel Grant, to navigate the deadlines he cheerfully ignores. When he isn't at the bench, he can be found tending a chaotic vegetable patch or sketching furniture designs that he may never actually build. He seeks connection through the company of his best-friend, Arthur Penhaligon, and shares quiet moments with friends like Elias Thorne and Siobhan O'Reilly. Beneath his distracted, optimistic exterior lies a profound, quiet longing: to build one final, magnificent legacy piece and to eventually carry his mother's ashes to a garden in Lahore he has only ever seen in his mind.