“Smell that wood!” said the old man.
“Apple!” said Alan. “It’s so sweet.”
“We planted those trees, ate their fruit and forty years later, I’m burning the old wood. I had to fell them a couple of years ago.”
“I see you left one.” said Alan, getting the papers out of his brief case.
“Is that out of sentiment?”
“Maybe!” replied his friend. “And maybe not!”
Alan put his reading glasses on.
“I saw the two holes in the trunk.” he admitted.
“Every year!” said the old man. “Great tits and blue tits nest there.
It won’t come down till it falls down. My son’s agreed to that.”
Alan commented, “I read, somewhere, that a family of blue tits eat about a million aphids in a season!”
He could see that it wasn’t fair to hurry his friend and Alan sat back in
the armchair and soaked up the heat from the fire. It was later than he
realised by the time they had finished their business.
Glancing at his watch as he left, he asked,
“Oak Road would be my best way to St. Mary’s hall, wouldn’t it?”
‘Not any more.” said his friend. “The land floods now at the slightest
rain. I think it’s due to the new houses higher up and you may not be able to
cross the brook. It takes a couple of days for it to drain off the fields down
there. Can I ring for a taxi for you?”
“Legs before wheels” answered Alan.
“Well, take Long Street.” advised the old man. “It’s slower, but you’ll
get there sooner!”
Alan, an elderly solicitor, visits an old friend to update his will. He settles down in front of the fire….
Where The Fox Goes © J.R.Birch 2004