06. PARTY

Stan switched on his radio, sat back in his chair and lit his pipe. Just ten minutes for a quiet smoke before he set off out into the night to do his rounds. He sat back, relaxed and smiled, barely noticing the news headlines that he’d switched the set on for. He’d had a nice enough afternoon with his pals down the Oddfellows having a swift half or two of Mild, before coming back home for his tea and another long, cold night in the woods.

He looked at his watch. They’d probably be calling “time” just about now. Jack and Eric would probably be long gone. They seldom stayed in the pub late any more. After about eight all the kids would come in and pick songs from the Jukebox and then start bellowing at each other because they couldn’t hear each other think.

These modern songs, you really couldn’t hear the words.

Usually about then, Jack, Eric and himself would sigh deeply, pack up the dominoes, sup up the last of their beers and head off in their separate directions home, after a quick pause to chat on the pavement about how much further downhill towards ruin the pub had slipped.

Mind you, they were out for a proper “Pre-Christmas” drink tonight, so they might still be there, continuing on with their own little party.

They’d laughed about that the other day when Eric had suggested it. “Well,” he’d said “If all these kids get a night out for Christmas, why can’t us pensioners?” He’d enjoyed reminding them that he was still actually working for his living, but they’d enjoyed it even more when they’d pointed out that they would still be inside drinking beer in the warm when he was trudging through wet fields all night.

Still he’d had a jolly enough couple of hours with them earlier, and it had been a wrench for once to drag himself away. No matter how much he loved these magical woods, sometimes he really felt like staying in and putting his feet up, especially when it had snowed as much as it had this week. Jack and Eric had tried very hard to persuade him to stay put and take a night off, and had at least pretended to be disappointed that he had to go.

It didn’t really matter, though, because they all knew he had his rounds to do. He’d only been telling them earlier about how careful they had to be about patrolling the estate around this time of year because of all the Christmas Tree thieves and the poachers after a free Christmas dinner, especially now that they had a nice new batch of Norwegian spruce trees grown especially for the purpose just about ready for cutting near the top of the hill in Sixteen Acre Wood.

He’d told them to keep it to themselves, and he knew he could trust old Jack and old Eric.

He paused at the memory. What lovely trees they were. The scent of the pine when he walked through them was more potent than anything the Oddfellows might have had to offer.

Smiling, he realised he’d finished his pipe, so he stood up and looked forlornly out of the window at the uninviting snowy landscape outside. “Neither fit for man nor beast” he said out loud for no reason in particular, which caused Sam to twitch for a moment in his basket, and then Stan smiled a sad smile of slight regret at his now solitary life.

Since Doris had passed on a decade ago it had just been himself, his various dogs, his friends down the Oddfellows and the job keeping him going. Not that he minded. He was sure he lived a richer, fuller life than many. Jack and Eric really only had the Oddfellows and the telly to look forward to, whereas he had his precious woodland full of wonders. He knew he was the happiest of the three of them even though he missed Doris, especially that mug of coffee she’d always used to present him with in the mornings when he’d come in after a long night.

Anyway, it was time he was off. He clicked on the kettle to brew up for his thermos and looked around for his shotgun and cartridges. He looked over towards the corner where Sam was curled up in his basket dozing and decided to leave him be.

Sam was getting on a bit himself now and it probably wouldn’t do him any good to be up to his shoulders in snow all night. In the new year he was planning on getting a new dog to train up anyway as Sam had been getting quite slow of late. “Mind you,” he thought, “I’m no spring chicken myself.” Perhaps he was getting too old to think about getting another, he wondered to himself as he made up his supply of hot coffee, would it be fair on any dog to be left alone if he didn’t live long enough himself to see his “best friend” out?

“Ah, plenty of life in this old dog yet!” he said, immediately regretting having had such a melancholy thought. He shrugged on his overcoat, pulled on his boots and gloves, picked up his shotgun and headed out into the night, hoping it would be a quiet and peaceful one.

Sam looked up as the door slammed, then curled up again and went back to sleep.