The old man and the squire

THE OLD MAN AND THE SQUIRE



In a big country house near a large old wood, there lived an elderly retired man. Selfish, ruthless and ambitious once, now much mellowed. The kind and generous, if slightly solitary and absent-minded person he was now little resembled the rather feared man he had once been. His last days were being spent poring over his massive stamp collection, taking walks, reading all the classics he had always meant to read before but never had time for, and having lunch with another retired man who lived a few miles away.

One evening, while out for a stroll in the wood, he came across a remarkable sight. A squirrel; not just any squirrel – the squirrel nobody usually sees. This squirrel had a small purple silk bow in its tail, and on its head wore a tiny little golden crown encircled by twelve turrets and with a gleaming red jewel in the middle. At first sight, the man thought it must have been a precious doll left behind by a child, but then, with great dignity, the squirrel walked towards him on two legs. It was clutching a tiny twig with one claw, which the man later realised was an exquisitely carved sceptre.

The man’s eyes met the deep brown eyes of the little squirrel. In contrast to its regal appearance, the eyes and the slant of the face conveyed a glint of pathos.

‘Good evening, sir,’ greeted the man hesitatingly, unsure how he ought to greet such an extraordinary and clearly very important creature.

The squirrel brushed its neck with the back of its claw, then bowed its head and curled its tail submissively. Not wanting to alarm the animal, the man took one step back. For a moment the squirrel startled and turned around as if to run, the little bow on its tail bobbing in air. Then, recovering itself, it turned around, standing with perfect poise and head directly facing the man.

‘I am the Squire of the Squirrels,’ it announced in a nervous, squeaky voice.

The man stayed very still for a moment in amazement, not wanting to do anything that might frighten the squirrel. He felt so honoured to have met this Squire.

‘I am honoured to meet you, Squire,’ the man said very slowly and gently. He wasn’t sure how good squirrels were at listening to humans talk, and wondered whether he really ought to get down on the floor so that they were both more on the same level.

The Squire bowed graciously and tapped its head with its tiny twig, which the man now realised was a beautiful sceptre like you might see in the hands of a luxury toy model. In turn, the man bowed low until his chin touched the leaves on the ground, then raised himself very slowly and deliberatively, taking great care to look respectful and not hurt his back at the same time. Once he was fully upright again, he bowed quickly a second time and touched his forehead with the thumb on his left hand. He wasn’t quite sure why he did that.

The Squire gently bowed its head and said, more confidently now, ‘I am most pleased to meet you, sir. I have come to ask you a favour, and I and all the squirrels in the wood will owe you unending thanks if you might grant it. Winter is coming and food is scarce. If we do not improve our supplies, many will starve. If you could spare us some of the bags of nuts you keep at home, we will be forever in your debt.’

The old man smiled and felt himself the most privileged old man in the world.

‘You shall have as many nuts from me as you wish,’ he promised. ‘I shall leave them outside my gate tomorrow morning. I would be most honoured if, in return, you would spend Christmas Day at my house, for I am a lonely old man.’

The Squire paused, twitched its whiskers and replied, ‘It does not do well for too many people to see us as you have seen me, but if you promise to keep it a secret, then in honour of the favour you have bestowed on us, I will dine with you on Christmas Day.’

That night the old man skipped outside with twenty bags of nuts – he hadn’t skipped in years – and left them outside his gate. They were plastic bags but he was sure the squirrels would have no difficulty opening them with their teeth. Going to sleep that night, he thought happily on the wonderful events of that evening.

In the morning, at 5 o’clock when the man always got out of bed to prepare breakfast, he rushed to his bedroom window to see whether the bags of nuts had gone. He crouched down behind the curtains to peep out, not wanting the squirrels to run away with fear if they were out there gathering nuts and were to suddenly see his face at the window. There were no squirrels to be seen, but all the nuts had gone.

The man smiled and a single tear slid down his cheek. He had to walk to the gate himself to convince himself the nuts had gone. They had. What was more amazing, under the bush near the gate lay a little model house, made out of lots of twigs and leaves and bits of plant stalks. In parts it was bound together seamlessly with plastic, which the man quickly recognised as having come from the plastic bags that contained the nuts. The little model house was beautiful, the man thought. It was so perfect and so detailed. You could see all the chimney pots, the windows, the back door and the front door, the gutter, the pipes, the thatched roof and the ivy (made of grass) running up one side of the house.

Wait a minute, thought the old man, that is my house! Open-mouthed with astonishment, he picked up the model house as gently and carefully as he could and carried it into the house, blushing with excitement. How on earth had they made it? Oh, to think that it had all been made for him! He kept the model on his dressing table in the bedroom, so that every night he could go to sleep looking at it, and every morning he could wake up to see it. Now he waited longingly, desperately, for Christmas Day.

When the man finally came to wake up on Christmas morning, at 5 o’clock as he always did, a terrible thought ran through his mind. How foolish he was, why hadn’t he thought of this before? How, the man wondered, am I to know when the Squire has arrived? The door-knocker was too high up and too heavy for it to be able to use. The man paced his bedroom, not knowing what to do.

I am a silly old man, he told himself. I probably imagined it all anyway. No squirrel will come, and even if it does, I won’t know it has arrived. I have been all so excited over nothing, like the silly old man that I am.

An idea came to him that brightened his mood. Even if nothing happens, it’s just a bit of fun, he thought. He would hang a little piece of string outside his living room window, right down to the floor outside. Underneath the window, on the outside of the house, he would leave a short notice: ‘PLEASE RING FOR ATTENTION’. Inside the window a little bell – one he was given from his friend’s Christmas tree – would be attached to the string. All the Squire would have to do was tug on the string, and he would hear the bell and answer the door.

He felt very proud of himself.

Time trickled by. The old man felt despondent and lonely. Perhaps the Squire would never come. Even if it did, he wondered, would it understand the system he had set up? The Squire was intelligent, he was sure of that. It could talk, and the model it left was an intricate work of craftsmanship. Well, maybe the Squire didn’t build it personally. It probably had lots of servants to do everything for it.

Anyway, the point was he couldn’t be sure the Squire would understand like people understand. Would it just wait at the door and ignore the piece of string under the window? Would it see the string but not understand the purpose of it and not be able to read the note? Might it have unusual expectations about how it would enter the house? After all, it was a squirrel, and to make things more complicated still, it was obviously a very eminent squirrel indeed. What were its customs? Even if the squirrel got to the house, would it start taking offence at lots of things?

The old man wracked his brains and, from having been really excited, began to feel quite nervous and awkward. The old man sat in his armchair, waiting and waiting. He’d like to be listening to some soothing music, but that might have prevented him from hearing the little bell.

Suddenly the little bell rang, very sharply. The old man leapt up in a state of panic. He’d been on the verge of falling asleep, though he couldn’t admit that to himself. As he rushed towards the door, a petrifying thought crossed his mind. The bell had rung far, far too loudly to have been the squirrel. Perhaps the squirrel had double-crossed him and sent some awful giant creature like a troll or a bear to come and eat him and take all his possessions. Should he open the door at all?

Looking through a glass pane next to the door, he realised the visitor was just his friend who lived a few miles away. His stomach still felt tight, and his head dizzy. After a pause to recover, he opened the door.

‘Merry Christmas, old man!’ said the friend, patting him around the shoulder and handing him a small present wrapped up in red Santa Claus paper with an enveloped card cellotaped around it. ‘I’m just off to see my daughter, thought I’d drop this off for you. You know you can come with me, don’t you? I don’t like you being alone on Christmas.’

‘No it’s okay, you know me. Thanks so much for everything though,’ explained the old man. He was like this every Christmas.

When his friend had left, he went outside to check that the string and bell were still okay, that the string still reached the floor and the note was still showing properly. It was all okay.

How strange it was, the old man considered, that my friend didn’t say anything about the note and the bell he rang! He chortled to himself at the absurdity of it. I really must be a silly old man, he thought, and everyone must know I’m silly.

The man wanted to turn on the television or listen to some jazz music, but knew it could interfere with hearing the bell. Television and music only made him fall to sleep anyway. He was hungry and hadn’t eaten all day. Forgetting to eat was something he was always getting told off for. There were, though, some delicious slices of turkey, ham and beef in the kitchen, which only needed to be heated up. Vegetables too: sprouts, potatoes, peas, carrots, sweetcorn, parsnips, broccoli and cauliflower. They would make a lovely meal tonight.

The man sat there in his chair, thinking. It was Christmas and he was alone. But it’s my Christmas, he thought. The fire was burning nicely. Every now and then he heard the sound of the logs crackling and collapsing about. It comforted him, the fire. Much better than the television. When he got bored of it, he could go back to reading his book, though he wasn’t sure which book he was reading at the moment, having started so many, not always from the beginning. He might dare put the music on, just at a very low volume. The quiet, though, was fascinating. It meant you heard all the noises outside. There were lots of noises, though he didn’t know what they all were. The Squire might know about them.

A little sound. What was it? The man woke up. No, he hadn’t been asleep, he never really did that, he thought. Another tinkling noise. The man remembered. He got off his chair and onto his hands and knees, and scurried like a mouse towards the front door.

He reached his hand out towards the handle, feeling the strain on his wretched aching back, and let the door slide gently forwards. A little squirrel stood right in front of him on the doormat, looking just as it had before, with a crown round its head, a sceptre in its paw and a purple silk bow in its tail. It bowed elegantly and began to speak:

‘Thank you for the note and the piece of string. That was so considerate of you.’

‘I am so glad you came,’ the old man said, meaning every word of it and bending his chin deferentially against the carpet. ‘Thanks so much for the model of the house you left for me. It really is so special to me.’

The Squire stepped regally into the hallway, walking on two legs with its white fluffy chest pouting confidently outwards, and its tail swishing in precise little twirls. It approached the old man, whose face was buried in the carpet by now, and nibbled him affectionately on the ear.

‘You are truly my friend,’ the Squire said. ‘You have saved us all from starving.’

The old man filled with pride to think that he had done all of this, and had received such a very special visitor. For a few minutes he remained there on the floor with the door open and his face on the carpet, not at all nervous but just happy and befuddled. Eventually the Squire suggested they go inside and close the door as it was getting cold. I am a silly old man aren’t I, the old man thought.

All night the old man and the Squire talked and talked, telling stories and reminiscing of the past. The squirrel sat on a cushion pillow on the old man’s lap, munching from a bag of exotic nuts he’d never tasted before and was very thankful for, and drinking lemon tea from a thimble. The old man had his dinner eventually too, though the squirrel had to remind him about it as the old man sometimes forgot about these things. It was the best evening the old man could ever remember having, and he fell asleep in his armchair with the embers of the fire still softly crackling and the squirrel resting on his lap.