Dead Dogs and Apple Trees

A short story

'I'd wanted to make a start on digging the holes for the new apple trees after dinner, but now, well, the effort of standing up seems a wee bit overwhelming, if you ken my meaning.' 

Mr. Dalrymple's hands, thin and more used to pens than to cutlery - or garden spades - crossed soothingly over his full stomach as he leaned back in his chair. Mr. Dalrymple's housekeeper, a satisfied little smile on her broad, bony face, cleared the plates with strong hands, towering over the table. Charles Murray of Letho, who had eaten heartily but was younger and fitter, politely agreed. He had ridden some distance that day over unimpressive roads and had no particular wish to spend the evening digging in someone else's garden, even that of his old university tutor. It was early March and still bitterly cold in this broad valley by the Tay, and his fingers and toes were only just thawed out. Mr. Dalrymple's special brandy was excellent, the fire was good, the grey-green panelled dining room candlelit and cosy: his country estate at Letho was still some miles away but Mr. Dalrymple had offered him a bed for the night here in Newburgh and his horse was well stabled at the inn. Murray was in no hurry: he wanted only to stretch his legs towards the fireplace, cradle his brandy, and claik of old times. It was not immediately to be. 

'Come, anyway, and I shall show you the trees,' said Mr. Dalrymple. He had retired from teaching when his health grew poor, but a few years here on the banks of the Tay seemed to have rejuvenated him, to Murray's delight. Whether the gardening was a contributing factor or a result, he was not sure. 

He unfolded his long legs from beneath the table and followed Mr. Dalrymple out of the dining room and along a stone passage to the back of the house. Over his tutor's head he could see the passage descend a few steps before a door opened to the left to the kitchen, to judge by the smell of food. Ahead there was another door, closed at present, looking more like a sturdy outside door. The large key was already in the lock but Mr. Dalrymple merely turned the handle, and led the way down even more steps into a steep, sharp garden, so steep that although the walls were over six feet tall, from the house one could see straight over the wall at the foot of the garden, over the assortment of busy little houses in the broad river valley, and down to the serried masts in the harbour, fishing boats unloading salmon, and even ships transferring cargo to smaller craft for the ongoing journey to Perth. Lights were beginning to spring out of the twilight, swaying on mastheads, warming windows, reflecting in the dark water. Swooping specks of rooks inspected treetop roosts. The sun had nearly vanished in a winter-lit sky: it was going to be another frosty night. 

'You know all this was land belonging to Lindores Abbey,' Mr. Dalrymple was explaining, his face beginning to blur in the dusk. Murray pulled himself back at the practised tutorial tone of the old clergyman. 

'I had some idea of that ...' he agreed. He had read most of his grandfather's books, some of which were about Fife. 

'Specifically, these were the orchards here beside the river. Nearly every garden in the town has old apple trees in it, good ones, too. The sons and daughters, or grandsons and granddaughters, of the very trees attended by the monks themselves. A notion which appeals to me greatly, you can imagine, as a man of the cloth - reformed - myself. 

'I have brought on these two trees from seed and now they are ready to replace this poor old fellow.' He patted a thick trunk standing amongst three or four other trees on the grassy slope. The way it shuddered showed its roots were no longer sound, and a couple of branches already lay on the frosty grass, easily snapped off, ready firewood. A man was indeed gathering them into handy bundles, breaking them in thick, strong hands. His boots were rooted in the grass, feet apart, brown skin like tree bark, his bare head stubbly. 

'The gardener, Adam,' said Mr. Dalrymple, with a wrinkle of his eyebrows to show that all the wry comments had been made. Adam nodded, shining clear, blue, innocent eyes on Murray. Not quite the full pint, thought Murray, unjudging. He smiled at Adam: he liked gardeners, on the whole.