Free Sadler's Birthday by Rose Tremain Page A

socks, and the one nice thing he owned in the way of clothing – his fawn lambswool cardigan, knitted for him by Mrs Moore and her sister, one side each. He looked at himself in the mirror, felt uneasily that he ought to shave if he was going out. He might meet the postman or the milk delivery van or even Lady Grainger from Dale Farm bringing his eggs in her Range Rover. But he couldn’t stand the thought of shaving. It hurt him more than it tidied him up. It was as if the skin on his face was getting softer and softer.
    He shuffled downstairs once again. He could hear Mrs Moore hoovering in the drawing room and, as always, he found the noise pleasing. He often wished someone would start hoovering at night, when he couldn’t sleep in the deathly quiet that held him. He believed it would have comforted him.
    He picked up the dog’s lead which he kept on a table in the hall and as he saw it remembered that he hadn’t given the dog the food he’d promised him. Not even a biscuit or a worm pill. But the dog still dozed, warm by the Aga, uncaring.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Sadler.
    The little clump began to wag.
    â€˜I’ll get you a drink and then we’ll go out.’
    He picked up the chipped yellow bowl inscribed DICK in black letters. Dick wasn’t the dog’s name; the dog had never had a name. Dick had been the name of Tom’s dog.
    Tom. Sadler filled the bowl with cold water and set it down. The dog trotted up and began lapping. Tom was back in Sadler’s thoughts. He watched the dog drink. No wonder the little chap peed a lot.
    â€˜Hurry up,’ said Sadler. And the clump twitched at the sound of his voice.
    Leading off the kitchen was what had been a pantry. Now Sadler kept his boots and the Colonel’s old shooting mac in there, ready to hand when he felt like going out. Like all the Colonel’s clothes, the mac fitted him well; it was six inches too long, that was all. But he enjoyed wearing it. Dressing in all the Colonel’s old things had become part of his life. Boots on and the mac and a navy blue scarf round his throat, an old walking stick to lean on and he was ready to go.
    He opened the door and the dog followed him out into the cold. More cold, even with the mac on, than he’d bargained for and the grass still crunchy with frost. But the garden looking wonderfully neat under its white coating, a bit like it used to be when the lawns were flat as billiard tables with all their edges straight as a knife and not a molehill to be seen.
    The sky was a blinding blue, too bright to look up at. The laurels that hedged the back garden displayed a garish green plumage among the old dark leaves and there were tight, coffee coloured buds on the chestnut trees. The dog went ahead, sniffing. You wouldn’t have called it a scamper: the animal’s short legs were too rheumaticky for that, it was more of an amble, a little stiff trot. Sadler followed, leaning a bit on the stick, but now he was used to the cold, glad to be out, glad that the green his feet trod was his.
    He’d always wondered how it would feel to own things that grew. Used to watch old Madge going round with her pruning scissors, snip, snip, snip, hers to cut and shape as she pleased. And the Colonel poisoning daisies with an orange plastic tool like a syringe.
    Madge, delighted one morning by the sight of her garden under her window, felt a little ashamed, wanted to share it. There was so much of it, after all.
    â€˜So feel free, Sadler, to walk in the garden whenever you like.’
    â€˜That’s very kind of you. Madam.’
    â€˜You could even have a little plot of your own if you’d like, to grow things. You could grow some strawberries, couldn’t you? I know Wren would help you. He made things grow in the Middle East, you know, in that soil! We used to marvel. Green fingers the Colonel always said.’
    Sadler didn’t know about green, but gnarled they