The little terrier jumps to lick my face as I kneel

A neighbour came in earlier: the house smells lightly of lavender polish and disinfectant, and there is an arrangement of dried grasses and a branch of colourful beech leaves in a vase on the table. It’s probably the neighbour’s vase too; I don’t recollect ever seeing Old Tom with a vase of anything in his rooms. He is due home today, having had a short unexpected spell in hospital. I have fed and watered his ferrets, and because I could not take his dog home (he does not get on with mine) Stanislaus has been looking after him, walking and feeding the little fellow but leaving him between times in his kennel here, because Stanislaus works long hours and the dog would spend the time more happily in his own kennel than in an unfamiliar place. Mrs Foxglove has made up a box of essentials such as milk, bread, biscuits, tea, and half a dozen eggs, some magazines to read and a crossword book, and left it on the side, and I am now riddling the grate and sending ash dust over the newly-cleaned surfaces. I take almost all the ash out, and scatter it on the path, for I think we shall have another hard frost. Then I turn my attention to making up the fire. It’s a dying art, and there is pride and satisfaction in it. First I screw newspaper into twists: two twists should do it, nice and tight, coiled in the grate. Then you can use kindling or dry twigs. I have left a pile of twigs drying in the scullery, and two bundles of kindling, so Tom has a choice. You place just a few around and over the paper, plenty of space between. Some lumps of coal, not too many: it’s expensive and you don’t need much, then two pieces of wood crossed over. There must be plenty of gaps for the air to draw underneath, and feed the flames. It is my pride to only need one match: a low corner of paper is set alight, and after a pause like the holding of breath, smoke starts to curl upwards. I sneeze. The flame hesitates, flickers, dies right down and then pours upwards, catching the dry wood and filling the room with the tang of it. Lovely. Now the kindling crackles busily and I add another chunk of wood. There is a pile of wood in the old willow skip by the fireplace, the black coal-scuttle is full, and I have filled two more which are down in the scullery. That should see him right for a couple of days. A patter of paws and a crunching of boots heralds the arrival of Stanislaus and the dog. The little terrier jumps to lick my face, not too far as I am still kneeling by the fire, and then he is taken out to his dinner and bedded down in the kennel, which is much cosier than Tom’s house at the moment, though the fire is trying its best. It belches a puff of smoke into the room and then starts to draw in earnest. I add two more logs of wood, and then take the last of the ash and use it to bank the fire. It will keep in for some hours now. Stanislaus returns, looks at me, looks at his watch and lifts one bushy eyebrow. “Half past seven” I say. Half an hour to go, and Tom should be home. I close the windows and the front door, and we leave from the back door, which always sticks as you pull it to. Tom has his pride, and would, we suspect, prefer nobody here for his first night back. But we will call first thing, Stanislaus to walk the dog, and me to attend to the ferrets until Tom can manage again. It’s the country way.