The Last Story

I went to visit my Grandfather because I couldn’t go to America. I wanted to visit the bristlecone pines, to see trees so old they were turning into fossils. Those trees that had seen the best of our civilisations come and go, though how many of those civilisations made it out to Nevada was a question.

So instead I was going home. I had lived with my grandfather once, when I was much younger. I didn’t see him much after that. The odd weekend, endless teas in various coffee shops. I had thought about going to uni in Sheffield, to save some money, but in the end I went to Plymouth.

The oldest tree in England is in Perthshire, it is a yew tree and it is more than 2000 years old. It seems odd to me and a little macabre that a yew tree should live so long. Sitting a church yard shoring up its bones. But I think that the oldest tree, is the Major Oak. It isn’t really that old, in tree terms, only a thousand years or so, a baby in comparison to the bristlecone pines which can live to be 6000. But it’s older in human terms. That’s because it’s the Sherwood tree, the Robin hood tree. We have added our own weight of history to it. 

My grandfather told me that when he was young he used to hide inside it, just like Much the miller’s son. Every time we visited the tree he would tell me the same story, I think we both enjoyed the pantomime. 

-Years ago you used to be able to go right up to the tree, not just near it. You could climb it, climb right in it. None of these fences and poles and nonsense. It was just like Much the miller’s son when he hid with the bag of gold. Have I told you that story?- And, of course, he had but I would say that he hadn’t and he would tell it to me again. 

I think he was pleased to see me, he’d bought Jaffa Cakes, which I had loved as a child and a copy of the Guardian in deference to my awkwardly left-wing views. He wouldn’t sit down in the living room, he hovered near me making forays at conversation. -What was I studying? What did I want to do? No girlfriend? If I did I wouldn’t be visiting him in my holidays, no? Have something better to do than spend time with an old man- I thought about the trees in Nevada and a girl I knew who was going there, or she had been talking about going there before she stopped talking to me.

Granddad always seemed more comfortable outside. He was one of those thrifty, good with their hands type people, he made paper airplanes and wooden chairs when he was inside, always making something or fixing something, he only seemed capable of stopping once we went out. 

He would slow right down, I used to get bored stopping for him to stare at trees. He’d mumble about their type, the weather, the season. I don’t think he was talking to me really, just running through the things he knew. 

So, we went for a walk, we went for a lot of walks that week. Mostly places we used to walk, where he thought I’d remember. Which I sometimes did.

The only place I insisted on was the Major Oak, he sighed and told me it wasn’t the same these days. You used to be able to go right up to it, when I was a boy – or no when my father was a boy. He used to hide in the tree and refuse to come out. It wasn’t the same now there were so many tourists and people about, getting everywhere with their litter and their four by fours.

We drove out to the trail in his little red ford, it was the same car he’d had when I’d lived with him. I’d brought packed a slightly haphazard picnic, Marks and Spencer’s sandwiches and crisps and party rings and a thermos of very sweet milky coffee.

Granddad told me somewhat reproachfully that he could have made sandwiches if I had asked him. 

It isn’t a long walk to get to the Major Oak, I guess they made it that way for old people and kids and that. It was raining a little when we arrived but by the time we had walked down to the tree the sun was coming out in little fits and starts. Granddad stopped to look at the tree, he didn’t say anything this time. Just narrowed his eyes a little against the sun and looked at it. 

- Always nice to see something older than I am- He said eventually with a weak smile. 

-You’re not that old- I said. 

-Old enough. You know the story about Robin Hood?-

-And Much the miller’s son?-

-No not that story. It’s a different story. It didn’t happen here, it was somewhere else-  He gestured with his hand at the forest to suggest, out there, anywhere.

-There was a king and he was hunting in the forest like-

-King Richard?-

He waved his hand, this time dismissive - No some other King. He was out hunting in the forest with all his men and he sees a stag with antlers like a crown. A hart royal, a monarch- He motioned again with his hand indicating the branching points of this royal stag. 

And the stag he’s a wily one, he’s dashing this way and that and darting off into the trees and no man can follow him. No man except the King, he follows the stag and they’re going deeper and deeper into the forest to places where there’s no paths and no men come. They come to a massive oak that’s fallen down not so great a tree as this here, but a great oak of those days fallen across their path. The deer, he bunches all his great muscles and he leaps over the tree. But the King has to stop, because he knows it would be death to his horse to try and jump like that.- Grandad nodded his head there, solemnly and looked up from under his eyebrows to check I was listening.

-So - the stag runs off and that’s when our King realises he’s all alone and deep, deep in the forest. He winds his horn and waits to see if there’s any reply but he can’t hear nowt. There’s nowt for it, he turns his horse around and starts trying to pick his way back the way he came. But he’s all twisted round and the trees are that thick he can’t see the sky to pick his direction. Right – it must have been overcast, so he can’t find his way and he’s trying to look for the broken branches and all where the deer ran but there’s plenty of broken branches and he’s just turning deeper and deeper into the forest. He knows he’s lost and that he’s not got much chance of finding his way as he is.

Then it’s starting to get dark and he’s thinking he can’t spend a night out in the woods, he’s looking round for some shelter. Not a castle or anything what he’s used to but hut or something hide out for the night. ‘Cos back then there were wolves and all sorts lived in the forests and outlaws, maybe there were some of them still living yet.-this with a sly twinkle in his eyes. 

-Our King, he gets off his horse, and the poor beast is tired from hunting all day, its heads gone down and it’s just limping along after him. Then he hears a voice, two voices, away a bit in the trees. He’s pretty eager so he hurries on towards them and he spies a little light glimmering around the edge of the gate and he can hear the voices clearer now. 

He’s up to the gate quick as a flash and he gives it a great knock with his fist. But everything within goes quiet and the light dips down like maybe someone hid their candle. He sits there for a minute and then he knocks again and he calls out sayin’ he don’t mean no harm he’s just looking for some shelter for the night. But there’s still no reply and he keeps on knockin’ and pleading with them ‘til they take pity on him or maybe he’s just causing too much noise. Then he hears a little whisper and then the light shines a little brighter and he can tell someone’s coming to the gate to let him in.

The gate opens up a crack and an old, old monk with a candle peeps through and he sees the king standing there with his horse all covered in muck and leaves from chasin’ through the forest. But even so the monk can see he’s got a noble bearing and he thinks that’s alright… so he beckons the King in and the King, he’s just thinking it’s a funny old place for a monk but there was lots of little places like that way back when - where people would go off to when they was sick of the world.

The monk shows him where to put his horse and brings him on up to his little hut all surrounded by the thickest trees and hidden away in the deepest part of the forest. And the King he’s feeling mighty relieved that he’s found shelter at last and thinking that the old monk is going to be no harm to him so he’s a bit more like to talk. He says ‘Now old monk how did you come to live here ‘cos it’s a lonesome place right enough’ and the monk he says ‘well I’ve lived here forty years and more and it seems to have got farther away from the world every day I’ve lived here, it used to seem right in the centre of things but the worlds all changed since then and you’ll feel the same no doubt, when you’re as old as I am and God bless you if you live so long.’ 

And by then they’re up to the door of the little hut and the monk fiddles around with the lock and opens up the door and he’s givin’ the king a queer look like he doesn’t know quite what to expect from him. But the King he don’t much care he’d just keen to get in and away from the forest so he pushes in right away and inside he sees this man who’s as old, older than I am now, but he’s a giant. A great wreck of a man. There’s not much in the hut, it’s pretty poor, pretty bare, but they’ve got a great roaring fire and on the table there’s a jug and a little loaf of stale bread. Then the King begs his host, he’s tired, he was lost in the woods, might they spare him a drink? ‘Oh, of course’ they say, ‘good gentle Sir have a glass of this water from the spring of our pure patron St Dunstan’. And the King wrinkles his nose ‘cos no one drank no water in those days and he’s thinking they’re pretty merry to have been drinking water. So, he says ‘I see you thrive and keep mighty cheerful on that good water’ and they say ‘Oh aye, it’s holy water and they’re holy men.’ Though the big man don’t look much like any kind of monk. 

Then the King thinks… cos he’s not a stupid man, he’s cute, so he says, ‘Aye very good, but I am not a holy man reverend fathers, I was wondering if you might have something a bit stronger like for a poor traveller.’ And he puts a little gold on the table to show them the way, and the monk looks at the big man and the big man looks at the monk and they can hardly keep from laughing. Then the big man gets up and he pulls back a covering that you couldn’t hardly see and he pulls out the wine and a haunch of venison which they had been having before he arrived. And after that they have a great night they stay up drinking and telling all the old stories about Robin Hood and the good old days. And in the morning the King take off his hat to them and he leaves them his purse for their hospitality. They point him in the right direction and he’s back where he left off in no time and he finds all his court riding off looking for him and scared out of their wits. 

Our King he gets back and they have a good laugh cos they’re right happy to see him. And he thinks now he’s back he’ll send off a good deer to the two good old men in the woods but they search up and down and all over and never a hide or hair do they see of them or their little hut. It’s like they just vanished away with the morning mists. And the king he says to his wife when he gets home he says ‘I do believe those men were good Friar Tuck and Little John!’

Grandfather finished this story with a triumphant flourish. 

- I have never heard that story before. Where did it come from?

-Oh I don’t know it’s an old story, one of those old stories. I suppose everyone forgets these things now. 

That was the last time I visited my Grandfather. I meant to go back and I know I was there a few days longer than that. I know he took me to the station to say goodbye but whenever I think of him now I see him standing under that tree with the sunlight on his face.