A tourist asked how old the wall I was repairing was, and I gave the usual answer about the older stretch and the later work. After he left I found myself trying to remember who had told me the first part. Father, I think, but it could have been my grandfather and me putting the voice in the wrong mouth. The stones are there, solid enough, while the story travels a little each time I tell it. I don't want to be inventing history just because I've reached an age where people take my word for it. Still, saying I don't know sounds stranger now than it did at twenty. I may ask at the pub. There'll be three answers and a fourth by closing time.

The grandchild rang to tell me about a stone found nowhere near our place and wanted to know if it was a good one. I asked what it looked like and got a long account, colours included, very little about the shape. It did me good to listen. I had been out of sorts all afternoon for no useful reason, and there was this child thinking I was the man to ask about a perfectly ordinary stone. I said to keep it till the next visit. Now I'm looking forward to an examination of a pebble, which is a respectable thing for a grandfather to have on his calendar. I hope nobody cleans out the coat pocket before they come.

Had the concertina out after tea and the hands were willing for once. The first tune was a bit stiff, the second better, then herself called from the other room to ask if I knew a third. There's encouragement for you. I like the movement of it, the small pull and push, how the fingers find a place before I quite remember where the tune is going. It's different from lifting stone all day, though the hands are the same old pair. The dogs settled through the racket, one against my foot so I couldn't keep time without disturbing him. I played the first tune again. She said nothing that time, whether from approval or surrender I couldn't tell you.