Trees

Illustration: Forest by OpenClipart-Vectors of pixabay.com

Malcolm Taylor plodded heavily across the lawn, shouting a deep grumbling reprimand at the
barking caged dogs behind the hedge.

‘Shut up!’

On the other side of the hedge he walked past the three dog pens, hit their wire perimeters with a stick and repeated his command for silence. Then he crouched, with difficulty, and opened the Larson cage on the ground. He reached in and took hold of the frantic, trapped magpie, pulled her out of the cage, snapped her neck and walked a few feet further to the darkest, dankest corner of his garden. Shaded from any brightening glint of sunlight by a wall of yew trees was a dilapidated, damp, flea-infested wooden hutch which housed two scrawny ferrets. Taylor lifted the heavy, mould-stained canvas that was draped over the front of the hutch, opened its door and tossed the dead bird to the ravenous inmates.

Then he opened each dog’s pen and followed them as they ran eagerly through the trees to a rough patch of ground between the field and the cemetery. Here they could play and chase each other, expend
some energy, do what came naturally – for ten minutes – until they were again confined. Back in
their pens they were fed by the miserable man who in turn went back to the house to be fed by his
miserable wife.

The new housekeeper started when she turned from the sink to see her employer standing frowning behind her with arms folded.

‘Breakfast is on the table Mr Turnbull.’

‘Judy – you’re supposed to bring it to the table when I’m seated.’

‘I’m sorry but I thought …’

‘No excuses Judy. You know I have to catch a train at 8.30 don’t you? If I have to catch a train at 8.30 then what time do I need to be finished my breakfast?’

‘Eight o’clock. But yesterday -’

‘My toast is cold and my tea is tepid! And it’s eight o’clock already! Get your act together!’

Justin Turnbull slid his arms into his dark grey suit jacket, swiped his briefcase from the sofa and
walked out to his Range Rover. Judy bit her lip, took deep breaths, sucked back the tears and spat
on the beef steak in the fridge.

Muriel Bowers wanted a swimming pool. She could afford it; her garden was big enough; it was no one else’s business. But after her husband applied for planning permission she was shocked to
discover that other people were making it their business. There was only one suitable spot for the
pool in the garden which meant cutting down a tree. The tall James Grieve was over eighty years
old and half its branches hung over the wall into the park. For the best part of a century everyone in
the village had been free to take apples from this tree and make pies, jams and cider to share at the
annual community picnic. It was a well-loved local tradition that people would not willingly lose
and many contested the planning application. Muriel thought it was outrageous that she couldn’t
cut down her own tree if she wanted to. People should buy their own apples!

She heard the back door slam. ‘Tom is that you? What are you doing?’

‘I forgot my keys, sorry for the slam, the wind caught the door. Bye.’

‘No, Tom! Wait! Come back!’

Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘What is it? I need to get up to the north field, I’m
meeting someone.’

Muriel burst into the kitchen. ‘Who?’

‘Ken Wilson, the org…’ he stopped a moment too late.

‘Oh not that Soil Association man again? I thought we’d agreed – it’s too costly to go organic.
We’d have years of producing a reduced crop until the land can be certified clear of chemicals.’

‘I know Muriel but I can’t do this anymore. Spraying poison year in year out – the soil is
depleted of all its natural goodness. The wild flowers are almost wiped out. The bees and the
butterflies …’

‘Oh spare me! Don’t start on about the bees again! The soil’s alright if you can still grow in it!
Honestly Tom I’ve got enough on my plate sorting out this swimming-pool-apple-tree fiasco
without you trying to reduce our income by going organic! Can’t you ever think about anyone but
yourself?’ Tom closed his lips and looked blankly at his wife. She looked back at him, chin down
and eyebrows up like an obnoxious parent, confident she had carried her point. ‘Anyway,’ she
continued, ‘I need you to drive me into town for the planning committee meeting. Phone Ken
what’s-his-name and cancel.’

Turnbull walked angrily past a small group of shouting protesters into his office building. He
looked at them contemptuously from his office window, trying not to show irritation as he closed
the blind. His administrator popped her head round the door.

‘Don’t forget you’ve got that meeting at ten with the bloke from the Environment Agency.’

‘I know Rachel, thank you, I’m not likely to forget am I?’

Rachel muttered under her breath and withdrew. Turnbull attempted to read his newspaper but
the constant chanting outside his window was too distracting. He buzzed Rachel on the intercom.

‘Yes Justin,’ she was polite but there was an edge to her voice.

‘Get Crisp in here will you?’

Within five minutes Fred Crisp stood in front of Turnbull’s desk, waiting silently. Turnbull looked up from the paper. ‘Sit down please Crisp.’ He frowned, looked at the driver seriously and then attempted to show compassion. ‘It’s been a difficult couple of weeks here and as you know I have done everything in my power to save your job,’ he paused, ‘but I’m afraid I’m going to have to let you go.’

Fred’s heart started to beat faster. ‘It wasn’t my fault! I told you those seals needed replacing! Most of them need the whole tank replacing. I told you what would happen if one of the tankers went over!’

‘I have no recollection of that. As far as I am aware our tankers have always been maintained to
a high standard. You were driving too fast without due care and attention. The accident and
subsequent oil spill was your fault.’

‘I don’t believe this! I always drive carefully. You’ve been cutting corners since you took over
this depot. All this could have been avoided if you’d listened to me six months ago!’

‘I have nothing more to add. Leave your company ID with Rachel, we will pay you to the end of
the week but you can go home now. I’m sorry it had to come to this.’

Knowing further argument was futile, Fred clenched his fist and leaned towards the suddenly
pale depot manager before regaining his composure and exiting the office. Turnbull breathed a sigh
of relief. When the Environment Agency got there he would tell them that the driver responsible
had been terminated and the company would do the responsible thing and clean up the river. There
were twelve depot staff, they could give up a couple of weekends each to scrub the river bank and
pick up a few dead ducks and fish. It wouldn’t make any difference, sending detergent down the river with the oil, but it would provide a bit of much needed good PR for the company.

The wind was getting up and the trees swayed noisily. Taylor stood at the end of the track. The ‘Private Keep Out’ sign had been pulled up again and the barbed wire had been cut. He wound another length of wire round the wide trunk of a tree on one side of the track and nailed it in place. Then he unrolled it across the track and fixed it to another tree on the opposite side. This trunk had tried to heal itself from old attachments of barbed wire and the bark had swelled and swallowed it in places. If he noticed he didn’t care as he nailed more sharp spikes into the living wood and then returned to his still-running vehicle.

Once deep in the woods he did his usual round of checking the pheasant and partridge pens before checking the predator traps. During the course of the morning he came across four empty snares, one which had viciously detained a fox, and another which had strangled a rabbit. He ended the fox’s misery with his shotgun before releasing both animals and nailing their bodies to the trophy tree.

At midday Taylor wrapped his scarf round his ruddy face and headed back to the Land Rover. The rustling of the leaves in the still-rising wind, the creaking of the trees’ limbs and the loud collision of high branches sounded wild and intimidating. The wind was so strong that he struggled to put one foot in front of the other and was repeatedly struck by flying debris – sticks, an empty plastic feed barrel, a small wire cage. Finally, scratched and bruised, he got there. He opened the driver’s door with difficulty but was halted by the terrifying amplified scream of a buzzard which made him look up. The last thing he saw was a huge top branch plummeting towards him.

Undeterred by the gale doing battle with her perm, Muriel strode down the garden in a fury, yanked open the shed door and seized the axe.

‘This bloody tree! Trees are more important than people now are they? The world’s going to end if this tree’s cut down is it?’ Her strength increased by her anger, she wielded the heavy axe and swung it against the apple tree. The blade only grazed the bark but the strike jarred along the axe handle to her inexperienced hands which released it, letting it cartwheel across the lawn while she overbalanced and sat in the roses. She screamed – half in rage, half in pain from the penetrating thorns – and stamped her feet in a childish tantrum.

Tom watched, amused, from the kitchen window. His wife started waving her arms around her head,
screaming again and swatting with her hands. She was an over-dramatic woman but he’d never seen her put on quite such an exhibition. When she dropped out of sight behind the rose bushes, he trudged reluctantly down the garden to see if something more than fury was keeping her down. The screaming stopped and when Tom reached the roses he was suddenly afraid to look. When he did he froze in disbelief. Muriel Bowers was lying on her back, eyes and mouth wide open, dead. A bee was moving along her bottom lip. Another emerged from her nose.

The local radio came on as Turnbull started the engine.

‘ … meteorologists are completely stumped by the dramatic unseasonable weather hitting parts
of Hampshire today, especially given that the rest of the country remains warm and dry. First high
winds and now heavy rainfall – didn’t anyone see this coming?’

‘Bloody useless lot – they should all be fired for incompetence!’ Turnbull talked to the radio as
he began his twenty minute drive home.

Visibility was poor, his wipers could barely keep up, and it was dark very early. An inconsiderate, arrogant driver, Turnbull lost patience with others on the road who had slowed down in the adverse conditions. He tailgated, he honked, and, when he’d finally had enough of waiting, he screeched off the main road down a narrow country lane which he knew rejoined the main road three miles ahead. With main beams on he put his foot down.

The huge dead tree, too heavy to be hindered in its descent by the young branches around it, was brought down with ease by the gale. Turnbull saw it just in time to avoid collision but swerved and lost control. The Range Rover sped down the steep bank to the rushing river.

The next day was bright and warm. When vehicle and driver were pulled out of the river the
radio was strangely still playing.

‘… still no explanation about that freaky weather yesterday but Mother Nature sure showed us her power.’