Storm Amy had blown in with malevolent gusto, and took her leave with a valedictory blast, as if blowing mocking raspberries behind her.
*
‘Have you checked the garden?’
My wife looked at me interrogatively as she sipped her cup of tea. I was up and dressed, she was still in bed.
‘Give me a chance.’
‘Just asking.’
I was used to these instructions framed as questions. It was part of our marital discourse, and preserved the illusion of equality.
In fact I had already made a quick tour of the policies, unprepared for what I would discover.
The main part of our garden comprises a double lawn that contains at one end a hedge concealing a wilderness of untamed bushes and unruly undergrowth, and at the other a bed of more obedient plants that grow with a semblance of order. Some are in the prime of life, with an ample foliage and good height.
Beside and behind it stands a group of ancient trees, apple and pear and one of indeterminate lineage. This one’s bark is gnarled, desiccated, craggy. Whatever leafage that might once have softened its severe demeanour had long since shrivelled.
One evening, as we sat in a relaxed post prandial quiet, I was enjoying a couple of digestifs, my wife was reading a magazine.
“You know,” I said, “ the more I look at that tree, the more it reminds me of your mother.”
A frozen silence followed. My wife is not one to hold grudges, however, and after a few hours she relented.
The branches of this tree emanated from its slightly thicker trunk and spread upwards. One in particular had split further and assumed, perhaps due to arboreal obstinacy, the unmistakeable shape of a defiant V sign.
When working in the garden to clear the endless weeds in the plant bed, I would often look up and give it a nod of recognition. I had grown fond of it.
In one respect the tree differed from my mother-in-law. It was a good conversationalist. It was up for a chat about any subject – the weather, naturally, and especially politics. It was perhaps because I admired its perspicacity and good judgement, and the fact that we rarely disagreed, the tree and I, that it was with such shock and sadness that I had stared at the evidence of Amy’s evil work.
The tree was injured beyond repair. The upper half of the trunk was lying in the bed, but was far from at rest. It was still attached to the lower part by thick skelfs of split wood. It lay half obscured among the plants, the morning breeze creating creaking noises that to my ears sounded uncannily like groans.
*
“It’ll have to go.” It was hard to disagree with my wife’s summary judgement, uttered when she had joined me in a second inspection. “And soon. It’s crushing my hydrangea. And just look at my poor clematis. Really, you should have been more careful. Ok,ok, I know you’ve retired, but it’s only been a few months. You can’t have forgotten that you had to check the trees when you were a park ranger. I don’t know why I tolerate your, your lack of care.”
I understood her frustrations, so let the remarks pass. Anyway, I had already decided that this was a chain saw job, and that I would make a virtue out of necessity. When I was gainfully employed, disposing of damaged or dangerous trees was part of my job description. I didn’t often get the chance now to wield this fearsome bit of machinery, but it would be a quick and effective way to put the tree out of its misery.
I donned my protective overalls and put a pair of goggles round my neck, ready to slip them over my eyes when I got started. I was pulling on my gloves as my wife came out of the house, car keys jangling.
“There’s messages to get. Life must go on.” She gave me a look that might have meant ‘can you be trusted with a lethal weapon’ or ‘don’t do any more damage.’
I shrugged. Then I turned my attention to the tree. Much like a dentist reassures a patient, I nodded encouragingly. ‘This may hurt, but I’ll make it quick.’
But I couldn’t set to work immediately. The tree lay there, all life spent, a shared cache of dendritic memories inert in its trunk. A eulogy was surely required. I searched for something appropriate to intone over the lifeless corpse.
Clearing my throat, I began.”Old friend, we share a lot of history, chatting, setting the world to rights. Indeed as the poet said, ‘mony a canty day we’ve had wi’ ane anither.’
You can always rely on Burns to provide the appropriate verse. The tree didn’t seem to mind my lack of originality. Then another thought occurred. I started up again.
‘I think that I shall never see, a thing as lovely as a tree…’
I stopped. I was certain I had seen a branch move, the obstinate one. I looked at it, quizzically. Yes, there was definitely a twitch.
“What’s the problem?”
I stared, and saw that the branch’s movement reminded me of something – yes, of an admonitory finger.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to pay you my respects? You should be grateful.”
The twitching became more pronounced. I decided to ignore it and start again. I recited, emphasising each word. ‘I think that I shall never see…’ the branch seemed calm ‘a thing as-‘
The branch seemed to be going into spasm. What the…
It dawned on me.
“Ok, I understand now. Sorry for the misquote. Listen.” I stood up straight and began. ‘I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.’ I looked down. The branch was lying as I had seen it earlier this morning.
“You can rest peacefully now.”
I checked the oil level in the saw and the tension of the chain, and positioned the goggles over my eyes. I was about to pull the starter cord when I heard the ringtone of my mobile.
I took it out of my pocket and recognised my wife’s number.
“Are you in the garden?”
“Yes.”
“Have you started?”
“No.”
“Well, listen”
“I’m listening.”
“I need to tell you”. A pause. “I’ve met someone.”
“Oh.”
“A man.”
I considered this, imagining various scenarios.Was my life about to undergo a radical change? I waited.
“Yes”. An intake of breath.” I’m sure he’s the one.”
I examined my reactions. Surprise? Yes. Sadness? To an extent. Anger? Not really.
“So don’t do anything more to the tree. Wait till he gets there.”
“You mean he’s coming round? Now?”
“Well, obviously. He’s got to see it, see what’s involved.”
Realisation dawned. Surely it wasn’t disappointment I was feeling?
“I didn’t like the thought of you rampaging through the garden with the saw. So you won’t need to worry about not managing. This man, he’s a tree surgeon, got his own business. He was in the area so I had a word. He’s got a trailer. He can take away the mess. Agree a price with him and it’s sorted.”
*
George duly arrived within twenty minutes. His face was weather beaten, he was bald and he looked to be well over seventy. His companion was a junior version – same shape of head but with a crop of thinning grey.
“Aye, thon storm has done us proud. In the space of a day, enough work for a month.” The older man eyes were agleam. “Plenty sillar for the twa’ o’ us.”
He looked down at the trunk in the plant bed, and followed it with his eyes to where it was joined to the upper half.
“That’ll be the tricky bit.”
“Well, it’s not exactly the Birnam Oak” I didn’t want his conjectures to boost his price. “Give me your quote.”
After a bit of haggling, we settled on a figure. George extended his arm.
It’s a strange sensation to shake a hand that’s missing a forefinger and a pinkie. George saw my expression and shrugged. “Occupational hazard. Happens noo an’ again.”
Hmm, I thought.
“Canna’ spend all day blethering. Let’s get going.”
George took his saw from the back of his trailer, nodded to the other man, and cleared away the earth surrounding the trunk.
“Time for a bit o’ dismemberment!”
I winced. But before he got started I said “ You don’t wear gloves, even with…?”
“Naw. It’s ma medication. For ma liver. Reacts bad wi’ ma skin, an allergy thing. Canny’ cover ma hauns.”
I thought that mentioning cutting off noses to spite faces might not be appropriate. Then I noticed something else.
“But you do use goggles don’t you?”
“Naw again. It’s an eye problem, canny’ see properly through the plastic lenses. Something tae dae wi’ cataracts.”
George’s fellow worker, whose name was Jimmy, was hovering impatiently. “Come on Dad, make up your mind. Are you going to do this or not?”
He turned to me.
“Dad’s getting on a bit. He puts on this act, all confident and business like, but, really, he shouldn’t still be doing this job.”
“Enough o’ that!” There’s plenty o’ life left in this auld cutter.”
I left them to it and went into the house to make us all a cup of tea. In due course I heard the strident yet reassuring noise of the chainsaw. Then shortly after a knock at the door. Jimmy looked embarrassed.
“Sorry to bother you. I might need your help. We’ve cut up the trunk that’s lying on the ground, but it’s the part still attached that’s the problem.”
“Have you not got a ladder?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t you get it in position?”
“Yes, but…”
Jimmy’s silence was eloquent.
“So, is it a head and height problem?”
“It’s been coming on for a while, but he won’t accept it.”
“You guys are meant to be helping me, and not the other way round.”
“I’ll adjust the price.”
While George reluctantly busied himself loading the bits of sawn wood and sundry debris on to the trailer, Jimmy and I took turns at the tricky job of detaching the remaining length of tree from the trunk.
The pair of us manoeuvred it on to the ground and George, still surly but more acquiescent, completed the sundering.
Jimmy looked at me quizzically. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You listening, Dad?”
*
“You’re still in your overalls.”
As my wife laid two bags of messages on the ground she ran her eye over our group. Then at the garden.
“Job done?”
“This one certainly is.” I tried to keep my voice neutral.
“So why haven’t you changed? And you two,” nodding in the direction of George and Jimmy, “ have you not got another job to go to?”
My wife had placed her hands on her hips. I recognised the confrontational stance.
“Richt enough, aye, there’s mair work for those ready tae sweat a wheen.” George looked at me. I looked at Jimmy, then at my wife.
“We’ve been chatting, the three of us.”
My wife’s look might have been a glare. Then she pointed to the rucksack which was lying next to my chainsaw.
“That looks like yours.”
“Indeed. Jimmy and George have got a contract in a forest up north. Clearing fallen trees, that sort of thing. Two or three day’s work.”
“What’s that got to do with you?”
“That’s the thing. They need a hand. I’m the hand. Serendipity really.” I hoped my smile didn’t appear triumphant. “So I’ll be away for a bit.”
While this conversation was proceeding, George and Jimmy had climbed into the truck, and George had started the engine. I grabbed my rucksack and saw and jumped in behind them. I stuck my head out of the window.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days. But who knows. Maybe there’s a part-time job waiting for me with these lads.”
I saw my wife’s mouth open and close. I nodded.
“Yes, I agree. Wasn’t that good fortune that you met someone?”
By David Carson