THE
TREE
Sycamore tree - Wikipedia commons
Nik
Morton
‘Tom,
I’ve just read some frightful news!’ Jill Hadley lowered the bulging Saturday
shopping bag to the carpet and slithered wearily out of her black midi-coat. Her
husband rose from his comfortable armchair and switched off the television. He
turned enquiring grey eyes to her.
It’s our tree.’
‘The sycamore?’
She nodded. ‘They’re going to kill
it…’ She shrugged her slight shoulders helplessly. ‘I know it’s only a tree,
Tom – but it’s meant so much to us, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it has. Lots.’
Jill handed him the local newspaper’s
early edition and pointed to the headlines – COUNCIL PLANS DUAL CARRIAGEWAY.
She sat down miserably. ‘And it’ll run right through that plot of disused land…’
It was true, she would miss that
tree. Really, they both would. It held a special place in their hearts.
Almost seventeen years ago now –
with Tom’s attentive help – she had planted the sycamore sprig in the patch of
waste land. She had been about seven then. And, as they had grown, so had their
tree. In those days, they had visited the sapling most weekends, eager to
nurture its growth.
Tom grimaced. ‘I suppose we must
forget sentiment where progress is concerned, Jill.’ He didn’t sound
particularly convincing.
That sycamore had shared much of
their lives. She recalled one day well. Cloudy, a slight chill in the air. Tom
had tentatively embraced her for the first time. That moment had been the
beginning when she realised Tom meant more to her than all her other boy
friends at school.
And as they had kissed beneath the
young tree’s sun-seeking boughs, Jill had felt the protective presence of their
tree.
Before they parted that day, Tom had
taken a pocket-knife from his corduroy jacket and delicately carved a small
heart and their initials on the strong bark…
‘There’s nothing we can do about it,
Jill,’ Tom said resignedly, disturbing her reverie.
‘Couldn’t you apply for permission
to uproot the tree? We could plant it in the yard. Surely the landlord wouldn’t
mind?’
Tom grinned. ‘I’ll give it a try, at
least, love.’
It was amazing how quickly the tree
had grown and spread forth until its leaves were almost as huge as
dinner-plates; every vein and artery a fascination. Many a showery evening they
had found adequate shelter under its ponderous arms.
Her heart tripped as she thought
again of that night of electric storm. Tom had been hurrying her across the
waste ground – a short cut – when the storm broke. It was a rather nasty ending
to an otherwise marvellous day of carefree shopping. They had been laden with
parcels, Tom wielding a new fishing-rod clumsily as he ran.
She remembered pausing under the
tree to glance at the rain dribbling down the grooves of their heart carved in
the trunk. Then a sudden stark flash above and she was sure her heart must have
stopped beating as the lightning-struck branch fell at their feet.
There was no reason to say a word.
She knew they were both fully aware that the branch had obstructed the
lightning and prevented Tom and his metal rod being hit.
Ever since that stormy evening, the
tree had continued to flourish unperturbed save for its one severed and burnt
limb – as through the charred stump were raised aloft as a sign of some sort.
***
Tom
was at work when the landlord came up to see her about their request to
transplant the tree.
Over a cup of tea, the slightly-bald
man remarked, ‘I’ve been liaising with the Council on the matter, Mrs Hadley.’
His watery blue eyes evaded hers.
The melancholy droop of his greying moustache made her apprehensive.
He cleared his throat. ‘It’s
generally considered that the tree’s already too large for transplanting. And
its possible inclusion in the yard has met with unfavourable response, I’m
afraid.’ He drained his cup and nervously wiped his thin pale lips with the
back of his bony hand. ‘I’m sorry.’
Well, it had been quite a wild idea.
Even so, she was tempted to uproot it herself!
During dinner, Jill told Tom what
the landlord had said. ‘I know it’s rather silly, Tom, but…’ She hesitated.
‘You want to say goodbye, is that
it?’
Suddenly flushed, she gazed down at
her fumbling fingers. ‘Yes.’
‘Look, I can get an extra half-hour
off for lunch tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the tree and we’ll eat sandwiches
there, just like it used to be.’
***
As
her fingers lovingly traced the old grooves of their initialled heart, Jill
noticed a smartly-dressed little old lady scrutinising them. ‘Who’s that?’ she
whispered over her shoulder at Tom, who was busy unwrapping their sandwiches.
Before he could reply, the woman
walked up to them.
The strain of trying to recognise
them was evident in her flickering alert brown eyes. Then she gasped, pleased
with herself. ‘I know you two youngsters,’ she declared, smiling gently.
‘Oh’ Jill said.
Nodding her small head repeatedly
now, the old lady pursed her thin unpainted lips. ‘Indeed. This is your tree,’
she said emphatically. ‘You used to come at weekends to prune and water it.’
Her eyes took on a glazed hue at the memory. ‘Yes.’
She glanced about her, at the rusty
cans and bicycle wheels, the charred remains of November bonfires, the barren
mounds of parched earth all around. Her gaze returned to the wounded but proud
sycamore, sturdy and unbowed in the midst of so much chaos.
‘There’s many a day I’ve just
watched you both. Cutting back the weeds, keeping the rubbish away.’
A hope of some kind sprang into Jill’s
breast as the woman said: ‘I’ve watched you both tender your tree over the
years, ever since you planted the stray sapling as your own…’
Tom’s arm proudly encircled Jill’s
shoulders.
‘It’s a great pity the road has to
be here to spoil all your love and care.’ Faintly, the old lady’s slight chest
sighed, her fox-fur ruffling. ‘But the road must go through. I do believe it
must…’
Tom nodded. ‘That’s life, I suppose.’
He shrugged, squeezing Jill in sympathy.
But Jill wasn’t resigned to the tree’s
fate yet. ‘No!’ she suddenly exclaimed. ‘Why must roads always destroy? Shouldn’t
a tree, a field of buttercups, a dell of bluebells, shouldn’t they be more important
than Tarmac and concrete?’
She felt Tom’s restraining hand
clasp her shoulder urgently. ‘Jill, we’re only two people – the road’s needed
by thousands.’
She eyed the old woman. ‘Why must
the good things be lost for progress, economy and efficiency?’ Jill wanted to
know. ‘Is it wrong to love nature, to have a favourite tree, a special brook,
to adore the flowers and birds’ Tears welled. She blinked them away. ‘I’m
sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I am getting over-sentimental.’
‘That’s all right, dear. I quite
agree with you – but, unfortunately the way things stand, roads like the one
planned here are inevitable.’
The letter arrived next morning,
just as Tom was leaving for the office. Because it looked official, with the Borough
seal, he lingered as Jill read it.
Her eyes widened, glistening. ‘Oh,
Tom!’
‘What is it, love?’ He took the
letter.
‘The little old lady – she’s the Mayoress!
She’s managed to persuade the authorities to transplant the tree to St Mark’s
Children’s Home.’
He hugged her. ‘That’s fairly near
us.’
***
Jill
held Tom’s hand tightly as they neared the end of their visit to St Mark’s.
They had purposefully saved one item on the itinerary until last.
Across the green sward, she spotted
two ten-year-olds carving their heart alongside Tom’s and hers.
Strangely, she found she didn’t
resent sharing their tree of love. Now it would be able to watch over another
generation of young lovers.
‘Live to a ripe old age, tree,’ she
whispered.
***
Previously
published in Competitors’ Journal,
1972.
Copyright Nik
Morton, 2015.
‘The
Tree’ was a runner up in a regular competition, and was my fourth paid published
short story. The strapline for the story read: ‘It was a special part of their
lives – and now condemned to die.’ When advised that I was a winner, I was
asked to provide a photograph – which I didn’t possess – so I rushed out at
lunch time, changed into civilian clothes and obtained a photograph at a
photo-booth. At this time, as I was serving in the RN, I used a penname, Platen
Syder. However, the write-up blew my cover with ease – and interestingly a
couple of staff at HMS Centurion, where I was working, recognised me and
commented favourably about the story.
Of
course times have changed and it is doubtless frowned upon to deface a living
tree. And I note that Tom stayed at home for some reason while he let his wife
struggle with the shopping; how ungallant of him! The identity of the old lady
is a contrivance, necessary for the length of story, I suppose. It is
unashamedly sentimental; still, there’s nothing wrong with that – there’s
plenty of cynicism in the world to compensate. I’m still fond of the story,
anyway, even after all these years.
If
you’d like to see how my writing has developed in the intervening years, please
consider my short story collection, Spanish
Eye, published by Crooked Cat (2013), which features 22 cases from Leon
Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.
He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the
Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked
Cats’ Tales.
Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as
a paperback and as an e-book.
Or you could try
my co-authored fantasy novel Wings of the
Overlord (by Morton Faulkner) currently available in hardback (5 good
glowing reviews):
Floreskand,
where myth, mystery and magic reign. The sky above the city of Lornwater
darkens as thousands of red tellars, the magnificent birds of the Overlord,
wing their way towards dark Arisa. Inexplicably drawn to discover why, the
innman Ulran sets out on a quest. Although he prefers to travel alone, he
accedes to being accompanied by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who seems to harbour
a secret or two. Before long, they realise that it's a race against time: they
must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled
magical rites. On their way, they stay at the ghostly inn on the shores of
dreaded Lake and meet up with the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar. Alomar has
his own reasons for going to Arisa and thus is forged an unlikely alliance.
Gradually, the trio learn more about each other -- whether it's the strange
link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the
superstitious heart of Cobrora. Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and
magic, the ill-matched threesome must follow their fate across the plains of
Floreskand, combat the Baronculer hordes, scale the snow-clad Sonalume
Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Only here will they uncover
the truth. Here too they will find pain and death in their struggle against the
evil Yip-nef Dom.
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