“Vandals?”
“Public safety”. The few stones in the wall were lying on the footpath at the back of the church.
“You’re rebuilding?”
“It’s got to come down.”
“The wall?”
“No, this.” The dark-haired man gestured with his hand. He was pointing at a magnificent tree whose roots obviously stretched deep into the foundations of the wall.
“It must be a hundred and fifty years old,” I said.
“A hundred and seventy, according to the vicar.”
“Is it absolutely vital that it has to come down?”
“Health and safety, mate.”
His colleague, much younger, more egregious-looking and with hair the colour of Mr Jabez Wilson’s in the ‘Red-Headed League”, spoke for the first time. “What manner of tree would this be, then?” he asked.
“Beech,” I said. “You can always tell by the leaves. They’re serrated.”
“Castrated?”
“No – serrated. Like the business end of a bread knife.”
“Ar.”
“I wouldn’t mind the timber,” the dark one observed. “Look at this.” He bent suddenly and struck the bark of the tree with the edge of his spade. His action revealed a beautifully smooth wood underneath. “Turns lovely on a lathe, that,” he said. “Makes great furniture.”
The tree stood solemnly, with great dignity. Its branches swept out almost as far as the river. It must have been eighty feet high, at least, and its branches forty in circumference.
“Well, I think it’s a crying shame,” I said.
“Wouldn’t be if it fell on some nipper’s head, would it?” The dark one said.
“I would say the chances of that are equivalent to me winning a million pounds on the football pools, and I don’t even fill them in,” I replied.
“I won the pools once”, the ginger lad said, apropos of nothing. “Seventy quid, it was. Hartlepool let me down.”
“As they do everybody”, I replied, drily.
“Besides,” the dark man said. “We’re just here to knock this bit of the wall down. They’ve hired specialist contractors to chop down the tree.”
“When will all of this happen?” I asked.
“We’ll be finished the wall this afternoon, but I’ve no idea when they’re doing the tree,” the dark man said. “Why are you getting so het up about it, anyway, when there’s plenty of other trees around here - say”, he said suspiciously, “You’re not one of them Greens, are you? They’re all bonkers.”
“Certainly not. I’m a rock-solid citizen of Europe. The reason why I happen to think this is important is that this tree has been there from the reign of Queen Victoria. Charles Dickens was alive when it was a sapling. It’s lived through the Boer War, the Great War, the Second World War. It’s seen the invention of the internal combustion engine, the typewriter, the telephone, the electric light, the computer and the mobile phone. And now, despite all this, at the stroke of a pen of some Council jobsworth who has as much feel for nature and beauty as Arthur Mullard, this tree has to come down. My overriding hope is when that jobsworth next comes round here, the tree falls straight on his head.”
The ginger lad looked at his watch. “Time for a break,” he said. The pair wandered off to find a bench upon which to consume their tea and Gregg’s steak bakes. I heard the dark one say to his ginger companion “A dangerous lot, them Greens. Heaven help us if they ever get into power.”
“Public safety”. The few stones in the wall were lying on the footpath at the back of the church.
“You’re rebuilding?”
“It’s got to come down.”
“The wall?”
“No, this.” The dark-haired man gestured with his hand. He was pointing at a magnificent tree whose roots obviously stretched deep into the foundations of the wall.
“It must be a hundred and fifty years old,” I said.
“A hundred and seventy, according to the vicar.”
“Is it absolutely vital that it has to come down?”
“Health and safety, mate.”
His colleague, much younger, more egregious-looking and with hair the colour of Mr Jabez Wilson’s in the ‘Red-Headed League”, spoke for the first time. “What manner of tree would this be, then?” he asked.
“Beech,” I said. “You can always tell by the leaves. They’re serrated.”
“Castrated?”
“No – serrated. Like the business end of a bread knife.”
“Ar.”
“I wouldn’t mind the timber,” the dark one observed. “Look at this.” He bent suddenly and struck the bark of the tree with the edge of his spade. His action revealed a beautifully smooth wood underneath. “Turns lovely on a lathe, that,” he said. “Makes great furniture.”
The tree stood solemnly, with great dignity. Its branches swept out almost as far as the river. It must have been eighty feet high, at least, and its branches forty in circumference.
“Well, I think it’s a crying shame,” I said.
“Wouldn’t be if it fell on some nipper’s head, would it?” The dark one said.
“I would say the chances of that are equivalent to me winning a million pounds on the football pools, and I don’t even fill them in,” I replied.
“I won the pools once”, the ginger lad said, apropos of nothing. “Seventy quid, it was. Hartlepool let me down.”
“As they do everybody”, I replied, drily.
“Besides,” the dark man said. “We’re just here to knock this bit of the wall down. They’ve hired specialist contractors to chop down the tree.”
“When will all of this happen?” I asked.
“We’ll be finished the wall this afternoon, but I’ve no idea when they’re doing the tree,” the dark man said. “Why are you getting so het up about it, anyway, when there’s plenty of other trees around here - say”, he said suspiciously, “You’re not one of them Greens, are you? They’re all bonkers.”
“Certainly not. I’m a rock-solid citizen of Europe. The reason why I happen to think this is important is that this tree has been there from the reign of Queen Victoria. Charles Dickens was alive when it was a sapling. It’s lived through the Boer War, the Great War, the Second World War. It’s seen the invention of the internal combustion engine, the typewriter, the telephone, the electric light, the computer and the mobile phone. And now, despite all this, at the stroke of a pen of some Council jobsworth who has as much feel for nature and beauty as Arthur Mullard, this tree has to come down. My overriding hope is when that jobsworth next comes round here, the tree falls straight on his head.”
The ginger lad looked at his watch. “Time for a break,” he said. The pair wandered off to find a bench upon which to consume their tea and Gregg’s steak bakes. I heard the dark one say to his ginger companion “A dangerous lot, them Greens. Heaven help us if they ever get into power.”
