I have contracted
that most despicable of ailments – a summer cold. It’s all there
– hacking cough, blocked-up nose, streaming eyes, lungs wheezing
like a pair of punctured bellows. I am so weak I can hardly lift a
teaspoon. It’s a lovely day, too, the nicest in weeks, yet all I
want to do is sleep. This morning, I had to sweep the back garden
and take the dog for a walk, two tasks which have left me utterly
exhausted. Today was the day the bin men came, so, feeling as
fragile as a Ming vase, once they’d departed leaving their usual
trail of litter on the pavement (reserved for people who don’t
leave them a Christmas bonus), I had to go into the street and gather
in the various bins and buckets, the contents of which are meant for
recycling, but which probably all end up in the ground.
Andrew from across
the street hailed me. I was trying to escape unnoticed, but I was
obliged to lumber over and meet him. After all, that’s what
neighbours are for.
‘You’ve heard
about the care home, I suppose?’ he said.
‘No,’ I replied,
not entirely truthfully, for I had heard some murmurings about the
trustees of the care home wanting to build an extension.
‘They want to
build an extension right in front of our back garden,’ he said,
despondently. ‘They want to cut down all the trees.’
‘It would seem, then, that
there are more and more old people clamouring to spend their last
days looking into your back garden,’ I replied, drily. He gave me a blank look. 'I wouldn't know about that,' he replied. Andrew never did have much of a sense of humour.
‘Aren’t the trees listed, like ours?’ I asked.
‘No. If there’s
no ‘common view’, then they can’t be listed. Only we can see
them.’
‘Don’t they need
planning permission to build this extension?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, but we’re
going to make it as awkward for them as possible.’
‘We?’
‘Everyone on this
side of the street.’
‘Even the people
at the top who are already looking out over the home?’
‘Even them.’
‘Have you been in
contact with the home?’ I asked.
‘I had the
director down. I didn’t like the look of him. His eyes were too
close together and his nose would have burst a balloon. He was
altogether too shifty to be a director. I mean, he didn’t even
polish his shoes and he wasn’t wearing a tie, for Heaven’s sake.
He looked more like a bookie’s runner. I said: ‘What about our
view?’ He said: ‘You’ve no right to a view.’ He mentioned as
an afterthought that he didn’t give a toss.’
‘Have you involved
the local councillor?’
‘Jane is dealing
with that.’
‘Maybe they’ll
get fed up if you keep objecting and will call the whole thing off.’
‘I doubt it. I
even told the director that I would go to the press and tell them
that, for a Christian charity, they weren’t being very Christian
with their neighbours. He said ‘Go ahead – I don’t care a jot.’’
‘If that’s his
general attitude, I wouldn’t fancy going there to stay when I’m
in my dotage,’ I said.
‘That’s a
thought. I could spread the word that they don’t feed the old
people properly and they leave them sitting in chairs in draughty
corridors for days on end. That ought to put a few people off. I
said I’d make it awkward for them’
I wanted to remind
Andrew of the laws of slander and libel. Instead, wearily, I shook my
head and returned home. I was grateful that I live on the other side
of the street. All I have to worry about are the four massive,
brooding deciduous trees that keep the back garden in permanent
shade, suck all the goodness out of the soil, and prevent anything
from growing, even mint. As Whistler remarked: ‘Nature is creeping
up.’
I reflected, in my
enfeebled state, that I would probably swap with Andrew – he can
have my listed trees (a £20,000 fine if you dare to chop one down)
and I’ll have his extension. At least, three million leaves don’t
drop off an extension in the autumn.
