I can hardly breathe. A pair of
lovers is loitering under our tree. I want to scream at them, ‘This tree is
taken; it’s Dean’s and it’s mine’. But
they’re oblivious, absorbed in their kissing and cuddling. As I shuffle towards them and their faces
become clearer, I feel a strange ache inside me which morphs into a violent
rush of anger. In that moment I
understand what is meant by being consumed by rage because I am no longer
myself. I’m just a tight ball of
undiluted fury.
I clench my fists, trying not to pant in case
they hear me. I need to give this
matter some careful thought. Because
one of these starry-eyed lovers is him. Dean.
My Dean. Who the girl is, I have no idea, nor do I
care.
The Tree is an oak, a
very large, very old oak and it grows in a remote part of the South Gardens, a
fenced off area of our local park. This
was where, in the final years of college, we helped each other with our
homework and then relaxed, me nestled snugly into the crook of Dean’s arm.
I know it’s corny, but we really were childhood
sweethearts. If you’re guessing we met
under the old oak tree, then you’d only be half right. It was autumn and I’d sat down under the
spreading branches with my friend, Annette.
Dean was actually eight metres over my head in the tree. I never knew he was there till he began
dropping acorns on my head.
I told him to grow up and he said, ‘You gonnna
make me’ and I said, ‘You better believe it,’ and he said ‘You and whose army’
and I said, ‘You just wait and you’ll find out, Ratface.’ It makes me smile, to think how young we
were. But we liked each other
immediately and Dean walked me home.
But now I’m dumped and don’t know why.
I watch the lovers wander off then I sink down
at the foot of our tree and lean against the gnarled trunk. Dusk is falling – no it’s not dusk – too
early for dusk. Stormclouds are
gathering. I hear the rain pattering on
the leaves above me and soon the tree is weeping fat tears over my head and I
shake out my dripping hair, putting my arms around the oaken waist. In the middle ages, spinsters were actually
married to trees, to avoid the shame of being spinsters. Maybe they weren’t that crazy because right
now I can almost feel the green life-energy throbbing inside me. Legend says that tree spirits are the Lords
of the forest and natural things and somehow I know our Tree’s spirit senses
Dean’s betrayal. How could it not?
Secretly, I name the Tree Shylock – because I sense that, like me, it wants its pound of
flesh....
The Tree was never witness to our quarrel,
which took place one quiet Friday evening three weeks ago while we were
watching the telly with a glass of wine and a box of chocolates. Dean wanted to watch the football match and
I wanted to watch a girlie film with Hugh Grant. The video had gone wrong, so we couldn’t watch one while we
recorded the other.
It started as some silly bickering, but then
one thing led to another, the way it does.
Things were said. ‘You always
want your own way,’ and ‘You don’t care how I feel,’ and ‘Alright then, I’ll
get out of your hair.’ Then it got even
more personal and more hurtful. I’m not
kidding myself it was just a lovers’ tiff.
Oh no, we’ve had a few issues, Dean and me and we were spoiling for a
fight. But it was nothing that couldn’t
have been sorted, if he’d just grown up a bit and stopped being such a selfish
so-and-so and done what I told him.
Then, Dean said, ‘I’ve had enough of this, it’s
over,’ and that was that.
At least, that’s what he thinks!
Next day, I make a
detour by the tree again. Here, feeling
loved and protected and overheard only by squirrels and small songbirds, we’d
planned our future lives. They, Dean
and the girl, are here already, and she has her lips close to Dean’s ear.
Didn’t take him long! It’s just two weeks since we broke up. Now look at them, both on their knees and facing each other, nose
to nose, like they’re some sort of romantic tableau. Dean is stroking the girl’s bobbed hair. I feel sick because Dean and I and the Tree
are no longer an item.
My heart gives a little blip as I think of
Dean, the affectionate way he put his head on one side when I talked to him,
the way he waggled his ears to make me laugh.
I teased him once, saying he looked like a mischievous elf, and he blew
himself up like the Incredible Hulk and chased me around the garden, growling
ferociously. Still, Dean was a great
kisser and soon I was swooning in his arms.
Slipping through all
these delicious memories, I’m missing him so much. I’m painfully envious of the other girl now clinging to my
bloke. My shoulders slumping, I turn
away, hoping they haven’t seen me acting like such a loser. Then I hear a rustling and the crunch of
their footsteps on the path. They’re
leaving. I press up closer to the Tree,
pitting my skin on its gnarled and twisted bark.
‘I don’t mind sharing
Dean with you,’ I tell it, ‘but I forbid you to share yourself with him now
he’s left me.’
This can’t go on. I sink down into the pile of autumn leaves
littering the ground. It really makes
me mad, to think what we’ve both thrown away and it’s time to do something
about it. I get out my mobile. I click on Dean’s number. I don’t get a chance to say a word.
‘It’s over, Lucy,’ says Dean. ‘I’m with Miranda now.’
You’re always hearing stuff about hearts
missing beats, but I’ll swear mine actually misses about twenty in that
moment. I just sit there, in the pile
of red, gold and bronzed autumn leaves.
My head feels like a coconut, all woolly and strange.
Before he rings off, I quickly say I’m
sorry. I’m not, of course, because he’s
the one in the wrong, but by now I’m desperate so I’ll say anything. He says he’s sorry back and I begin to think
I’m getting somewhere. The mounting
wind knocks one of the lower twigs against my cheek, almost like a warning, and
I gasp with the damp sting of it.
‘It’s over,’ says Dean again. ‘It’s been a long time coming. Deal with it, Lucy.’
I am incensed.
How dare he tell me how to act.
Muttering murderous intentions under my breath I sink back among the
tortured, grey roots of the Tree. I
remember that time Dean slipped his hands under my arms and lifted me onto the
largest branch. Although it was the
lowest branch, it was too far from the ground to jump down, so there I sat there,
helplessly, in the fork between trunk and branch, unable to move. ‘What are you doing? Get me down from here, you big idiot!’ I’d
yelled. Dean put out his arms and I
allowed myself to fall into them and he wrapped his arms around me and pulled
me close to him. ‘Please don’t ever let
me go,’ I murmured.
‘As if I could! You’re so precious to me, Lucy,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t ever forget that.’
Huh!
Such insincerity. Such treachery.
‘Do you remember, Tree?’ I hissed. ‘Do you remember all those promises?’
There’s a gentle hissing noise above me, a
rustling of leaves, and I feel as though the Tree is being truly
sympathetic. We are in collusion. Once a threesome, we’re now a twosome – it
and me. I don’t feel alone any more.
I pull my jacket around me and close my eyes
and it’s as though the Tree is swaying around me, sensing I need to replenish
myself, coaxing me to sleep. I think I
manage to drop off, at least momentarily, exhausted by fitful nights and
emotional emptiness.
The next thing I know, there’s a high, girlish
voice.
‘I’ll see you under the tree again tomorrow.’
I’m awake in an instant. How dare she? Not only does she steal my bloke, she’s also appropriated my Tree
as their special place of assignation.
I know the Tree won’t have it.
It won’t. I won’t let it.
I glance up and the girl is standing a short
way along the footpath, hand in hand with Dean. She’s tall and skinny, no figure to speak of, not curvaceous and
sensual like me. Neither of them notice
me and I slide around the sturdy trunk to remain out of sight; they’ll think I
left ages ago. They’ve obviously
enjoyed their walk and now they’re setting off in their separate directions,
with a last quick kiss by the tree.
‘You gorgeous thing,’ he says, bending down to
kiss her goodbye.
I don’t know why I swivel my head around and
peer up the Tree’s trunk, but I do. And
I notice the there’s a fissure in one of the lower branches, right where it
forks at the trunk. This shouldn’t
happen. The council’s Tree Inspectors
should spot any irregularity, any unsafe aspect of the trees in South
Park. Maybe it was the storm; maybe
lightening struck while I briefly dozed.
Slowly, I shift my weight onto the balls of my
feet, sliding my body, slowly, up the trunk till I’m upright. I step onto a high, knobbly root-tip, lean
sideways, curling my body around the trunk, placing both hands on the injured
branch and I push. I push as hard as I
can.
I feel the branch give a little so I push even
harder. As the branch creaks sideways,
I lose my balance and tumble downwards among the ancient roots, wrenching my
ankle, but not before I hear a shrill cry.
I wonder if it is me.
Deliberate act of revenge on my part? You might think that. The weirdest thing is, when I finally
struggle to my feet, stumble towards the broken branch lying on the ground, there’s
no sign of the girl. She’s scarpered,
terrified and, straining my ears I imagine I can hear her loud crying in the
distance. I can see Dean lying on the
ground beneath the foliage, his body strangely twisted.
I edge closer, a strange excitement stirring
inside my stomach. I peer through the
mess of leaves and twigs. It’s true
there’s a graze on the side of the temple where the branch struck him, but it’s
also clear that’s not what finished him off.
A thick, gnarled root coils around his
neck. Oh, it has attitude that root! If it
weren’t for the fresh state of the corpse, you’d think it had been growing that
way for years. There’s just no way that
root could cling so tightly and so suddenly to Dean’s neck by some freak of
nature. I can’t help wondering what
forensics would make of it, but the thing that moves me most is that he, Dean,
looks so surprised. If I feel a little smidgeon of pity, I
manage to suppress it. Justice has been
done.
Blokes shouldn’t mess with me – I have hidden
assets.
I feel better, stronger, cleverer. I say a little prayer to the Tree. No one can possibly blame me for what’s
happened to Dean.
There’s this barman at our local pub I’ve quite
fancied for while. I wonder what the
Tree will make of him. I think I’ll see
if I can wangle an introduction, secure in the knowledge that The Tree will
take care of any complications.
No comments:
Post a Comment