Neighbours and Frenemies
‘Your tree destroyed the front of our property. And you know it!’
‘Nonsense! It barely touched it. If your front fence had been half-way decent, that tree wouldn’t have got anywhere near.’ A pause. ‘And it wasn’t our tree anyway.’
An old argument, rehearsed in an old people’s home. This story is all about a tree, and what happened when it fell down. It fell down a long time ago, and was actually a reason for uniting two families, rather than dividing them. Actually, the story all started a century ago …
‘Your tree destroyed the front of our property. And you know it!’
‘Nonsense! It barely touched it. If your front fence had been half-way decent, that tree wouldn’t have got anywhere near.’ A pause. ‘And it wasn’t our tree anyway.’
It was an old argument, and the second speaker was so annoyed, he reached for his stick in preparation for struggling to his feet and ‘having it out’ with the old lady who was sat in her favourite armchair not two yards away from him. However, he was destined to fail in his mission as a care worker, barely breaking her stride, gently removed the stick from his grasp, settled him back in his chair and suggested a nice cup of coffee and some cake. It was Tuesday, so it was lemon drizzle: ‘you like lemon drizzle, don’t you?’
The old man agreed, settled down, and picked up his magazine.
Putting my dad and my wife’s mum into the same home was not, perhaps, the best plan. However, there was no way either of them could cope on their own once their respective partners had died. Especially as both of them had reverted to refusing to accept help from the other, even though the other only lived over the lane. As if the last quarter of a century hadn’t happened, they would rather sit in complete darkness with a blown fuse (her), or paddle through a flooded kitchen with a broken washing machine (him), than ask for help. It was, on both occasions, up to us to drop everything, drive out of town, sort everything out, and drive away again – with ‘you didn’t go to see him/her, did you?’ ringing in our ears.
Before all that, of course. There was ‘the tree.’ The tree which had stood through almost a century’s worth of winter storms. Oaks are supposed to last for a thousand years, and this one blocked the view from them-over-the-road seeing into our lounge. It wasn’t as if there was much to see. Never a single wild party and, once you’ve seen a family sat in front of the telly once, do you really need to see it again? Besides, mum also put net curtains up.
Growing up, living at the end of the lane, a hundred yards from any other property – apart from the other cottage the other side of the road, that is – I accepted that the Browns were ‘different’ and not to be talked to. They went to a different church on the other side of town. They only had a daughter anyway, and she was younger than me. When you’re at Primary School, two years is a big difference. I’m sure the teachers scratched their heads more than once over each family’s point-blank refusal to offer or accept help from the other. Arriving home soaked to the skin was preferable to accepting a lift. Not even when school was sending Liz home because they thought she had chicken pox, and I was being collected for a dental appointment … She still remembers having to wait in the sick-bay all day until her mum came to get her.
Then the tree blew down. It was the winter of 2001. I was home from university and Liz (not that I knew it at that point) was home on Christmas holidays in her A-level year. It wasn’t a particularly bad year, weather-wise. No massive floods, or storms. Where we were, up the valley, it was cold enough for snow, but we never worried about that.
The tree fell in the night. Both dads had to get to work. Both dads could, just about, and after a bit of sawing, negotiate the fallen timber. My dad had some roots to cut, Liz’s dad had a few branches. Both dads, before leaving, yelled at their offspring (who were, of course, still in bed) to get their gardens, driveways and so on, clear of wood before they got home that evening. Both dads insisted they couldn’t do it as ‘it’ll be dark when I get home.’
We had the electric saw; they had a log saw. Liz was competent, but the idea I should just stand and watch her when the tree had, only yesterday, been standing on our boundary, was ridiculous.
‘Right if you just push that branch – that one there – out of the way, then I can get in here …’ A few seconds of noise, and another branch no longer rests on their window sill, ‘there we are.’
The manual log saw was propped up against their front wall by their front door, and Liz was smiling at me, when our front door opened.
‘Here we are, darling. I’ve brought you some coffee and cake – what are you doing over there? Your dad will – ’
‘Dad will what? What. Is. The problem here?’ Given we had only a few hours to get this tree chopped up – I had found out the council disclaimed all responsibility as (they said at the time) our road was unadopted – and I thought the principal of two heads, or two bodies in this case, being better than one; Liz and I decided to work together. Liz, being physically smaller than me, was able to get into some of the more awkward places, I being stronger and heavier was able to lean on some of the more robust branches to get them out of the way.
Yes, I was over in their property. Whatever dad would say about whose responsibility it was to clear the tree; back then, I was prepared to accept we should do all we could to get the mess cleared up. Our garden might have been ripped up by a load of roots appearing out of the ground, but theirs had a load of branches suddenly appearing in theirs.
My shout at my mother brought Liz’s mother to her front door – to be faced by the same question from her offspring.
They were Roman Catholic, and we were C of E.
‘Mum,’ I said, ‘it’s the twenty-first century. I’m not buying it. Has Liz got three heads? Snake-like hair? Eight arms?’
Mum sighed, looked at her opposite number, shrugged.
‘My Derek isn’t going to like it.’ Liz’s mum said.
‘George will probably do his nut.’ Mum agreed.
‘You’d better come in, all of you.’
‘I’ll fetch the rest of the cake.’ Mum said.
Four generations. Almost as far back as when that tree was a sapling. Back when the last generations were living as farm labourers in farm labourers’ cottages, Liz’s family produced a son and a daughter. My family had a son – after the War, the first war, they only had the one. Back from the war, the daughter from over the road was about the only person to look at him with his face wound. We now think it quick. Back then, six months from first meeting to wedding wasn’t much of an issue, but the religious and medical questions were. Words were said by both families. ‘How do we know a face wound doesn’t mean a brain injury, a hereditary brain injury?’ ‘We all know what it means to marry outside the faith, don’t we?’ A lot of heat, and very little light. And two young people stuck in the middle.
The wedding was C of E, the Catholics repudiated their own. Even though she lived over the road, the rest of her family never spoke to her again. The children, the grandchildren, the great-grandchildren kept the tradition going, even though, in our case, the reason for the hostility wasn’t given.
‘Four generations? Four generations! Because a girl fell in love with a wounded soldier?’ Liz said. I had to agree.
Silence. Both mums were unable to look up. Liz shrugged and looked at me.
‘There’s a band at the Red Lion tonight.’ I said, ‘Fancy a drink – and a meal?’ I hadn’t meant to add the meal bit (I was still a student), but ... in for a penny: ‘Pick you up at seven?’
Of course, our dads tried to bleat about us being fourth cousins (or something), but if Princess, then Queen, Elizabeth could marry Prince Philip, when they were both descended from Queen Victoria, then what was the problem with Liz and me? Our problem, all these years later, is Liz’s mum’s, and my dad’s, dementia has returned them to the old argument, rather than its happy solution. But thankfully, the care home has told us they can handle it.
The fallen tree did take more than that one day to chop up and move – tree trunks are heavy – but it was sorted before term started. Nobody mentioned replacing it.