The Treehouse
This relationship story covers from when boy first meets girl, all the way to when death shall part them. As they first met in a treehouse, treehouses feature in their story all the way through to the end. A tale of the passing of time.
Barry pulled the car to the side of the road, and peered at the house. It was so different, yet the same. The front garden was still bisected by the path up to the front door, and the single garage still stood to the right-hand side of the semi-bungalow.
The estate agent’s particulars told him there had been alterations to the rear of the property. Unsurprising, really; considering it was fifty-five years since he’d last lived there. There was a new kitchen diner out the back, a separate utility, and the old, downstairs bathroom was a shower room, with a ‘family’ bathroom now located upstairs where (he supposed) the old landing had led to the tiny boxroom.
All those years ago, his bedroom had been upstairs, under the eaves and at the back of the house. He would lie there, in his bed, hearing the rain hammering down on the tiles – ‘snug as a bug in a rug,’ as Mummy used to say. Or he could stand and (just about: back then he was considered small for his age) peer out of his window at the old apple tree, and gaze at the treehouse he and Daddy had built, the rope ladder access dangling almost to the ground.
She had invaded his space, clambering up the ladder with the speed and agility of a monkey.
‘Hiya! This is great! And you and your dad built it all by yourselves? I’m Carole-with-an-e, by the way. We’ve moved in next-door. Your mum says we’re going to be friends.’ All this said with one breath, as she moved in on his space, disturbing his toy soldiers and not allowing him to object that this was his treehouse. Not hers.
Mummy had followed with orange juice and biscuits, and an injunction to ‘play nicely.’
‘What yer doin’?’ Carole asked.
He had been setting up for a battle. World War Two: so we won. He tried to explain, but –
‘Where’s the hospital?’ she demanded.
‘What hospital?’
‘You’re going to need a hospital.’ Apparently, there were always injuries – and death – in battle. Barry had not thought about that. He was to learn over the next days, weeks and months, that there was a lot he had not thought of.
Including how to get rid of her. She was always there. Even on wet, rainy days, when he decided he wanted to play in his bedroom, or read his own comics, she would turn up and Mummy would show her upstairs.
And Mummy was quite happy for them to ‘go off on adventures’ together. Back then, there were fields, and woods: the housing estates hadn’t been built. There were also many, many fewer cars, so there were no worries about the two of them cycling the lanes by themselves; bringing home their treasures – though the ‘treasures’ were confined to the treehouse. Twigs and stones, and leaves and butterfly wings, an old nest …
Inside the treehouse, the two old, wooden orange boxes came from her home, along with the cushions for comfort. As they got older, Barry would be trusted to visit the kitchen to make their drinks and take their snacks. They could sit inside, on their boxes, and discuss their futures – where they’d go, and what they’d do. One autumn, Barry moved his telescope into the treehouse, and showed Carole the Great Bear through the treehouse window. That was when he realised, he liked being close to her – so close he could hear her breathing as she peered into the night sky.
Suddenly, or so it seemed to Barry looking back, the orange boxes had gone, and blankets and cushions covered the floor. Options and choices, and O-levels and A-levels, became topics of conversation. And that first kiss when he asked her to the school dance. The surprise at how beautiful she looked at that dance …
After university, as a young couple, there was the opportunity to work abroad. There were treehouses (of a kind) in Africa – not as grand as the one Princess Elizabeth was visiting in Kenya when she became Queen, but grand enough for them. Later, much later, back in England and up in Northunberland, they visited the one at Alnwick Castle. By this time, there were children and grandchildren. Barry and Carole lived in their bungalow, with their own garden, and a tree – with a treehouse. However, by the time it came to the grandchildren, rope ladders to treehouses had to be secured, and wooden floors properly sanded, and walls completely secured (windows couldn’t be leaky, either). Splinters and scrapes were no longer things that just happened, but had to be dealt with by applying creams and plasters, and should they be taken to the hospital to be checked out? At one point, Barry had even suggested burning the treehouse to the ground – a suggestion vetoed on the grounds of pollution. The counter-suggestion was a dismantling and several visits to recycling centres.
Barry thought back to that row. Carole and her daughter-in-law at loggerheads. Daughter-in-law, eventually and only after finding herself in a minority of one, having to concede that maybe her children could play in a treehouse five foot six inches off the ground without a safety net.
Inevitably, of course, and without fail, it would be one of her kids who fell. Landed on her back. Silence. Horrified faces at the treehouse open doorway. Barry and Carole rushing – as fast as grandparents can – to the scene of the disaster. Then stopping, as the lass gulps air.
‘Well,’ her grandma says, ‘are you dead?’
‘I – can’t – breathe,’ the girl replies, still lying on the ground.
‘Nonsense! If you couldn’t breathe, you wouldn’t be talking. Up you get!’ Carole holds out her hand to her granddaughter, and hauls her to her feet. ‘You need to learn how to fall, young lady.’ The hug is as fierce as the words sound, and the child manages a shame-faced grin. There is a pause for drinks (they’re fizzy these days) and biscuits.
Later, a concerned mother realises her daughter has mud on her back and, despite being told not to fuss, demands to know whether Barry and Carole have found out who pushed her.
‘No, the incident is over. And won’t be repeated.’ Carole said.
‘But someone pushed her!’
‘Has she told you that?’ Carole sounded fed up.
‘No – but it’s obvious, she wouldn’t have slipped.’ As if her own child could never be at fault in any way.
Carole gets up: ‘Whatever happened, happened. No-one was hurt. It’s over.’
The mother tries to keep her children away after that, and nearly ends up destroying her marriage (thank goodness for sensible marriage-guidance counsellors who are able to make adults see into their own childhoods).
Later this grandchild joined the armed forces – so much for keeping her out of danger! Barry and Carole soldier on, and now he is re-visiting where he grew up. A visit triggered by finding out his old family home is for sale. He’s sat there in the car for a full five minutes, staring at the house. The house which had his first treehouse. He has looked at all the photos, not interested in the new kitchen diner, nor the bathrooms. He has looked in vain for the treehouse in the garden: there is no tree house, there is no tree. He turns to the passenger seat.
‘You know, love, I don’t think I want to go in.’
There is no reply. He still remembers the young girl who shook up his world, the glamorous teenager who wowed him at the school dance, the young wife and mother, the no-nonsense grandmother. But she is no longer there. She has not been there for two years – and there are still the moments he forgets.
It was another fifteen minutes before the young estate agent, wondering why her client hadn’t shown up, came out of the house to find him, sat in the car, tears pouring down his cheeks …