Southend U3A

November 2023

Full Moon - Malcolm Fyfe

As the autumn chill wind eddied and swirled across the garden, the old man slowly and methodically raked up the fallen leaves that littered the lawn and the neatly tended borders. The few remaining dahlias and tall stemmed flowers nodded and dipped in the twisty gusts.

He slowly straightened his back easing the ache brought on by his efforts. His eyes watered in the wind as he glanced at a tall beech tree that spread its branches over quite a large portion of the garden.

He straightened, leaning on his rake. His mind turned to the letter that dropped on to the mat that very morning from the council that requested that trees in domestic gardens were to be inspected to ensure they were safe and posed no threat to people or property. If the surveyor found cause for concern the council would take appropriate action: pruning or in severe cases, trimming or even removal.

His mind drifted, as it often did these days, back to his childhood, when he had helped his grandfather, some eighty years ago, plant a sapling that had grown into what was now a sturdy strong tree.

Both the lad and the tree had grown up together, becoming stronger and taller with each passing summer; he’d been fond of the tree; sometimes on a clear night he would sit under it, feeling its protection, marvelling at the crystal-clear moonlight that illuminated its branches, its brilliant white light throwing stark outlines on to a sometimes-frosted grass.

As a boy he had carved his initials into a lower branch, his grand dad had spotted, it and he got a tanning for that, but the initials remaining to this day.

He turned as a soft footfall sounded on the grass. ‘Hello dad,’ a pretty young woman called, ‘I’ve brought your ironing and some fresh bread, come in, I’ll make a cup of tea, its cold out here.’

‘Thank you dear,’ he muttered to his daughter, Jenny. ‘That’s kind of you.’

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, ‘you look fed up.’

‘Oh, something and nothing’ he replied, following her in.

She read the letter and could see some sense in it.

‘I know you’re fond of that tree but it’s not a bad idea to have it checked.’ As her father started to protest, she firmly spoke up. ‘Look, if it is wobbly they might prune it for you, trim it a bit.’

The following Friday, sharp at ten in the morning as promised by a further letter, a small yellow and blue van pulled up and a man carrying a small canvass bag walked up the drive.

Leading the workman through the house and into the garden, the old man muttered, ‘you won’t find much wrong,’ pointing to his tree. ‘It’s been here a long time, as old as me,’ trying to smile.

He winced as the workman thrust a small bradawl into the wood of the tree, saying cheerfully, ‘Just have to make sure it’s sound in wind and limb or should that be branch and trunk, eh?’

The old chap didn’t see the funny side of that joke at all.

As if in protest, the tree shook its branches in the morning wind and a flurry of leaves drifted down on to the kneeling intruder, who, brushing them off, said, ‘It’s a massive tree, probably too big for this area. We have to do something, I’m not sure what, but I’ll let you know.’

Outraged at this, the old man sternly showed the man out and went back into the garden, pottering about in agitation. He was so angry he could hardly speak.

Later in the kitchen, he sat down in his chair to catch his breath, which suddenly seemed difficult to get. He clutched at his chair as the kitchen walls seemed to spin round and round in a crazy whirl; through half closed eyes, he saw the floor tilt up and rush towards him.

‘Good morning. You feeling better?’ came a kindly girl’s voice. Now confused, he tried to move but nothing appeared to work. ‘Easy now, you’ve has a bit of a fall. You’re in hospital, we’ll soon have you right.’

The day before he was due to go home, his daughter came to his bedside, looking upset.

‘You look worried,’ he said, ‘are the children alright?’

‘Yes, they’re at home with David. I must talk to you.’

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Very gently she told him the council workmen had been round to his tree.

‘What to trim it?’

‘No, it’s worse than that,’ shaking her head agitatedly.

‘Oh no, not my tree . . . they haven’t,’ he whispered.

‘Yes Dad, I’m sorry,’ his daughter choked through her tears. ‘the day before yesterday they said it was unstable, I didn’t know what to do.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ but the old man just sat there, appalled at the injustice of all.

They bought him home on a Monday afternoon. When he was unpacked, he walked unsteadily on his daughters’ arm to where the tree had stood.

He knelt slowly and felt around amongst the chips and pieces of wood the untidy workmen had left that littered the torn earth.

He made his way back to the house, carrying a split and damaged part of a branch, placing it on the kitchen table.

That evening he went to bed with the remnant placed on a side table where he could see it. He settled down comfortably, feeling the beat of his heart slowing and quietening as sleep wrapped him in secure arms.

In the early hours he drowsily became aware of a patch of moonlight, brilliantly white and sharp, slicing through the window, seemingly unaffected by the drawn curtains.

With his sleepy eyes slowly focussing, he became conscious of shadowy finger like projections moving jerkily on an illuminated patch of the bedroom wall. As he watched, he heard the familiar rustle of moving leaves. He tried hard to sit up but his legs were stiff and immovable his scrabbling hands looked for support. His questing fingers tightened around a strangely twisted stick standing, apparently unsupported, by his bed.

Drawing it to himself, he sank back onto his pillow and a smile warmed his tired face. They found him the next morning sitting at his table looking as though watching where his tree had stood.

Across his lap, held in a tight grip was an oddly shaped walking stick. Only the sharpest of eyes would have seen a small set of initials carved into the handle.

A while ago, an older lady joined our wood carving group. She was very pleasant and became very skilful. One day she came to the meeting but this time using a stick for support. Not unusual, you might say but the carving and twisting of the gnarled handle was.

Our resident expert on wood examined it and declared it very old beech wood, well over a hundred years old and unusually hard and was intrigued as to its origin.

So, in the lunch break, with a little persuasion, we learnt of its history.

As we sat there, not much was said but a few curious smiles lingered amongst the worldly wise group.