Chances

Oliver and Tinker dragged their eyes from the tree to observe the car, covered with petals as if it had been decorated for a bridal couple.

‘It’s got to go.’

‘That’s a shame,’ said Tinker. ‘I’d love a Jag.’

‘Couldn’t you park it in your garage?’ Oliver asked.

‘Not the car, man – the tree! I’m not putting the car in the garage – I want to see it every time I look out of my window. I worked my whole life to have a car like that. And I want to see it in British Racing Green – not flaming white bloody mess.’

‘The blossom will only last another week,’ said Oliver, ‘a week or so.’

‘I want that tree gone – it’s a hazard, a menace. It’s dangerous. If it rained, all that blossom underfoot would be slippery. I might fall. I might do my other hip.’

Oliver looked around. Cars had parked along the green, visitors were coming into this village precisely to see the tree and the heavenly blossom. Furthermore, it was set to be a very dry July.

‘Can you take it down now?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Well, when can you? I’ll pay now.’

‘I’m not going to take the tree down.’

‘Well, chop off all the branches on this side, then.’

‘That’s not possible. It would damage the tree.’

‘It’s criminal damage! It’s affecting my property.’

‘It’s blossom.’

‘It’s litter – natural litter. That’s what it is. I want the damn tree down.’

DeeDee would say, I want doesn’t get.

‘It’s a healthy tree, it’s a superb specimen and it is not affecting your house.’

‘Well, I’ll tell the council, I will. It’s their bloody thing. It’s on their land. I pay my council tax. They can cut it down. I’ll sue. That’s what.’

And Oliver thought, As soon as we’re back in the car, I’ll phone Martin in planning and I’ll tell him this tree mustn’t come down. That’ll save him a journey.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m photographing the tree,’ said Oliver. ‘I don’t give permission for you to take my picture.’

‘You’re not in the picture.’

‘Why are you photographing that tree? For the council? Yes! Show it to them. They’ll see what I mean.’

‘Not for the council – for my own archives. I’m photographing it because it’s stunning,’ said Oliver. ‘Goodbye, Mr Macintosh. There’s a hand car wash on the way to Asda.’

‘Are you not going to do anything today? Can’t you give it a trim?’

‘No, I can’t, I’m afraid. Paperwork.’

‘Good God! How long will that take?’

‘Difficult to tell,’ Oliver shrugged and walked back to his truck. He and Tinker sat and marvelled a little longer.

‘What a jerk,’ said Tinker.

‘It’s not just extraordinary trees you meet in this job,’ Oliver told him.

Back at the yard later that afternoon, ash branches cut, split and added to the pile of seasoned wood, the team shared tea and anecdotes. Oliver looked around. There was a little clearing up to do, a couple of calls to make, some paperwork.

‘Call it a day, chaps,’ said Oliver. ‘See you at eight tomorrow.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure – Jonty’s playing cricket so I’ll finish off here and then collect him. It’s a strange sight, moochiness and Goth-dark hair – in cricket whites.’

‘Is he good?’

‘He’s not bad at all.’

‘Cool. How’s he doing?’

‘He’s doing well, Boz – thanks for asking.’

‘Is he going to hang out here in the vacation? He was useful last time.’

‘I hope so – though he’ll probably want to renegotiate pay and working conditions.’

‘Good on him.’

‘Don’t put ideas in his head, Spike. Go on, all of you, off you go.’

‘Cheers, boss.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Laters.’

Good God.

But Oliver smiled as they walked off. He could hear them chatting and they weren’t talking about beer and birds. They were talking about cherry trees and gifts.

‘I need to send home a present for my sis. Any ideas?’