Freya North - Chances

Just as Oliver chose his branches with care, so too did he select his workforce. Boz had a degree in Art History. Spike had exhibited as a sculptor before retraining in Arboriculture. Tinker grew up in Canada, in Jasper, surrounded by trees.

Oliver checked the diary.

‘You two – take the ash near Much Hadham we saw last week. You need to offer the wood to Mrs Cadogan first – if she doesn’t want it, don’t chip it. Bring it back and it can go on the first wood pile there – because?’

‘Because you can burn it green,’ said Boz mechanically, an answer he’d given many times.

‘Good lad. Tinker – you can come with me. It’s the cherry near Hatfield you took the call about.’

‘Laters!’ called Tinker to the other two.

And Oliver thought, Good God, kid – if DeeDee had heard that.

A village green, a single-track road all around it, cottages encircling it with swathes of grass in front of their boundaries. A gathering of oaks to one side, two grand sweet chestnuts on the other side. Small trees – apple, magnolia – in front gardens. A weeping willow in front of the cottages on the far side. And here, on the common ground by two cottages, was the tree Oliver had come to see. It was a breathtaking sight. A magnificent holly-leaved cherry still in full bloom in June.

‘When I have a garden of my own, I’ll plant every type of prunus and have flowers from November to now,’ said Tinker.

‘You’ll never have that garden on the wages I pay you,’ Oliver said with a gentle regret.

They sat in the truck and regarded the tree. People were crossing the green expressly to see it. A mother and two toddlers. An elderly couple. A youth with a fierce-looking hound. Two female pensioners. It was singing out, its blossom festooning the boughs and drifting gently down and around like sugar petals. Catching the sun, caught on the breeze, captivating. A man, with hands on hips, stood at the bottom of one of the cottage driveways.

‘Come on,’ said Oliver, striding off, followed by Tinker. ‘Mr Macintosh?’

‘Do you see?’ called the man from the driveway, long before they were near. ‘Can you see?’

‘It’s some sight,’ said Oliver, ‘ Prunus ilicifolia .’

‘It’s new!’ said Mr Macintosh.

‘Sorry?’

‘My jag – it’s new . And look at it!’

Oliver glanced at the new car on the driveway. ‘Very nice,’ he said politely.

‘Look at it!’

‘I was looking at the tree,’ said Oliver.

‘But look at my Jag. Look at what that wretched tree’s done to it. Weeks now. Weeks of this – this stuff .’

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?’

‘Go online and do the whole Amazon dot com thing.’

‘Nah. She’s going to be ten. Requires something special.’

‘Gap? Topshop?’

‘I can’t go in there on my own.’

‘Twat.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

‘Try that shop in town? You know the one – That Shop? All the trinketty things in the window?’ Tinker was often teased for the way he made every sentence a question.

‘Oh yeah.’

‘We can go past that way – come on.’

* * *

To Vita, the three young men with a good day’s manual work written all over their tired faces, dusty boots and forearms, were far more incongruous customers than her notorious little old lady, currently rifling through the fruit-shaped scented soaps. When she started the business, Vita swore never to utter the four words sure to dampen the ardour of any unsure shopper, May I help you ? She’d researched it – listening in other shops, trying it herself. May I help you? Nine times out of ten, four words sprang an automatic reply. No thanks, just looking . Vita, therefore, devised other techniques, discovering how casual asides worked best. She assessed the posse and tried to work out which one was buying. The tallest one, she reckoned, the one with the curly dark hair and the smudge of something or other on his neck. Yes, the other two appeared to be looking on his behalf while he stood still and scanned the wares as a whole. She put down her book as if it was high time she had a little tidy of the table with the notecards and scented lip balms. As she neared, one of them – the one with the closely cropped hair and goatee – picked up the linen-and-patchwork beanbag mouse.