3

2009
BBC National Short Story Award

Hitting Trees with Sticks Jane Rogers

As I am walking home from the shops I pass a young girl hitting a tree. I should say she is about ten years old. Shes using a stout stick, quite possibly a broom handle, and she is methodically and repeatedly whacking the trunk, as if it is a job she has to do. There is a boy who stands and watches her. The tree is Prunus subhirtella, flowering cherry, growing in the strip of grass that separates the pavement from the dual carriageway. I know that when I speculate about such things, I am on treacherous ground. But as I look at her I do have a flicker, like the quick opening of a camera shutter, of Henry crouched on the bonnet of the old green Ford, bashing it with a rock. We were at the farm then, so he must have been nine. The flicker

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is not so much of what he did (because of course I remember the incident perfectly well) as of my own furious older-sister indignation. Watching the girl today, I feel simply puzzled. So many things are puzzling. The only thing that is certain is that I cannot trust myself to get it right. That flicker of indignant fury runs through my veins like a shot of cognac. Wonderful. I can walk on with a spring in my step. Hitting trees with sticks makes me think of the way they sometimes feed remains of animals to the same species; pigs, for example. Hitting the poor tree with wood, making it beat itself. It is against nature, it adds insult to injury. But maybe I am missing something. When I come to unlock the front door, I cant find my keys. I find a set of keys in my bag but they arent mine. Mine have two shiny wooden balls like conkers attached to the key-fob; boxwood and yew, golden and blood red. Ive had them for years. They came from trees that were uprooted in the great gale. There is no fob at all with these keys; they are simply attached to a cheap metal ring. I search carefully through my coat pockets and the compartments of my bag. I check in my purse. My own keys are definitely missing and as for these new ones, I have never seen them in my life before. It is worth trying them, obviously, since they must have

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appeared in my bag for a reason; and lo and behold, they open my door. All I can think is that Natalie must have put them there when she had an extra set cut. She must have forgotten, and hung onto the old ones by mistake. I have to have a little chuckle over that, since shes always so keen to point out my lapses of memory. The post has come while I was out. Theres a reminder from the optician, and a letter from the council. Of course, the opticians is right opposite the council offices, so youd expect that really. Fortunately, my old glasses are still on the table. The council writes about the almond tree. Your tree which stands 0.5 metres from the neighbouring garden, no 26 Chapel St, is aged and diseased, with consequent danger of falling branches. Our inspector is unable to recommend a preservation order. A tree surgeon will call on Oct 29 to fell this tree and remove the timber. Thank you for your co-operation. Their thanks are a little premature, since I have no intention of co-operating. I find the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Last spring the almond tree, Prunus dulcis, was smothered in blossom; the petals carpeted the garden like pink snow. I can only assume theyve made a mistake. Well, clearly they have made a mistake, because nobody has been to inspect the tree. Id know if they had because I would have had to let them through

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the house to get into the garden. There is always this nagging doubt, however. I have Natalie to thank for that. I know she has my best interests at heart but one can feel undermined. Frankly, one does feel undermined, to the point where I find it safer to tell her very little about my affairs, to save myself the confusion and humiliation of her interference. I let myself out into the garden to be perfectly sure. It is not a patch on its former glory but there are a few sweet roses still, Rosa Mundi and Madame Alfred Carrire. And at the edge of the lawn the dear little autumn croci, my last present from Neil. Every year they pop up again to astonish and delight, palest mauve against the green. Now, the almond tree. Undoubtedly it is alive: the leaves are turning. There are a couple of bare branches over next doors garden but those leaves may well have dropped early. It might be an idea to take a look. I am in the process of dragging one of the garden chairs to the fence when I hear the doorbell. It rings repeatedly, as if an impatient person were stabbing at it without pause. I have to hasten to the house; there isnt even time to remove my muddy shoes. The doorbell wont survive much more of that treatment. At the door theres a woman in jeans which are too young and too tight.

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Meals on Wheels. Was you asleep, love? I beg your pardon? Meals on Wheels. Been ringing for the last ten minutes. I think youve made a mistake. Mrs Celia Grayson? Yes. Let me bring it in, love, itll be stone cold. Certainly not. Its your dinner, love. Shepherds pie. Theres been a mistake. Is it for number 26? Theyre away, you know. Ill tell you what, you give your Natalie a ring. Shell remind you. And let me just pop this on the kitchen table. She pushes her way in and deposits her tray, leaving the kitchen filled with the thick odour of school canteen. Is it possible Natalie has ordered Meals on Wheels without consulting me? Even for Natalie, I think that would be going a little far. What on earth am I supposed to do with it? Therell be some poor old dear somewhere down the road waiting for her dinner, while this sits here getting cold. I should ring Meals on Wheels, I suppose. That will be the best way of clearing up the muddle. When I go to pick up the phone, its not in its cradle. Somebody has moved it. Unless, of course, I left it by my bed. Thats quite possible, I do take it

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up with me at night, and Im not always one hundred per cent about bringing it down again in the morning. You see, I am aware that Im not perfect at remembering. Painfully aware, you could say. In fact, its only as Im making my way upstairs that I remember the girl. There is a girl who stays in the back bedroom. I have a feeling shes not very well, but how she has slept through all this racket I cant imagine. Her door is slightly ajar, so I can peep in without disturbing her. But shes gone. She must have slipped out while I was in the garden.Yes, her beds empty shes even made it and pulled up the covers before leaving. Shes not a spot of trouble, that girl, shes so quiet and tidy youd hardly know she was there. I can scarcely remember the last time I spoke to her. My legs are playing up, so I sit on her bed and try to remember; it is important to try. As Natalie says, in her rather brutal way, use it or lose it. I do remember looking in the room just before I went to bed. And she was sleeping then; I saw her dark hair on the pillow. Now I would only have looked in if I was checking she was there, which would suggest, I imagine, that she returned fairly late, after I had eaten and while I was watching television, and that she slipped quietly upstairs without me knowing. It would have been the uncertainty which led me to check on her. When I stand up and look out of her window, my

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eye is drawn to the almond tree. Its leaves are turning, some are yellow and some are red. But theres a suspiciously bare branch above the fence. I hope its not diseased. Someone has left a garden chair next to it, right on the flower bed. I shall have to go and move it when Ive had my dinner. I fancy a cheese salad sandwich, but when I look in the breadbin I am astonished. There is no bread at all, not even a crust! Instead there is a neat brown paper parcel. It looks the sort of parcel that might have been delivered by the postman; brown paper, sellotape, edges neatly folded in. But most curious of all, there is no address. It is much too small to contain bread, so what is it doing in the breadbin? I wonder if I am the victim of some kind of practical joke. Or I hope I havent done something foolish. How could this have happened? Whatever it is, it is important Natalie should not find out; unless, of course, it is another of her attempts to be helpful, backfiring. I have to hunt for the scissors to get through the sellotape; it really is extremely well wrapped. Inside the brown paper is a layer of newspaper, and inside that a layer of bubble wrap. It makes me think of pass the parcel. Imagine my astonishment at discovering inside my door keys! They are definitely mine; they have the two shiny wooden marbles from the yew and the

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box; front door,Yale and chub, back door, chub. I am very happy to see them, and I pop them into my coat pocket directly, in order not to mislay them. Then I sit down to my dinner, which is rather cool by this point. I eat half the shepherds pie but leave the peas. I have never been able to understand the attraction of mushy peas. I cant think why they gave them to me, whoever it was, the person who made my dinner. They have been quick about it, I must say. Tidy too; I wonder if it was the girl upstairs? I could ask Natalie or perhaps just leave a thank-you note by the cooker; that might be the best plan, cut out the middleman. I put the kettle on and then I realise the phone is ringing. It is rather difficult to hear when the kettle is roaring away, so I turn it off. Definitely the phone is ringing. But when I go to pick it up somebody has moved it. It isnt in its cradle, it is nowhere to be seen. I look on the table, the dresser, down the arms of the sofa. It has simply vanished. When it stops ringing, I turn the kettle back on and to my annoyance the phone starts up all over again. I have the sudden inspiration that someone may have put it in the breadbin; but no, the breadbin is empty. That in itself is strange, because I must have been shopping this morning. I take the weight off my legs and try to remember what I bought. Bread, obviously, since I have

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run out; and very likely fruit, because the fruit bowl is empty. I probably bought a nice little piece of cod or chicken for my tea. Where is my shopping? Is it possible someone has nipped in and stolen it? I know that is unlikely. In fact, that is the sort of thing I am quite determined not to think, because it is paranoid, and whilst it is one thing to be forgetful, it is entirely another to be paranoid and irritating to others. As I have said to Natalie, if I ever get like Grandma, shoot me. All I need to do is apply a little logic. It is almost certain that I have been to the shops, since that is my routine; therefore it is entirely likely that at some point during the afternoon I will come across my shopping. The telephone recommences its ringing and I recall that I have perhaps not fetched it down from beside my bed. I am toiling up the stairs to see, when the doorbell rings. It is Natalie with her mobile clamped to her ear. Why cant you answer the phone, Mum? Why are you phoning me when youre standing on my doorstep? I phoned you from home this morning, and then I phoned you from work. Ive been phoning you all day, you never answer. I thought something was wrong. Ive been out. Where? She follows me into the kitchen.

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Shopping. Yes, but you mustve come back hours ago.Youve had your lunch! Whats this? She picks up a letter and begins to read it. Thank God, at last theyre dealing with that wretched tree. What does it say? Havent you read it? I dont believe I have. Theyre going to chop down the old almond tree that next door keep going on about. You should ask them to chop some other stuff while theyre out there; that gardens like a jungle. I am not sure who they are, who plan to chop down my tree, but Natalie can be a little impatient so I shall wait till she has gone, then read that letter for myself. I ask her if she would like some tea but she is in a hurry. Mum, wheres the phone? Thats why you didnt answer, isnt it? I dont know what you mean. Wheres the phone? She presses her mobile and the phone begins to ring. Please dont do that, Natalie. Natalie goes upstairs and after a minute the ringing stops. She comes back down with the phone. You need to get an extension. Then you wont have to keep moving it.

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Thats rather an extravagance, isnt it? Mum. I have to come and check on you because you cant answer the phone because you dont know where it is. If buying another phone stops that from happening, wont it make life easier for the both of us? There really isnt any need for you to check on me, you know. Natalie opens the fridge. What are you having for tea? Chops. Where are they? I havent unpacked my shopping yet. She sits down at the table. Look, I worry about you. You forget things. I know you want to be independent but sometimes What do you want me to do? Get another phone. Ill get it for you.You can pay me back. Alright? Alright. Good. Shall I unpack your shopping before I go? Its fine, thank you. I can do it myself. OK. Ill call in tomorrow after work. See you, Mum. She kisses me and lets herself out. Lucky about that shopping; now, I have to find it, quick sticks, before it slips my mind again. I have an inkling Ive put it in the breadbin but no. It isnt in the fridge

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or the cooker; I wonder if the girl upstairs has taken it to her room by mistake? But a thorough search upstairs draws a blank. I have to sit on her bed for a little rest; I really am feeling quite done in. When I come back down to the kitchen, I notice a letter from the council on the table. They want to cut down the almond tree! It was here when Neil and I bought this house in 1951. It must be nearly as old as I am. I should be very sad to see it go. But I must concentrate on the shopping. I might have left it in the garden. My legs are painful and it seems to me that the joy has rather gone out of the day. Maybe I could go to bed early and not bother with tea. No, that would not be sensible. It is important to have a routine. Break your routine and where are you? Adrift on a wide, wide sea. I let myself out into the garden; it is already dusk, with a chill in the air. Someone has left one of the garden chairs on the flower bed near the tree. I move it, and then I have a good look under the bushes for my shopping. If it isnt there its nowhere; and thats what I am forced to conclude. That shopping has vanished. It is a relief to feel certain about it. At least now I can sit down in the warm and stop worrying. But when I try to go back inside, the door wont budge. I know I havent locked it. I check my pockets no keys. That proves it. But it is definitely locked. I sit on a garden chair

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and try to decide what to do. Who has locked me out? Whoever has done it might well be a robber; might, even at this moment, be going through my things. I peer into the sitting room but it is too dark to see. Well, if there is a robber, let him take what he wants and go. My main concern is that Natalie shouldnt know what has happened. But how am I to get out of the garden? I can hardly stay here all night! I wonder if the girl upstairs has come in. I knock on the back door, then tap on the sitting-room window. There is no reply. Then I hear the phone begin to ring. I hope she might answer it, but it rings and rings, more than twenty times. Who could be ringing me? Natalie. I am decidedly chilly. I feel around in the blackness of the garden shed and manage to lay my hands on the picnic cloth, which I wrap around my shoulders. Its an old Indian bedspread; theres not a lot of warmth in it, but it smells rather sweetly of grass clippings. The outdoor broom topples over, so I take it for a walking stick. I hobble back to the sitting-room window and listen to the phone ringing again. I expect she will come round in a while. She will be cross with me. I dont want to be any trouble and everything seems to conspire against it. I can see I am nothing but trouble. Perhaps I can make them hear me next

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door. But when I look up at their house, I remember theyre away. They leave that bright bathroom light on to fool robbers, though any robber worth his salt wouldnt take long to work out that the bathroom light has been left on for a fortnight. They think nothing of wasting electricity; the bulb must be 200 watts. It shines straight down onto my almond tree, as if it were the star of the stage. That tree has been nothing but trouble. When Natalie comes, shell not only be cross about the phone, shell also be cross about the tree. It has been diseased for years. If it wasnt for that tree I would never have had to come into the garden in the first place. The trouble its caused: the letters, the telephone calls, the stream of people coming and going about that tree: it is extraordinary. Why cant they just chop it down and have done with it? I am a patient woman, I believe I am. I try to be patient. Not like Henry; he always had a horrible temper on him. I can see him now, hitting and hitting that old green Ford, just because they wouldnt let him ride the tractor. But I have to ask where it has got me. Look at me now, trapped in my own garden in the cold and the dark, with my swollen legs really quite troublesome, having to face Natalie being angry with me yet again. Natalie is angry. I should be angry. First Grandma, and now this. I have to wonder, you

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know; is she me? Am I my mother? I think about being angry. I think about feeling a hot flicker of rage, coursing through my veins like a shot of cognac. I think I am angry. Really, I have had enough of all this, I have had it up to here. Grasping the garden broom firmly, I stride over to that wretched tree. Its time I taught it a lesson. I raise my broom and begin to whack it, good solid ringing blows on the trunk.Yes! My anger is warming me through and through. It is time that old tree knew it was beaten.