Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [42]
So I was quite sympathetic when Beryl appeared one coffee break waving a piece of paper at me rather than the tail end of her mid-morning cigarette.
‘You’ll sign, won’t you, Paul?’ she said, thrusting the paper at me. ‘It’s a petition to save the oak tree on the Green. After all, it’s part of Westcott’s heritage … it needs to be protected.’ She gave me a one-eyed glare and pushed a pen under my nose.
As I added my signature to the long list, I noticed several familiar names, including those of Cynthia Paget and the Adams from over at the Woolpack. My, my … Beryl had certainly been busy. Didn’t realise such passion lurked under that thick crust of make-up.
‘To think, it’s been here all these hundreds of years,’ Beryl was saying. ‘Cynthia reckons Elizabeth I could have ridden under it. Had a tryst or two with her Earl of Leicester.’
That, I thought, was stretching credulity. Cynthia must have been reading too many historical romances. Even if good Queen Bess had chosen to visit this area – and several manors in West Sussex laid claim to her having slept at least one night in their house – Westcott in her day would have been non-existent, just sheep pasture with a few tracts of woodland. Besides which, the oak would have been just a sapling – more likely to be ridden over than under. Still, I didn’t want to dent any romantic illusions so I nodded in agreement.
‘And, of course, the local dogs love it,’ I said thinking in more practical terms. I knew it was the daily highlight of Mrs Paget’s outing – or rather that of her chihuahua, Chico. He always made a beeline for the tree, saving his full bladder until he could cock his leg as high up the tree’s bole as he could lift it. No doubt while she daydreamed of a tryst with Dudley.
‘What’s this about dogs?’ It was Eric. He’d bounded in, somewhat breathless.
‘We we talking about the oak on the Green,’ said Beryl.
‘Oh, that old thing. Absolute menace. Should have been chopped down yonks ago.’
I saw Beryl’s eye contract, her lips followed suit; she was clearly squaring up for battle. ‘Er … Eric …’ I said, in an attempt to forestall a confrontation but Eric had got the wind behind him and was in full sail.
He looked from Beryl to me. ‘In fact, that’s why I’m late. There’s some nutters from the local history society parading round out there with banners, blocking the road, causing a traffic jam. Absolute waste of time if you ask me.’
‘I was about to,’ said Beryl, the tone of her voice decidedly cutting – it could have felled the oak in one stroke.
Oh Lord, I thought. If the tree wasn’t for the chop, then Eric certainly was.
‘You were?’ said Eric, still unaware of his impending toppling. ‘So what’s this all about?’ He took the sheet of paper Beryl had been waving at him and was just about to read it when Crystal appeared. My Julie Andrews, as always, smart, bubbly, breezing in on a cloud of delicate perfume. Gorgeous. Mum, you’ve a lot to answer for.
She intervened. ‘It’s Beryl’s petition to save the oak. I’ve already signed. Must do our bit, Eric.’
‘We certainly must, mustn’t we?’ Beryl was jabbing the biro at Eric like a rapier in a duel. ‘So you’ll sign?’
‘Of course he will,’ said Crystal, flashing her a smile.
Of course he will, I thought.
‘Of course I will,’ said Eric, snatching up the pen with a grunt and dashing off his signature – an illegible scrawl.
‘And print your name next to it,’ said Beryl, head on one side, watching him like a hawk – a one-eyed one.
He duly obliged.
In the event, he needn’t have bothered. In the last of the thunderstorms of that week, the oak was struck by lightning; it split in two, with one half collapsing on to the Green, the other leaning precariously over the road. There was no