Once Upon A Time in the West . . . Country (16 page)

‘That’s very kind,’ said Susie, ‘but we were late before this happened, so we’d better be off. Thanks so much for your help.’

‘My pleasure. Your boy has excellent sheep-gathering skills.’

Sam stayed for tea. His story was fascinating. He lived the other side of the valley in a farm that he and four other friends had bought six months previously. They’d all met as volunteers, offering their labour in exchange for free food and accommodation on an organic and eco-friendly farm. Now they were setting up on their own, establishing a market garden growing vegetables and soft fruit, and delivering door to door in the local area. Their aim was to make a living on the land, but for the moment, all of them were doing other jobs part-time as well, just to ensure that they didn’t go under.

‘That sounds like a brilliant plan,’ I said. ‘Can we sign up for some of your veg deliveries?’

‘Sure. Why don’t you pop over for a tour of the farm?’

‘We’d love that.’

The phone rang and even though Fran took the call, Sam took it as a cue to head off.

‘Come and see us soon.’

‘We will.’

By the time I’d seen Sam off, I returned to see Fran looking a little shaken.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They’re coming in the morning.’

‘Who are?’

‘The Dartmoor National Park Authority.’

‘What for?’

‘To check on our property and see if they’ll approve our planning application.’

‘Right. So why are you looking so anxious?’

‘Because of the trees. They’ll see the trees.’

‘Ah yes. The trees.’

***

Perhaps I should take a moment here to clarify this exchange a little. Fran and I had applied for permission to add an extension that would enable us to enlarge the kitchen, and make the most of the views over the garden and beyond. To do this work, we would need to cut down a big cherry tree that was in the way, and which happened to block out most of our afternoon and evening sun, too. We’d already had it checked out and we’d been told that it was at the end of its life, and that a fungus growing out of the side of it provided the proof.

However, various people had told us that the National Park Authority could be tricky customers and that they liked to throw their weight about, and should they choose to stick a preservation order on the tree, then that could scupper the whole plan. Fran and I had decided that the best thing to do was simply to cut the tree down ourselves, thus averting any issue. This phone call, therefore, had rather wrong-footed us.

‘What time do they want to come?’ I asked, not quite in a panic, but getting there.

‘Nine a.m.’

‘That doesn’t give us much time,’ I said, delivering the line with an urgency that made it sound like it belonged in a Hollywood thriller.

‘What shall we do?’

‘I’ll call Ken.’

Fifteen minutes later, Ken was in our back garden with a chainsaw at the ready, and a spare one for me. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what all neighbours should be like – ready to drop everything and produce a chainsaw the moment you want a tree chopping down at short notice. I can only sympathise with those of you who have the kind of crap neighbours that might be out, or who don’t own two chainsaws.

Cutting down a tree requires planning. It’s important to ensure where the fallen tree will land after it has been cut. Ken made some measurements to ensure that we didn’t destroy our greenhouse and began attaching a rope to one of the higher branches. It would be my job to hold onto the other end of this rope, once the cutting began. Following a flourish of Ken’s arm on the pull cord, the chainsaw cranked noisily into action and was soon munching its way through the tree.

I looked on with mixed feelings. Cutting down this tree, dying though it was, seemed like an act of eco-vandalism. Trees, we’d all been constantly reminded in recent years, are good things. Cars, planes and consumer items are bad. Chainsaws are bad, too, especially when cutting down trees. They are quick and efficient, though. In less than two minutes, the fallen tree trunk laid across our back garden, testimony to man’s massive technological advantage over nature. Perhaps the sight before me represented, in microcosm, what we humans had done to our planet. It is precisely because of the speed and ease with which man can transform the natural world around him that we may be standing at the precipice of an environmental catastrophe. We’ve just got
too good
at stuff.

All except me, that is. If left on my own, I probably couldn’t even start a chainsaw. So there – I was doing my bit. Being crap at stuff is ecologically sound.

‘Well done, Ken,’ I said. ‘Job done.’

‘Not yet,’ he replied, ‘I’ll lop the branches off and cut them into log sizes so you can use them in the log burner next year.’
4

***

I didn’t warm much to the lady from the National Park Planning Department, as I showed her round the house. She had that air about her, often displayed by people who perceive themselves to have power. It wasn’t disdain, but it was well on the way. She didn’t communicate with me as another human being, but as a subservient underling. She behaved as if my wish to build this extension was an irritation to her, forgetting the fact that if people like me didn’t want to make changes to our houses, then there’d be no job for people like her to turn up and sullenly consider whether to grant permission or not.

What is unfortunate about this kind of situation is that one feels that it would be foolish to be anything other than especially accommodating to these types; the fear nestling at the back of your mind that if they didn’t like you, they could invoke an ancient bye-law that not only prevented you from doing the work you wanted to do, but also meant you’d have to knock down part of what was already there. So, when they’re bossy or surly, you smile obsequiously, reply politely, and offer them a totally undeserved cup of tea.

‘So, why do you want this extension?’ the lady asked, as she ungraciously nosed around our kitchen.

‘Because it’s so dark in here,’ offered Fran hurriedly. ‘The window is so small we have to turn the lights on in the day.’

This had indeed been the case –
before
we’d cut the tree down. However, today as Fran uttered these words the sun blazed through the window, dazzling our visitor and causing her to squint before she could answer. The idea that we now needed lights on during the day was patently absurd, and Fran was given a sharp look by our visitor which expressed as much.

‘Can we go out the back?’ she asked, choosing not to question the logic of Fran’s remark.

‘Of course,’ I said, at my submissive best.

I was only too aware, as I led this lady out of the back door of the house, that the first thing she’d see would be a bloody great felled tree. I had already considered the things that I might say, as and when she commented, and had rejected the following:

‘Blimey, how did that happen?’

‘Helluva breeze last night, wasn’t there?’

‘That’s always been like that.’

‘We were lucky the lightning didn’t strike the house.’

Unable to come up with a suitable line, I’d just left it and hoped that the inspiration would come to me when required. Now that moment had arrived.

Or had it? The planning officer looked at the fallen tree, made a mental note, and simply moved on. Maybe she didn’t like trees. Perhaps she’d seen the fungus and recognised that it was already a dying tree? Or was she experienced enough to realise that a tree, once cut down, couldn’t be put back up again? Revenge for dispatching the tree might be exacted further down the line in the planning process. Time would tell.

‘How did it go?’ asked Fran, once our unwelcome visitor had departed.

‘I don’t get a good feeling,’ I replied.

***

As autumn set in, some unwelcome things started to happen. Firstly, the weather became wintry and with a distinct penchant for cold and damp. With a disappointing foresight, supermarkets started to stock ‘Christmassy’ items like mince pies and crackers. The assault had begun. It’s the time of year when people cease to be people, but simply consumers who should be relentlessly targeted, wherever they are, and whatever they are doing. What should be a short, and fun, winter break is preceded by this wearisome, extended period in which we are urged to indulge in an unwarranted, ill-advised, and unwelcome spending spree.

Oh yes, and the days got unreasonably short too.

***

‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it!’ announced our beaming sonographer.

Were we just being lucky, or were all NHS women working in childbirth unfeasibly jolly? Could they really be this happy, or do they go on acting courses, as well as the ones that teach them the difference between a perineum and a pelvis?

The occasion was the twenty-week scan, and the sonographer was checking that the baby was developing normally, and taking a peek at where the placenta was lying in Fran’s uterus. There would shortly be the opportunity to see our baby on a screen,
5
and to make out its head, torso, little hands and little legs. This ought to have been exciting, but it wasn’t – it was scary. How could one disguise the fact that this event was all about checking for abnormalities? They even called it the anomaly scan. Now was the time, far more than at the ten-week stage, when if there were any problems, they were likely to be spotted.

So there I sat, looking on anxiously as a deadly serious examination took place against a backdrop of the sonographer’s extroverted and misplaced
bonhomie
. Fran seemed to cope better with this onslaught of bubbly banter than I did – I was far too intent on listening for a change in tone, a more serious expression, or an alteration in breathing. How would she react if she spotted something untoward? Surely the joviality would have to cease upon the discovery of bad news?

To my relief, it didn’t need to.

‘Everything is just as it should be,’ she said, unable to deliver this excellent news with any increased level in chirpiness, having peaked, quite irresponsibly, already. ‘I’ll give you a nice little printout of what your baby looks like.’

Soon we were holding a picture of a very, very young baby. Twenty weeks old and, though I say so myself, looking remarkably intelligent.
6

As Fran and I marvelled at this incredible sight, our ultrasound hostess had time for one more question.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to know what sex the baby is?’

‘We’re sure,’ I replied, ‘we’re going for a surprise. Besides, it’s not one hundred per cent accurate, is it?’

‘Not far off. Ninety-six per cent. Sometimes if the baby has excess wind and too much tummy fat, it obscures the view and it’s hard to tell the gender accurately.’

Surely if the baby had excess wind and too much tummy fat, then it would have to be male? And an extremely precocious one at that. Some males can take up to thirty years before they do the farting and the beer gut thing, so a baby like this would be well ahead of the game.

No, Fran and I didn’t want to know the sex. We’d decided on this without much debate. We were happy for technology to be there as a back-up in ensuring a safe birth, but we wanted nothing further from it. We’d find out the sex by taking a quick peek when the time was right. Just like Henry VIII had done, before storming out of the room in a huff when one of his dispensable wives had been guilty of providing him with a girl. Both he (and the country) had required a boy to be the next king and heir. Us? We’d be happy with whatever we got. As Ken had said to me, when we discussed the subject:

‘As long as it’s one of the three.’

8

Titch

It had been nagging away at me all through the summer, despite the many distractions I’d had. Why had we not heard anything? Surely the lady and her pet could be found?

Well, seemingly not. Despite a lot of effort, Dave the Pig – the subject of the challenge laid before me on the initial trip to Devon that had led to the house purchase – had remained at large. Kevin and Donna, who had organised the event where the challenge had been made, had advertised locally and emailed most of the audience who had attended, but no one seemed to know Dave’s owner or the pig’s whereabouts.