An Old Woman and An Old Tree

 

 Author: Frances Hackett   January 2024                                                             

An Old Tree and An Old Woman                

Rosie’s bungalow was on a long narrow city street with relentless traffic; she’d shake her head as she habitually grumbled about the awful racket going on outside. The incessant noise caused her to believe that having the ability to yank out her hearing aid was a blessing in disguise. Rosie often thought about what she could do to keep the vehicle fumes from entering her home; hopelessly, the only thing she came up with was keeping the windows shut tight.

The sweet white-haired lady lived a somewhat solitary life since her beloved husband passed away over a decade ago. She’d no living relatives - any close friends she’d had were no longer around. Rosie was a perceptive individual, who still retained strong cognitive buoyancy, which enabled her to live quite independently despite her arthritic limbs. While she needed spectacles to see objects closeup, her visual focus on objects that were some distance away was ‘good enough’ she’d say to herself.  In truth, she had developed a quirk of muttering to herself, which was quite okay she believed; ‘When I start to argue weirdly with myself then there could be a problem,’ she’d chuckle irrepressibly, which demonstrated her eccentric sense of humour.

Her small house was without a front garden, whereas at its rear there was a tiny concrete yard, confined on three sides by cast iron railings – ‘my tiny prison,’ she’d say.  Evergreen hedging concealed the bars on either side or the yard, but the back railings remained clear, giving view to the plot of overgrown grass and, in summertime, to a miscellany of enchanting wildflowers from where a lofty tree emanated. The tree’s sturdy trunk drew her eyes up to the cyclical changes which its twigs delivered in symbolic variations.  Branches of the tree hung self-assuredly over the iron bars whereby, its airy canopy channelled freckled light that would shine upon Rosie’s ageing skin as she pottered about underneath.

Rosie had never discovered the name of her tree. Nobody, she’d ever asked, seemed to know what it was called; but the scientific name didn’t really matter too much to Rosie. Accordingly, she named the tree Angel. Occasionally, she’d recite her understanding of a famous quote she remembered, ‘A tree by any other name, would be as magnificent!’

Angel brought immense joy to the old woman’s mundane life, especially at such times when the tree played host to a diversity of winged creatures: from the awkward burly birds to the small dainty birds; from the little red breasted loner to the playful social birds; from the sweetest singing birds to the grating caws of the clever ones.

The endearing robin would arrive annually at her yard, hop about her feet and flutter up to sit upon the arm of the wooden bench to connect with Rosie by gazing trustingly into her eyes.  She’d learnt from a radio wildlife programme that the reason the robin would perch high on Angel’s branches was to sing territorial songs or to make alarm sounds as a warning of nearby predators.

Throughout the year small groups of energetic blue tits would climb Angel’s trunk in quick erratic hops; they’d hang upside down from wiry twigs - like agile acrobats - pecking at Angel’s bark in search of something to eat. Rosie had never discovered exactly what they ate from the tree, though she guessed their diet might’ve included spiders, bugs, and caterpillars.

From time to time, beautiful bright butterflies would soar from the allure of the scented wildflowers below and sprawl upon Angels leaves to bask in the warmth of the summer’s sun as illusory blossoms.  Rosie often wondered why Angel didn’t flower nor bear any kind of fruit nor noticeable seed.  ‘It’s an enigma,’ she’d muse.

Using watercolours, Rosie would sometimes paint her old tree in all its seasons’ fashions: She’d depict its edgy twiggy appearance, which on occasions showed Angel dressed in a white winter cloak.  She’d show its fresh budding spring look, and its plush green velvet summer apparel; while in autumn, she’d portray Angel’s vintage attire in clusters of russet and golden yellows. Some of her representations would highlight winged visitors that frequented the tree’s branches. Rosie truly wished she could hug her tree; she considered Angel to be so close, yet unreachable.

It was another Monday morning, Rosie shifted out of bed and slipped into her woollen backless shoes. She stayed sitting on the bed for a while, as usual in those days.  She inserted her hearing aid to listen for when the postman might arrive.  He wouldn’t arrive often, but she liked when something was posted through her letterbox – it made her feel more visible for some reason. Abruptly, there was an invasive vibrating raucous. ‘What on earth is happening?’ Rosie was worried.  Never previously had she awoken into such a loud disturbance. 

Anxiously, she dragged her faded mohair housecoat from the bedside armchair and, determinedly pushed her arms through its well-worn sleeves very slowly, but as fast as her stiff bones allowed. She leaned on the chair and arose with its support.  She took her walking cane lying against the wall near her and held it under her hand as she left the bedroom.  She shuffled towards the kitchen at the back of the bungalow. The drilling noise outside was piercing; she pulled her hearing aid from her ears to avoid its further infiltration and felt comforted by the silence that ensued.

Through the back windows, Rosie was shocked and confused to see that her splendid Angel had vanished.  She could see a hefty bulldozer excavating the earth wherein her tree’s roots had established for what could’ve been over a few hundred years ago. Later, Rosie found out that the private owner of the plot had sold it to a Company and the new owners were going to build a one-story plant to relocate the printing component of its plastic packaging business; the tree was just in its way. The building was erected rapidly, within ten months due to its basic design and because aesthetics were not a concern. The area that Angel’s roots had inhabited had been covered with tarmacadam to accommodate a loading bay for the trucks required by the business.

As time passed, Rosie’s initial anger abated somewhat, but the sadness lingered. The seasons became grim for her since the day Angel’s life was terminated. Instead of a yard charmed with rich shades of fallen leaves, the autumn was witness to the accumulation of grimy pigmented plastic lodging around the boundaries of Rosie’s backyard. ‘That blasted plastic,’ she’d grumble under her breath. Conscious of her unheard protests, Rosie would shake her head and sigh while reciting a quote that she’d sporadically ponder over, ‘“If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no-one around to hear it, does it make a sound?”’ It did dawn on her that her hearing aid was plastic, as were the rims of her spectacles, as were many of her other possessions.  This realisation caused her some discomfort, but she defensibly soothed her uneasiness by considering she didn’t have any other sensible option.

One gusty afternoon, Rosie sat tranquil in her armchair and gazed out through the kitchen’s glass door.   She was even more weary than ever that particular day; no energy even to make a cup of tea for herself.  She’d been watching sticky plastic flying around the yard before it adhered to the window and blocked her view. She could just about make out the slogan ‘FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE’ printed in large block letters. Powerless to even attempt to rise and remove it, her body relaxed against the back of the chair as she closed her tired eyes. With closed lids, Rosie could see herself embracing her tree. Angel bent its branches, lifted her high and tenderly ensconced her frail body in its voluptuous foliage. Rosie felt a dreamlike peacefulness which so gently took her breath away.