Tree Gang Pt. 46: Malcolm takes on the good, the mad, and the awkward

MALCOLM had seen his fair share of eccentrics over the years. The parks department attracted them like flies to a carcase.

In the early days, before the council’s drive for efficiency, parks was a magnet for ageing hippies. A fellow could easily spend a good hour in idle contemplation without much interference. 

Malcolm recalled once spending an entire day discussing Gaia, the Earth Mother, and the sanctity of nature with Pedro (real name Frank) as they spread (since banned) toxic chemicals around the shrubs and paths. 

Then there was Herb (real name Donald), whose passion for horticulture bordered on the fanatical, though years of ‘herbal’ abuse had left him with a pace of life that made a sloth seem swift. Malcolm had once spent a week with him stripping winter bedding. In response to Malcolm’s criticism of his glacial speed and lack of progress, Herb had pointed to the still-flowering polyanthus, crying out: “But look at the colours, man! Look at the colours!”

After the hippies came those uncharitably termed ‘Parks virgins’, men whose manner, without any hint of sexual preference, singled them out as lifelong bachelors. Men like Tom-the-Back, who was already 80 at 25 years of age. Despite decades of decimalisation, he still referred to his wages in terms of pounds, shillings and pence and talking to him was like a time warp back to the 1930s. Tom’s grandfather had worked for the parks department and pinned on the mess room wall was a faded old black-and-white photo of him standing next to a shire horse. The horse was hitched and ready to drag a fallen tree out of the lake. You could have dropped Tom into the photo, with his flat cap and braces, and he wouldn’t have looked out of place.

However, times were changing. New, smaller, mobile teams left no time for drifting off into intellectual contemplation and increased efficiency drives had little regard for any actual horticulture. As Parks became less appealing to those whose focus was more geared to nurturing their chakras, the old hippies faded away, leaving a hard core of cantankerous, awkward sods and deranged misfits. 

Parks had many oddballs and psychopaths, but two in particular loomed large – Spudda and Jack Dry. Between them, they put a sense of dread into Malcolm. 
Spudda was a giant of a man, with hands like dinner plates and a Mohican haircut. His frequent outbursts flowed free from his animal brain with no filter to stop them. In contrast, Jack Dry was short, sharp and vicious. He reminded Malcolm of a bull terrier, both in appearance and temperament. 

Malcolm had already had experience of Jack. He’d joined the team briefly one summer two years ago, setting the tone by introducing himself as: “The one they call the bastard.” 

Every day was a trial. A simple “good morning” would be answered with an aggressive “WHAT!” and even the simplest of tasks enraged Jack to bellicose indignation. 

“What are we cutting this tree down for?”, “Why don’t you get us any decent work gloves?”, “It’s too early to be pruning.”, “It’s too late to be pruning.”, “This sandwich is rubbish!”, “Why are we doing this?”, “Why are we doing that?”

On and on it went, a never-ending litany of complaints bristling with righteous venom.
Jack’s favourite line was: “I’m not doing it and you can tell them in the top office I’m not doing it. In fact, take me there now and I’ll tell them to their faces I’m not doing it!” He turned belligerence into an art.

Malcolm dreaded every day that came. Finally, after one almighty row between Jack and Vannie, Malcolm requested Jack be moved to another team, to the relief of everyone.
“That bloke would argue with his own shadow,” commented Ray.

Now, two years had passed and another parks reshuffle was in the offing. All the team leaders gathered in the office of new boss Alan Chesterfield to discuss the composition of the new teams. They moved folk about according to skills and proximity to depots, but the elephant in the room was Jack Dry. Eventually he could be ignored no longer.

“I have to put him somewhere,” said Alan, recently promoted off the highways and out to make a name for himself. The silence was deafening as the team leaders stared around the room, hoping Jack Dry would fall to one of their opposite number. “Jim?” Alan said to Jim McAdam, team leader for the south.

Jim shook his head. “No way. That mad bastard swung for me last time I worked with him.”

“Paul?”

Paul Bagnall, team leader for the north replied with sly, magnanimous pleading: “No. It wouldn’t be fair on Jack. He lives too far south.”

Arthur Prince flat out refused to take him.

The name Jack Dry was passed around like an unexploded bomb until Malcolm surprised everyone by saying: “I’ll take him.”

This was not some flash of insanity. Malcolm had recently had a bit of a ‘road to Damascus’ revelation.

Six months earlier, long-time girlfriend Eddie (Edwina Farnham de Beal) had dumped both Malcolm and the parks department and headed south. She was now working on some big estate near Southampton and living with a Kendo teacher called Brian. For several months, Malcolm was steeped in black depression. He took five months off and wallowed in abject misery until deciding he had to do something. With no real prospect of changing the situation, he decided to change himself using the principle of ‘fake it till you make it’. 

He changed his hair, got glasses (his eyesight had been sliding of late), changed his clothes and changed his attitude. He now worked on staying calm when panic struck and had slowed down his frantic pace of life. When difficulties arose he tried to roll with the punches and not give in to melodrama. It didn’t always work and he’d had plenty of setbacks, but slowly he was beginning to enjoy work again. Part of this new attitude was a resolve to face conflict rather than run from it and Jack Dry would be the litmus test.

And so, on a sunny day in March, Malcolm gathered his new team to sort out some hung-up branches on a tall ash. There was Gary Hillier, a cheerful old lifer close to retirement, Donald Tonks, tall and glass half full, Graham Jones, parks virgin who confusingly talked about soap opera characters as if they were his own family and, of course, Jack Dry.

The problem was only Gary and Jack had any previous tree-work experience and only Gary, late of the northern tree gang, was qualified to climb. Donald and Graham had slid across from the gardening side with next to no training. It didn’t take long before the arguments started.

READ MORE: Tree Gang Pt. 45: A journey up the ladder of council arb

“Why is it only you and Gary get to climb?” snapped Jack. “He’s too old for this malarkey.”

Before, Malcolm would have said something like, “Because we are the only ones qualified.” But ‘new’ Malcolm took a deep breath and calmly said: “You might have a point there, Jack.” He shouted up the ash tree: “What do you think Gary? Are you getting too old for this?”

Gary shouted down something unrepeatable and told Jack to mind his own sodding business.

Oddly contrite, Jack called back: “Didn’t mean to imply you were past it, Gaz. I just thought it not fair on the rest of the team.”

“This is you all over Jack,” said Gary, descending the tree. “Take that bloody chip off your shoulder.”

Interesting, thought Malcolm. It occurred to him that maybe Jack’s attitude was fuelled by a distorted sense of injustice. He’d never expressed any interest in climbing before, but that didn’t count for anything. Before the two could get into a spat, Malcolm said:

“Hang on, Gary. Jack’s right. Why should only me and you have all the fun? It would be useful if more of us were qualified. Let me ask. Who here wants to climb a tree?”
Don and Graham vehemently shook their heads. No way did they want to leave the ground.

“I will if they’ll train me,” said Jack, thrusting his face at Malcolm as if in challenge.
Malcolm said: “All right. I’ll ask.”

“Yeah, of course you will,” sneered Jack.

Later that day, Malcolm asked Alan Chesterfield about climbing courses. At first, Alan if’d and ah’d and wheedled about budgets and so forth, until Malcolm mentioned Jack had said if he couldn’t climb then he would rather swap teams. The prospect of finding another team that would tolerate him soon changed Alan’s mind.

It took a while to set up, but with the help of training officer Terry Ross they managed to find a course for Jack to go on. By all accounts, he argued with the course leaders every single day, but at the end came away with a certificate in safe tree climbing. 

Jack proved to be a very competent tree worker and, from then on, Malcolm got on a lot better with him. He became more open to discuss things, at least with Malcolm, though with everyone else he still argued like hell.

Over the following year, Malcolm learned all about Jack’s dislike of authority, dislike of laziness, weakness, rudeness, shady practice, being ignored and, well, just about anything, really. Yet somehow Malcolm had struck the sweet spot between listening to what Jack said and not backing down. They still argued, but a grudging respect emerged between them. 

Even so, when Jack expressed an interest in becoming a triple mower driver, a job that involved working alone independent of any team, everyone on the tree gang urged him to take it. Malcolm would still technically be his team leader – no-one else wanted that hot potato – but he no longer had to greet each day with an argument.

On leaving the team, Jack said to Malcolm: “You know something, you’re all right ... for a boss.”

It wasn’t much of a compliment, but Malcolm was pleased to take it. He had taken on Jack Dry and survived. There was nothing he couldn’t tackle now. Unbeknown to Malcolm, his bosses thought the same. 

With Jack effectively off the team and Gary retiring, space was freed up for two new team members to come in. The first to arrive was Karl Baker, a pleasant but laconic individual who took worrying to Olympic levels. Malcolm had taken on Karl as a summer worker in the past and quite liked him. The other new member remained a mystery until Malcolm arrived for work one cold morning.

A rough voice bellowed at him from across the yard. “Oy, stubby fingers! Am on your team from Monday.”

Malcolm groaned. Oh no, not Spudda!