The continuing story of Malcolm Brown and his transition from art student to arb expert on the local parks department. 

A ROUGH voice bellowed at Malcolm from across the yard. “Oi, stubby fingers! I’m on your team from Monday.”

Malcolm groaned, oh no, not Spudda!

So far Malcolm had not worked with Spudda, real name John Butcher, all he knew was that, after Jack Dry, Spudda was everyone’s least favourite team member. His voice had no volume control, his brain had no filter and he never stopped. He was the human equivalent of a runaway boulder, smashing down a mountainside. Tales of Spudda were legendary. He once barrelled into the head office, calling out in his usual high volume:

“Where’s me boss?”

A kind office assistant indicated the various managers working away at their computers and asked which one?

“The fat one,” bellowed Spudda.

Physically imposing, Spudda was a giant of a man. If Jack Dry could be likened to a bull terrier, then Spudda was a Great Dane/Rottweiler cross, with a Mohican haircut.

Intimidating barely covered it.

So, it was with some trepidation that Malcolm watched his new team member bounce into the van with a force that rocked the whole vehicle, shouting with unbridled enthusiasm: “Come on boss, let’s go do some work.”

“You’re keen,” said Malcolm, warily.

“Ah love work, me,” he replied. Adding specifically for Malcolm: “Some people say you’re a lazy (expletive), but I don’t believe them.”

“Oh … good,” said Malcolm. Evidently formerly depressed Malcolm had gained a reputation on the yard.

When Graham turned up and saw Spudda, he uttered the immortal lines: “Oh ’eck” and immediately grabbed the front seat. Leaving Karl Baker to join their new colleague in the back of the crew cab.

Don Tonks smiled as he got into his tractor, calling out: “See you on site, lads. Have fun.”

“What are we on?” asked Spudda, rubbing his hands with glee.

Malcolm waved a blue form. “Schedule rates job. Taking down some dead tree in a private garden.” Ever since the 1980s private work had become an occasional feature of the parks department as a means of generating money. The initial rush of the early years had dropped off but the odd job still filtered through.

“Great! I can hardly wait,” said Spudda.

Karl groaned and leant heavily against the van door. “My God, he’s serious. Well, I need a coffee first. Can we stop by the mechanics?”

“No problem, Karl,” said Malcolm. He too needed a coffee if he was to cope with Spudda.

With that he put the van into gear and drove round the yard to the mechanics workshop.

A popular spot with council workers as it was out of sight of the main office and situated next to the corridor with the vending machines.

No sooner had they parked up than Spudda leapt from the van and went scurrying off across the yard.

“Where the hell’s he going?” queried Graham, as Spudda ran around the yard, stooping every so often.

Forestry Journal:

After several minutes he returned with a cache of assorted work gloves dropped by other workers.

“If you needed gloves, you only had to ask,” said Malcolm.

Spudda stashed the gloves in his bag and grinned. “Can I have some now, then?”

Puzzled, Malcolm asked: “What about those you’ve just picked up?”

“Oh those are for my car boot on Sunday. I wash ’em and sell ’em on.”

“You sell on old work gloves?” said Karl, incredulous.

Spudda replied: “I sell anything I can get my hands on. Sometimes stuff I find, sometimes people give me stuff. This one bloke gave me bags of Bombay mix.” He drew a handful out of his workbag. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get, I always say.”

Karl shook his head and focussed on his paper.

After coffee they headed off to check out the job.

The address was a large private house overlooking council-owned Sandyhill golf course.

The tree in question, a congested, old Rowan, was leaning dangerously towards the golf course and, while not quite dead, was shedding leaves and branches like a dog in summer. Malcolm decided to reduce the side facing the golf course first, then tackle the rest from the garden. With the tractor not needed initially Don went off to clear the rubbish bay at Hanbridge Park. A wooden fence had already suffered under the lean of the tree but the panels themselves were salvageable, so these were removed and put to one side.

The owner, a thin, white-haired retired gentleman, greeted them with a cheery wave from the back door.

Spudda was straight in. “Hey mate, do you want those fence panels?”

“Er, yes,” said the owner.

“Spudda, we’re going to put them back up when the tree’s out of the way,” cut in Malcolm.

Spudda grinned. “Sorry boss, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”

It didn’t take Malcolm long to realise this was Spudda’s catchphrase and he soon found out that getting Spudda to work was not an issue. Stopping him rushing in like a rampaging elephant on amphetamines was the problem.

“Bloody hell, Spudda. Watch what you’re doing won’t you,” cried Karl as a log flew past his head.

“Sorry,” said Spudda, scooping up another handful to fling on the back of the van.
High in the tree, Malcolm called down: “You can put some of those branches through the chipper, Spudda. They’re small enough and it’ll save you cutting them up.”

“I’m saving them for a lady who buys them off me. She likes different sizes.”

Malcolm sunk wearily in his harness. “And did you ask if you could take any?”

“Sorry boss, can I take some logs for an old lady?”

“Sure, I suppose so,” sighed Malcolm.

Their work progressed without further incident until, at 11 am, the homeowner’s equally thin wife appeared at the back door.

“Do any of you boys want a cuppa?” she said, hands folded across her chest and peering out from a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles.

“Coffee, please. Three sugars,” called out Spudda, before anyone else could answer with a “yes, please” or “thank you”.

Supping his cuppa, Malcolm was just appreciating how quickly the work was going when

Spudda suddenly engaged the woman in conversation.
“I like yer dress missus,” he said. “Nice hair too.”

Malcolm cringed hoping Spudda wouldn’t land them with a sexual harassment complaint before his first day was out.

“Oh … thank you,” said the woman, unsure how to take this personal line of conversation.

Having delivered his dubious opening compliment Spudda went straight to the topic on his mind. “Have you got anything you want getting rid of?”

The woman hesitated then pointed to an old loose leaf table, fading in the sun. “My husband said he was going to take that to the tip but it’s been there for weeks now.”
Spudda beamed with delight. “Can I have it missus? I’ll give you a fiver for it.”

“Oh! We don’t want any money. I’ll just be glad to see the back of it,” said the woman.

Spudda grabbed the table and took it off to the van then returned, saying: “Got anything else you don’t want?”

By now the woman’s husband had appeared. “There’s a load of stuff in the shed if you want a look. Been meaning to sort it out for ages.”

Half an hour later Malcolm’s van was piled high with old chairs, rabbit hutches, golf clubs, and all other assorted detritus.

“We’ll be back after lunch to finish off the tree,” said Malcolm to the owners.

The tree was now a leaning trunk of stubby fingers, surrounded by a pile of brash for chipping and logs for loading. However, Malcolm couldn’t shift any of it until Spudda’s acquisitions had been disposed of.

“Well, this isn’t at all embarrassing,” said Karl as they got into the van. “We look more like scrap merchants than tree workers.”

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” said Spudda. “Can we drop this stuff off at my place?”

Using council vehicles for home deliveries was frowned upon by head office but Malcolm considered it a lesser evil than turning up at the yard looking like a rag and bone van.

“Just this once, Spudda. I’m not turning into a delivery service,” said Malcolm.

“Right you are, boss,” said Spudda, brightly; suggesting this wouldn’t be the last such request.

Malcolm was surprised, however, when Spudda directed him to a large new build along a quiet cul-de-sac. He had expected Spudda’s house to be rough but this was quite upmarket.

Spudda’s wife greeted them at the door. “What’s he got this time?”

Spudda greeted her with a kiss and enthused about the various items in his haul.

“Sorry about this,” she said to Malcolm as she approached the van. “John gets a little carried away sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” said Karl.

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

She proceeded to vet the items as Spudda pulled them off the van. “That’s good, that’s rubbish, that’s repairable, please tell me you didn’t pay for this?” and so on.

By the time they had finished it was lunchtime and the van was considerably lighter. The few scraps left, Malcolm could dispose of in the tip back at the depot.

On their way to lunch, Malcolm asked Spudda how it was he managed to afford such a fine house on his meagre council pay?

“I get the money from all my other jobs,” he said and then proceeded to outline all his different avenues of employment; window cleaning, car boot sales, weekend litter picking, house clearance, the list went on and on. He took old pallets and turned them into gates and fences, he repaired furniture, he gardened for pensioners. Spudda seized every opportunity that came his way. Malcolm began to believe that Spudda even worked in his sleep.

Laconic Karl found all this manic enthusiasm rather exhausting.

“Don’t you ever rest?” he said.

Spudda looked bemused. “Plenty of time to rest when you’re dead.”

“Don’t say that,” said Karl, cringing. “It gives me the creeps.”

Malcolm smiled. Karl was something of a hypochondriac, ever worried about catching some ailment or other.

“Don’t worry yourself. Here have a packet of Bombay mix,” said Spudda handing Karl a silver packet. “I’ve got enough for everyone.” He passed some over to Malcolm and Graham.

As they sat in the van eating, Malcolm began thinking that, despite his dodgy deals, having Spudda on the team wasn’t such a bad idea. The man was a wild horse, but if

Malcolm could manage the reins, Spudda’s relentless motivation might be an asset.

Suddenly Karl started coughing and spluttering. “My God! He’s trying to kill me.”

“What’s going on?” Malcolm spun round expecting to see Karl being throttled.

“I haven’t touched him,” said Spudda. Indeed, Spudda was sitting back all innocent.

Karl stumbled from the van retching. “Look at the packet. That Bombay mix of his is two years out of date!”

Malcolm checked his packet. Karl was right. He’d thought they tasted a bit off.

Spudda continued munching. “Tastes all right to me.”

“I’m poisoned,” cried Karl, going full melodrama.

Spudda shrugged. “Dunna worry. We’ve all got to go sometime.”

Malcolm tossed his Bombay mix into the trash bag and sighed. It was going to be a rough ride.