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

“WHAT do you make of this?” Craig Wolf handed Malcolm a weedy stick, its roots wrapped in hessian.

“It’s a sapling,” Malcolm said sarcastically, passing the twig back to his new boss.

“Har har, but not just any sapling. This is a royal oak sapling grown from an acorn off the royal estate. The mayor ordered it for the Queen’s diamond jubilee.”

Malcolm turned the sapling around in his hand. “Seems healthy enough. What’s the plan for it?”

“I’m thinking of planting it here in front of the offices.” He pointed through the window to the lawn. “Make it a feature so people can see it when they arrive at the depot.”

“They might have to squint.” The potential tree was so small, Malcolm was doubtful anyone would notice it for several years. However, in front of the offices away from the general public, it stood a better chance of survival than most. “You’ll need a tree guard.”

Craig frowned. “For this little thing?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Absolutely. Unless you want it mown down in the first week. I’ve seen how your average ride-on mower operator works.” Many trees on the area bore scars at their base from lawn mowers. The tiny oak would get driven over in an instant without the driver even noticing. “Fair point,” said Craig. “I’ll get on it.”

Council mowers weren’t the only problem. It was a sad fact that trees in Hanbridge had difficulty in making it to maturity. People often had trees planted to commemorate something or other, an event or a person’s life, but vandalism was rife. Malcolm could never understand the mentality behind snapping young trees or ring-barking older ones. It infuriated him what a few minutes of thoughtless destruction could do. 

However, this wasn’t always the case and Malcolm was soon to learn that some commemorative trees could have an exceptionally long life.

In the early hours of a Wednesday morning the team found themselves dealing with a fallen branch on Dog Kennel Lane. On the outskirts of town, an extremely large and ancient oak tree had cracked in high winds, sending a large branch crashing down across the road. By the time Malcolm and his team arrived there was already a queue of early commuters building up. 

They parked up and, while Spudda and Leon put out the ‘road closed’ signage, Malcolm helped Karl to manage the traffic. Frustrated car drivers revved their engines and honked their horns at each other.

“It’s like they can’t believe the road’s blocked,” said Karl, watching one driver stare at the colossal branch as if expecting it to melt away. 

Malcolm nodded. “Most are still half asleep, I’ll bet. Wait till the rush hour really kicks in.” 

The road was a main link to the motorway and unfortunately, the alternative route was a lengthy detour through the busy junctions. Even after road block signs were out, many drivers still thought they could somehow sneak through. It was, of course, impossible. The branch lay from the house it belonged to right over to the house opposite.

“How long are you going to take?” asked one irate driver, winding down his window and glowering at the lads as they removed smaller branches from the main trunk.
Spudda shrugged. “Probably all day, mate.”

Muttering words of a not very complimentary nature, the driver spun his car in an aggressive display of dust and impatience and sped away.

“Now Spudda, that wasn’t very helpful,” said Malcolm, reaching up to pat the rough bark of the branch. “Why didn’t you just lift this bit of a twig out of the way for him?”

“Gosh. I just wasn’t thinking, was I?” Spudda grinned.

Malcolm decided their first job was to clear a path for the owner of the house opposite to get her car out. She drove off to work with a cheery wave just as the retired owner of the house with the offending tree came out to survey the damage.

“Sorry about all this. I guess it was lucky no one was hurt.”

“These things happen. At least the only real casualty was your neighbour’s cherry tree,” said Malcolm.

The man looked back at his tree. “What about the rest of it?”

Malcolm sighed. “I think it will have to come down. The centre’s rotten. I don’t think you’d fancy another branch falling and hitting your house.”

A well-known local landmark, the ancient tree dwarfed the semi-detatched house next to it both in size and age. Unfortunately, any one of the remaining branches could demolish the house beside it.

It took most of the day for the lads to clear the road. As Karl blew away the last remaining twigs and sawdust, a police patrol car drew up to see if the road would be clear in time for the evening rush. 

“It will be, but we’ll have to close it again tomorrow to deal with the rest of the tree,” said Malcolm.

The police officer nodded. “If you could leave off starting until the morning rush dies down, I’d appreciate it.”

Malcolm promised work wouldn’t start until after 10 am.

Next day they were back, with a set of traffic lights and the larger 41” chainsaw.

“How old do you reckon the tree is?” Malcolm asked the owner, who appeared with a welcome tray of tea and biscuits.

“At least two-to-three-hundred years. We did some research when we moved in. Apparently, all the land around here belonged to the Burtham Estate and stretched as far as the river.” He pointed at some distant fence line beyond his house. “These houses are where the kennels for the hounds once were.” 
Leon nodded. “Makes sense, Burtham woods contain loads of ancient oaks.”

Malcolm had played in those woods as a child and knew well the ancient specimens there, with their great thick trunks and stag-horn branches. This one, however, didn’t look like it was ever part of a wood.

WANT MORE TREE GANG? 

Malcolm let Leon tackle the initial high work to let him get more climbing experience. Even so, he kept a careful eye on proceedings. The branches were so huge they had to be taken down carefully, bit by bit. Malcolm didn’t want one of the great logs to swing and smash into the house, or worse them. On the ground, Spudda and Karl sorted the logs into piles and chipped the rest. It took all day and five vanloads to clear the site.

Finally, only four foot of the main trunk was left, the thickest part, and Malcolm had already decided to tackle this himself. If anything were to go wrong then it would be better for trouble to land on his head. 

“What do you want doing with the stump?” asked Malcolm, as he primed his chainsaw. “I could carve it into something for you.”

The owner stroked his chin. “I hadn’t thought about that. How about a bench? With its back facing the road so you can look out over the house and fields beyond?”

“Bench it is,” replied Malcolm, relishing the chance to flex his artistic talents.

He’d been practising chainsaw sculpture for a year and was getting reasonably good. He carved the roadway side into the shape of three different animals – a fox, an owl and a badger. Then he began reducing the rest of it to make the bench. 

Nearing the final stages, Malcolm scanned the base where he intended to make his cut. A suspicious puckered section of bark indicated there might be a hidden fence post. 

This was confirmed, when cutting into it carefully, the saw nipped something solid.

“What have you struck?” asked Leon.

“Don’t know.” Malcolm ditched the chainsaw and instead chipped away the wood with a pruning saw and chisel borrowed from the workshops. “I thought it might be a fence post at first, but it seems too wide for that and made of stone.” 

“It could be a grave. Maybe you should leave it,” said Karl.

“Funny place for a grave and it’s right where I want to carve the seat.” Malcolm continued to chip away until the rectangular block of old stone was revealed, including its inscription. “It’s an old commemorative stone, very old judging by the writing.”

The lads gathered round as Malcolm carefully worked away the wood that held it.

It had obviously been consumed by the tree a long time ago.

“What does it say?” asked Leon.

“Good grief,” exclaimed Malcolm, brushing away the last of the chippings.

Spudda pushed forward for a better look. “Tell us.”

Malcolm read out what was inscribed: “Arising from a nut of that fame tree in Boscobel yn which King Charles the 2nd did hyde from Cromwell after the battle of Worcester. Planted herein October 1701.”

“Bloody hell,” said Karl. 

“Is it true do you think?” asked Leon.

Malcolm shrugged. “Well I suppose the tree’s the right age, but as for the rest of it, who knows?”

“Makes a nice story though,” said Spudda. “You should take it to the museum.”

“I don’t think so. I say it belongs here. It’s just sad the tree had to come down before we found it,” said Malcolm. The owner was well pleased with Malcolm’s discovery and promised to have it placed next to the finished bench. With the job completed, Malcolm returned to the offices to deal with another royal oak. While the lads watched, he dug out a neat square of turf and placed the small oak in the hole. 

(Image: Tree Gang)

He backfilled the hole and fixed the clear rabbit-proof tree guard around it, then stood back. “That should give it enough visibility not to get it run over by an over-enthusiastic gardener, I hope.”

“It should have a plaque,” said Spudda.

Leon agreed. “Then who knows, in a few hundred years’ time someone else can dig it out of the trunk.”

It was a nice idea, although Malcolm was sceptical the tree would make it that far. Council restructures happened frequently, so that in as little as 10 years the current depot could be sold off or completely rebuilt. Still, who knew? Perhaps it would survive and in some future day this tree would still be there long after they and all the buildings around it had vanished.