Four Short Tales

by Donald Phillips

The Tree

  We didn’t know about it when we bought the place. How many times have you heard that? Our Urbanización of some fifty houses is built on a rocky piece of ground in the middle of an agricultural area and to describe the three thousand square metres of ground that went with our villa as a garden would be liable to make your nose grow faster than Pinocchio’s. It did, however, have one magnificent tree planted by a former owner. This was a Eucalyptus of some eighty feet in height. That said the rest of the garden looked like scrubland.

  Now the Eucalyptus is not my favourite tree. Their leaves fall, but do not rot, their flowers come down as fine as Sahara sand and clog everything they land on, particularly windscreen wipers and rainwater gutters. Their nuts make a mess of the drive and hide in the grass, only to fly out from under the mower later on like bullets onto your unprotected shins. But when we moved in that tree was the only plant we had and it gave us hope over the next five years, while we slowly landscaped the rest of the garden. We would put a couple of chairs under its shade as a place to sit and drink a beer. We parked the car under its gentle shade, until it’s flowers knackered the windscreen wipers. But Eucalyptus or not it was our only full grown plant for the first few years and if we didn’t exactly love it, we grew very fond of it. Little did we know!

  After the first four years, when the garden was now presentable, I was allowed to finally build my workshop at the back of the garden behind the house. While digging out the foundations I discovered two large concrete pipes of some four feet in diameter. I enquired of my neighbour Casilda if she knew what they were and she said they were the pipes that carried the irrigation water to our Urbanización and the local orange farm at the bottom of the road. The position of the workshop had been the subject of some delicate negotiation so I could not change its position without great difficulty, and argument, so I made a raft foundation to keep the weight from the irrigation pipes and carried on and completed it. Six more years went by.

  It was in July of that year that I noticed the furtive figure peering through our gate. He was wearing a straw hat, a workman’s blue shirt knotted around his waist, blue workman’s trousers cut off just below the knee and sandals. He looked like he could have been Don Quixote’s servant, but I knew Don Quixote had never lived in these parts and never went anywhere near the Alicante region as far as I know. It was only when this man took off the straw hat to mop his brow, that I realised I knew him. He came from the orange farm at the bottom of the hill. He was still there peering in ten minutes later and my curiosity was aroused.

  I left the shade of the veranda, went out into the hot sunshine and greeted him with a “Buenos Dias” He answered me in Valenciano of which the only word I understood after “Bon Dia” was arbole or “Tree”. I invited him into the garden where he led to the shade of the eucalyptus and we carried on this unequal conversation for some ten minutes more. He understood my Castilian, but would only answer in Valenciano, a language with which I struggle, but it was definitely about the tree. I gave up and went for Casilda next door, who being married to a Valenciano speaks both languages. It turned out that he thought the roots of our tree had broken into the irrigation pipes and was blocking them.

  Now after crossing our land these pipes run straight down the road for six hundred metres to the orange farm and all down this road are planted trees. Not big trees, but never the less, trees. I asked how he could be sure it was my tree causing the problem. Casilda spoke again to Antonio, we were now all on first name terms, and repeated my question. “It was always these trees that caused the trouble,” Antonio answered, “because they were foreign trees, Australian trees.” I got the impression he felt Spanish trees would never be so impolite. There was a sudden commotion at the gate with the dogs, which had now left the coolness of the house to see what was going on. Two short fat men in blue working clothes were standing there. I collared the dogs and invited them in. They were from the water monopoly, which owned the pipes that ran under my workshop. They also examined the tree. They walked around it nodding their heads looking very like Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Benjamin our dog joined them, sniffing and occasionally lifting his leg. After all, it is his tree.

  They spoke to Antonio and Casilda in rapid Valenciano of which I understood only four words in fifty. I tried to ask a question now and again, but was ignored. By now my wife, her Mum and our teenage nephew and his girlfriend had joined us, so combined with the two dogs it was getting quite crowded under the tree. Another neighbour, Rosa, appeared and joined the four Spaniards. She immediately became involved and they were at it ten to the dozen. The conversation seemed to be getting a little acrimonious and in the end I thought it was time to stop it. Several Por favors did not work so in the end I shouted silencio at the top of my voice. That worked. There was a shocked silenced. I focussed on Casilda and asked her what was going on.

  Her anger was on our behalf. It seemed the men from the water board, both called Paco, wanted the tree cut down and the roots pulled up, because they thought it was blocking the irrigation pipe. Antonio also wanted it removed, as it was his water that was being curtailed, but I was not to worry. Afterwards everything would be put back right. I refused.

  “Only if they can prove it is causing the problem,” I replied, coming to the aid of our first-born plant.

  Casilda agreed with me.

  “That is what Rosa and I say, also.”

  She told them what I had said.

  “Then we will denounce you for having an illegal building,” said one of the Pacos, smiling smugly. “You should not put buildings over irrigation pipes.”

  I bristled. They may be within their rights, but this was blackmail.

  “Then I will lock the gates and you will need the Guardia to get in.” I said.

  They thought about this.

  The five-way conversation started up in Valenciano again. It was four in the afternoon, the temperature was in the mid thirties, and we had been there for an hour. I went for a beer and left them to it. Another thirty minutes passed. Casilda called me.

  “Antonio is due for his next water in four days” she explained, “He really needs it with these temperatures. Can they bring a digger in and dig down to see if it is the tree causing the problem?”

  This meant digging a hole in my drive, but I didn’t want this going on forever.

  “Yes, of course” I answered.

  “Will you let them take the tree down if it is causing a blockage?” She asked.

  “If the tree is the problem it will come down.” I agreed, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  There was another five minutes of furious Valenciano and they all left. I sat down on the terrace with another beer and looked sadly at the tree. I had a feeling in my water.

  Less than thirty minutes later I was brought out of my reverie by the arrival of a JCB and the five Spaniards. I sought out Casilda.

  “That was quick.”

  “Yes, we were lucky, the driver was in the bar in the village.”

  I had another feeling in my water. The driver was a short and very skinny man who also went by the name of Paco. He was in that happy state of one who has had more than one drink. I carefully judged the distance from the base of the tree to any of the buildings. Provided he could still see straight it should be all right. The only problem was the overhead electricity line to the workshop. After putting a line of white plastic chairs in front of this so he could see where it was, I reluctantly agreed to let him start. He beamed an alcoholic smile and climbed up into his cab.

  The three Pacos and Antonio set to work. Paco One, who was obviously in charge, made a mark on the ground. Paco Three set to work with the digger, while Paco Two and Antonio cleared the area with hoes after every bucket load. The pipes were only half a metre down and to the noise of tearing tree roots they were soon exposed. The digger stopped and two Pacos and Antonio jumped into the hole. One of the pipes had a hole in it through which a large tree root disappeared. The feeling in my water had
been right. The tree would have to come down. Also I had lost two plastic chairs to Paco Three’s driving, but had saved the electricity line.

  I was telling Casilda I would have the tree taken down when Paco One suddenly discovered he could speak Castilian.

  “We will knock it over with the machine,” he said. He walked about forty feet out onto the lawn and judged the height of the tree. “It will only come to here.”

  I looked up at the eighty foot of tree and Casilda’s fence only sixty feet away and shook my head.

  “No.”

  Paco Three then lifted the bucket of his digger and smashed a large branch off the tree. It hit the floor with a loud thud and bounced about two yards. He grinned at me

  “See. It is easy.”

  Smiling back, I climbed up on his digger and removed the ignition key. The Valenciano started up again.

  Casilda took me to one side and told me the tree had to come down. I agreed and told her I would pay to have it taken down properly, but not with the digger. Paco One approached.

  “We will denounce you for having an illegal shed.” He said.

  “We have done that one and your driver is drunk.” I answered, putting the keys in my pocket.

  The Valenciano started up again.

  Casilda meanwhile used my phone to talk to the owner of the bar that Paco Three had just left. It seemed in his other life he had a chain saw and would cut down trees. He was free tomorrow, but would need a crane with a platform to remove it safely. Another phone call arranged the crane. We went back outside and informed the Pacos and Antonio. I gave them back the key to the digger and reluctantly they all left.

  Twenty-four hours later the tree was down to a stump. The following day the three Pacos and Antonio returned. This time Paco Three was definitely sober. They removed the stump and a section of pipe all in one piece. The pipe was almost totally blocked with root and debris. They then replaced the broken pipes and disappeared, leaving me with a large hole in the drive. It was like that for three weeks before our community organisation took pity on us and arranged for the drive to be levelled again. Fortunately we had had the sense to drive the car into the street before it all started or it would have been stranded for three weeks.

  All in all it was an expensive tree. I do not know the cost to the water board, but our cost for having it cut down along with the crane hire was forty five thousand pesetas and the cost of re-levelling our drive was fifteen thousand pesetas. Added to this is the fact that my wife is now going to completely revamp that section of the garden and that will not be cheap. Does anybody want to buy some eucalyptus logs?