Training lasted a day. “Surprised you need a day,” said Ray. “After all, all we do is just stand about, isn’t it?” No one wanted to sit in the first few rows of the seminar room, but the place was soon packed, and the latecomers had no choice. Free refreshments were available at the back, and dutifully Steve took his plastic cup of orange squash like all the others. At last a man in a suit stood up in front of them all. “A lot of you here today,” he said. “But not many of you will make the grade. You probably think there’s nothing to this job. Some of you will think you’re too good for it. But there’s more to the tree than you think. Regulating the carbon dioxide intake, drawing nutrients from the soil with its roots. The tree is a very complex animal.” Steve spoke up and said surely it was a plant, not an animal, and Ray sniggered at this, and there was a tittering around the room, but Steve hadn’t meant it as a heckle, not really. The man up front pursed his lips. “Yeah, there’s always some clever bugger who thinks he knows it all.”
Then the man turned on his overhead projector, and outlined on a whiteboard the differences between some of the major trees: those that were fruit bearing, those that were not. He produced graphs of climate change, how an average tree might be affected by differences in rainfall. Then he said he was proud to introduce someone who’d been working as a tree nigh on fifty years, and a grizzled gentleman got up and tried to explain some of the practicalities of the job. He told stories that weren’t very interesting and gave tips that were rather confusing, all with a grimness of tone that suggested he was imparting dark secrets of nuclear science. He stressed again that the tree was a complex animal. Then it was lunch: more orange squash, and some cheese sandwiches. “Now it’s time to get some experience in the field,” said the man, “as it were,” and they all filed out of the seminar room, down the stairs, and into the private gardens of the company offices. “We’re going to start you off on sycamores. Sycamores are easy. Any fool can do a sycamore.” So everyone gave their best stab at a sycamore, and the man walked through the little forest that had sprung up, appraising their efforts. “Good, good, keep steady, good, a little too feral, good.” Once in a while he’d take out a stick of white chalk and mark their sides with a little cross. Steve tried so very hard to be a tree; when the man looked him up and down it seemed to take forever, but Steve thought of Cheryl, and of Ben, and he didn’t waver, he stayed rooted to the spot. Then, at last, “Good,” came the grunt, and Steve was marked with a cross. “We have your details,” the man announced to them all at the end of the day. “If we want you, we’ll be in touch.” And then Steve went home.
And for once Cheryl was waiting for him when he got home from work. She threw her arms around him, “I’m so proud of you,” she said, and kissed him on the lips, “I love you.” She’d made him his favourite meal, a treat for her working man. Even Ben was excited, and he raced around the house, shouting, “Daddy Daddy Daddy!” And although Steve was tired, he really had to laugh at the little feller, “Daddy Daddy!” He half hoped that Ben would ask him over dinner what he’d done that day, but really was relieved he didn’t, because he didn’t know how to explain that he’d been a big hunk of wood. So they ate their spag bol to Ben’s chatter, and Steve and Cheryl hardly said a word, but once in a while Cheryl would prod Steve with her foot under the table and give him a private smile. And for dessert they had ice cream, everyone’s favourite. After Ben went to bed, they cuddled on the sofa as always, but they didn’t give the telly much attention. Steve tried to explain that it had only been a training day, that there was no guarantee that there’d be a job at the end of it, and Cheryl said, “I know you did your best. It’ll all work out. I believe in you,” and they made love right there and then, and they hadn’t done that for ages. It suddenly didn’t matter to Steve whether he heard back from the Tree Scheme at all.
But he did. The very next morning he was woken by a phone call. He answered it blearily. “Did I get you up?” said the man on the end sternly. Steve checked the time, and saw that it was nearly half past ten, and assured the man he’d been out of bed for hours. “I’m glad to hear it,” said the man. “Now, listen. I want to offer you a job.” Steve thanked him. “Don’t thank me. This is a probationary period, all right? To see whether you have the right aptitude. So the pay will reflect that, you’ll be on the probationary pay, all right?” Steve said it was all right, and thanked him again. “Don’t thank me.” Steve wasn’t sure whether he should phone Ray, if Ray hadn’t heard anything he didn’t want to crow, but it was okay, Ray phoned him. “You get the job too? Probationary pay. I nearly told them I had a bloody degree, I nearly told them to stuff it.” That evening he was nervous, and Cheryl told him that was to be expected. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you,” she said. “For all of us.” She told him to take a bath, and he did, though logically he knew cleanliness really wasn’t what the job was about. And at quarter past four the next morning he woke to the alarm, he was the one who kissed Cheryl and told her he loved her, he was the one who let her sleep in whilst he got ready for work.
Everyone had been told to meet outside the office at half past five sharp. Ray was there too, so were a few others Steve remembered from the training day. They too looked anxious, and were trying to hide it by horsing about and being noisy. “That’s it,” said their supervisor, “get rid of all your energy now, whilst you still have the chance.” Then he bundled them all into the back of a van, and drove them to Clapham Common. “When you’ve got more experience, you can choose where you want to stand,” the supervisor told them, “but for now, leave that up to me.” He planted Steve far away from Ray, and away from the lad he’d said hello to in the van, and for a while Steve felt a bit lonely, and then reasoned there wouldn’t be much chatting anyway. There were two breaks scheduled during the day: as his first, Steve picked the eleven o’clock slot, and Ray did too. As the trees gathered around, forming an impromptu copse, stretching their limbs and smoking their fags, Ray said, “Christ, this job’s boring, isn’t it?”
And it was boring, of course it was. But Steve soon realized that being bored wasn’t so bad. On that first day the sky was overcast, and so the common didn’t get many visitors, but perhaps that was just as well. It meant that Steve could concentrate on not wobbling. Not wobbling, he quickly discovered, was the key. Once he had the not wobbling sorted, he’d have the job down pat. And he learned that the odd wobble was fine, so long as you didn’t fight it—lean into the breeze, and you could turn it into a sway. The second day the sun came out, and with it the lunchtime workers with their thermos flasks and their sandwiches. One of them sheltered in Steve’s shade, and Steve expected he’d be jealous of him, this man in a suit, having a proper job, doing something respectable. But he wasn’t. He actually wasn’t: he peered down at the man’s face, and saw it creased with stress; he was just trying to grab a quick bite in peace, but his mobile phone kept on ringing, it rang no less than three times, and each time the man would put his sandwich down and take the call, and each time Steve heard him pleading to someone on the other end, yes, the contract would be ready by Tuesday, yes, the contract would be ready by the end of the day, please bear with him, please bear with him, please. And Steve felt sorry for the man, he wanted to protect him, and to shield him as best he could with his branches. It was funny—after an hour or so you didn’t feel the stiffness in your arms. First they numbed, then felt like something detached from the body altogether. And when the breeze fluttered his leaves, Steve thrilled to it—the wind just teasing them, they didn’t seem so much blown about as stroked. He’d zone out, and sometimes he’d think of the common, and how many different shades of green there were, no patch of grass the same. And sometimes he’d think of his family. That if he was moved off probationary pay that maybe they could have another baby, he knew Cheryl would like that, and Ben deserved a little playmate, someone he could look after. Maybe Cheryl and he could even get married at last. And sometimes he’d think nothing at all.
By
the end of the second week Ray had had enough. “To hell with this!” he shouted, and Steve was sure the whole common must have heard him. “I’m out of here!” The supervisor told Ray that was fine with him, he was no use anyway, he didn’t have the aptitude, he just didn’t have the aptitude. But for now he’d have to finish the shift, if he wanted any pay at all he’d bloody well get back to work. “Christ,” said Ray, but did as he was told, dragging all his roots behind him and back into position. On the way back in the van Ray wouldn’t shut up about it all. “You’re being exploited,” he told the other trees. “This is the worst job in the world. I’d rather work for McDonald’s.” The other trees looked uncomfortable and didn’t say much. “You don’t have to rush off, do you, Steve, you’ve time for a pint?” But Steve told Ray that he’d best get back home, his family were waiting. Some other time maybe. “Yeah,” said Ray, “maybe,” and he went. Steve felt rather relieved that Ray wouldn’t be on the common with him anymore. He liked Ray and all, but he let the side down. He was a troublemaker.
That evening Steve told Cheryl what Ray had said. Cheryl was quiet for a while, and then asked, a little uncomfortably, whether maybe Ray was right. “You gave the job a go,” she said. “Darling, there’s no need to stick it out if you don’t want to.” And Steve assured her he was fine. He liked the job. He did, really! Couldn’t Cheryl see that? Isn’t that what he’d been telling Cheryl every night as they cuddled? “Well, yes,” said Cheryl. “But I’d always thought you were just putting a brave face on it. It all sounds horrendous.” No, no, Steve said. He was really getting to grips with it. “Oh,” said Cheryl.
And besides, Ray had been exaggerating. It wasn’t all just hard graft; there were lighter moments too, lots of them. For example, there was that time with the two teenagers. They sat under Steve’s branches, and they told each other that they loved each other, and they snogged. And both the declarations of love and the snogs that punctuated them were so forceful that Steve suspected this was the first time for them both; they were so so young, they’d not used the “love” word before. Steve rather liked them. They were sweet. “I love you,” said the boy, “and I’m going to prove it.” And he got out a Swiss Army knife from his jacket, pulled out the blade, and Steve was alarmed, he thought the boy was going to do something terrible to himself, or to her: he wondered whether he should break character and call for help, but that was strictly forbidden. But it was all right, the boy just wanted to carve their initials into the bark, and Steve felt relieved—right up to the point that he remembered the bark was him. “What happened to you?” said Cheryl that night, and he told her the whole story, and they had a good laugh about it. “And what’s that around the initials, is that supposed to be a heart?” Steve supposed that it was. Cheryl said, “Oh dear!” and laughed again, and wondered whether it could all be removed by laser surgery. And Steve pointed out that it wasn’t a tattoo, that wasn’t the way it worked. “Oh dear!” laughed Cheryl. And then, “But what a romantic gesture.” And Steve hit upon an idea, and he told Cheryl that she should carve their names into his bark. “No,” said Cheryl. “. . . Do you really think I should? Won’t it hurt?” Steve said it wouldn’t much, and she said he was being brave, and he said he wasn’t really, and she said, no, she liked it when he was brave. “Okay,” said Cheryl, and grinned, and looked so excited, and went to fetch a knife. “Whereabouts should I do it?” And Steve told her that she should carve her heart higher than the teenagers’ heart—this was proper love they felt, not some school crush. Their heart should take precedence. “Here goes,” she said, and began to chip out a heart: high up like he’d said, just below his throat. Cut deep, Steve said, unless she wanted the bark to grow over. So she cut deep. And she cut an arrow through the centre of the heart, and then carved their names either side. Their full names, not just their initials, if it was worth doing it was worth doing properly, and Steve was secretly relieved his name only had five letters. Then she laughed at her handiwork, and Steve couldn’t see properly, so had to go and take a look for himself in the mirror, and he laughed too, and said she’d done a great job. And then they kissed. And then Cheryl cleaned the knife of the sap and the little smear of blood.
Pretty soon Steve stopped taking his scheduled breaks at eleven o’clock. He preferred to work through, he didn’t want to break his rhythm. For a while he was still obliged to take the one at half past four, because by then he’d be bursting for a pee—but he then learned that with just a little concentration he could convert all his waste matter into chlorophyll and pump it out into his foliage. It wasn’t necessarily textbook stuff, but hey, it worked. In the van to and from work he didn’t talk much to the other trees, and they didn’t talk much to him; he couldn’t tell whether they just wanted to maintain their focus as he did, or just didn’t like him. And he honestly didn’t care either way. One day the supervisor came to Steve and told him that he’d noticed his common or garden sycamore was now showing signs of becoming a variegated sycamore; Steve wasn’t sure whether this was a good thing or not, but the supervisor said that the extra effort was appreciated, and gave him a friendly slap on his trunk. And only a few days after that, the supervisor asked Steve if he could have a private word with him away from all the other trees. He asked Steve if he fancied being an oak. “One of the oaks in St. James’s Park has gone sick. Don’t know what, some sort of fungus, doesn’t matter. Would you be my new oak?” Steve was surprised and flattered and just a bit scared; he wasn’t sure he had what it took, to be an oak was every sycamore’s dream. “You’ve got what it takes,” said the supervisor. “I don’t want you, you know, to get above yourself. But I’ll tell you, you’re the most promising oak I’ve seen in years.”
After his shift Steve went home and told his family the news. Ben didn’t say much, he never said much anymore. “Will there be any extra money?” asked Cheryl. Steve said he didn’t know. He’d only be a probationary oak after all, they couldn’t expect much. But that was hardly the point. He’d be in St. James’s Park! That was just an acorn’s throw from Buckingham Palace itself, some days the Queen would look out of her window, and guess what she’d be looking at, Ben? She’d be looking at his daddy! What did Ben think of that? Ben very politely asked if he could be excused from the dinner table, he had homework to do. Steve expressed surprise that Ben was doing homework—he was too young, surely? Cheryl said, “He’s been doing homework for weeks now. I don’t think you remember. I don’t think you listen.” She washed up in silence for a while. And then Steve told her that he was even being allowed to choose which oak he wanted to be, there were so many different types of oak, you know. They trusted him with that decision all by himself. He thought he might go for a sessile oak, partly because he admired the way that its acorns weren’t carried on stalks but directly on the outer twigs, and partly because he just liked the name. Cheryl coolly said that it sounded like he’d already reached his decision, and Steve said, no, no, he’d welcome her input, she’d every right to help choose what sort of oak tree her husband was going to be. She banged the plates down in the sink and left the kitchen.
The other oaks were set in their ways and standoffish. Sod them, Steve thought, and put his efforts into being the best sessile oak he could. He liked the park; he sheltered a better quality of picnicker there. He loved all the tourists, and all their different accents, and that they were always so excited by everything, and took photos all the time, and he liked to imagine they’d flown all around the world from their own countries just to visit him, they were there to see him. He knew it wasn’t true, not necessarily, but it sent a warmth of pride from the tips of his upper branches right down to the furthest ends of his roots. And in the evenings at home he’d study, he’d pore over gardening books and encyclopaedias and the latest academic dissertations about oak care theory. Just so he could be expert. Daddy was doing his homework whilst Ben was doing his!—and he’d tell Ben that, and he thought Ben would find that amusing, he couldn’t quite be sure. He’d
explain to Ben why the oak was the best tree in the world. There was a reason it had been adopted as a national emblem in England and France and Germany and the USA and Poland and Latvia and Estonia. And he’d tell Cheryl that after that time of unemployment all he’d wanted was to be a normal man again. But he now believed he was actually good at this, special, she was living with a man that was special. He loved his afternoons now, they were long and rich and full of sunshine and birdsong . . . “Don’t you care,” asked Cheryl, “that your own son is scared of you? He’s scared of you. Doesn’t that bother you at all?” That pulled Steve up short. He’d never hurt Ben, he never would, he loved Ben, this was all for Ben, for them both, he loved them both. “He doesn’t know what you are anymore. He thinks you’re a monster.” With all his talk of trees, that’s all Steve would talk about anymore, just bloody trees—and Steve didn’t raise his voice, he pointed out to Cheryl as gently as he could that he was a bloody tree, what did she bloody expect? “We came to see you this afternoon,” said Cheryl. “Ben wanted to see where his daddy worked. We came to see you in the park.” Silence. “You didn’t even know he was there.”
They Do the Same Things Different There Page 23