Brendon Chase

by B. B.

  ‘That’s all right – I’ll be around.’

  ‘Your name’s John Hensman, isn’t it?’

  A pause.

  ‘Yes … I suppose that means it’s all up with us now. Now you’ve found us, you’ll split on us.’

  ‘Where are your brothers, John?’ said the doctor, ignoring the question.

  ‘Somewhere out there,’ said Big John, nodding vaguely at the door, ‘away in the Chase. You’ll never catch ’em. You’ve caught me because I can’t do a bunk now; I’ve got to look after Smokoe. He’s been a grand friend to us, one of the best.’

  Doctor Bowers laughed quietly, his eyes roving over the tattered grimy object before him. ‘You’ve set me a problem, you know,’ he said, after a pause, and the twinkle vanished from his eyes. ‘I ought to split on you. What made you run off like this?’

  ‘Our people are abroad and Aunt Ellen doesn’t understand us. She’s a good sort in her way but we got fed up always being bossed by women. So when Little Jo – Harold I mean – went down with measles, and we couldn’t go back to school, we decided to run for it.’

  ‘And how long do you think you’re going on with this madcap scheme?’

  ‘Until Father and Mother come home after Christmas.’

  ‘Um … I see … what will they say when they get back and hear all about it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Big John glumly, ‘’spect there’ll be no end of a row.’

  The doctor lit a cigarette and began packing some bandages into his bag. Big John sat on the edge of Smokoe’s bed and watched him. ‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ said Doctor Bowers. ‘Give him something hot to drink if he wants it and I’ll leave some brandy with you. And don’t worry about me splitting on you. I’m the oyster, understand?’

  Big John gulped and nodded his head. ‘You’ve done a good job of work tonight, John; I’ll find my way back to the road somehow, don’t bother,’ said Doctor Bowers as Big John got to his feet. He moved to the door.

  ‘Doctor Bowers!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s something … there’s something I wanted to ask you …’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ Doctor Bowers looked at the grimy outlaw with a puzzled half-amused expression.

  ‘I wonder whether you’d give this badger skin to Angela, from me; I was going to bring it anyway – I got it for her. It’ll need dressing properly and all that.’

  For a second the doctor was taken aback. ‘Oh, so you know my Angela, do you?’

  ‘Yes. I met her at the Bramshotts’ dance last year and … and … well I wrecked her birthday picnic in the summer. You see, we were rather hungry and we sneaked the grub out of the picnic basket and bagged her birthday cake. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it was her birthday treat.’ Big John looked at the floor and wished it would open and swallow him up.

  Doctor Bowers came over to him. ‘That’s all right, John … yes, I’ll give her the skin. Shall I give her a message with it?’

  ‘No, just give it her, tell her I sent it.’

  ‘Um – d’you think that’s wise, John?’ asked the doctor, after a moment’s pause. ‘Won’t it give the show away? It’ll put me in an awkward position if I’m asked where you are. I should have to tell. No woman can keep a secret, as you’ll find out one day for yourself. They aren’t made like us, old man; they just can’t keep a secret, poor dears. If Angela once knew where you boys were hiding the whole thing would come out. Supposing I just say a wild man of the woods sent it her, how would that do – eh?’

  Big John nodded. The next moment the door shut softly and he was alone with Smokoe Joe.

  18. The Trees

  ‘Blame me, masters, but it wur a narrer squeak ole Smokoe ’ad.’ Smokoe held up a mouse which he had caught that morning behind the stove and tossed it to the owl. It caught it deftly in its beak and huddled into the corner to eat it. ‘I wur just a-cummin’ back along the ridin’ when wham! Down come a branch – near ’arf a tree – and dunts me on the leg. Knocked me over like a rabbut, wham! Like that!’ Smokoe clapped his hand on his knee and his huge nose wobbled.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ asked Robin.

  ‘No, never felt nuthin’ till I gets up, didn’t even know I wur ’urt. Then I sees the blood; bleedin’ like a pig I was, ole feller like me, huh!’ he laughed.

  ‘What did you do then, Smokoe?’

  ‘Tries to swab it, that weren’t no good; tries to stop it wi’ me ’and, that weren’t no good neither. Then I thinks, Smokoe me boy, ef you doan’t get back to the shack afore very long, you’ll be growin’ stooltoads.’

  The boys laughed.

  ‘I gets back, but on’y just. Gets to the bed an’ then I doan’t know nuthin’ more till I wakes up next mornin’ wi’ doctor there an’ all. Don’t know where I’d bin all that time. But it’s you, young master, wot saved old Smokoe. Smokoe won’t ferget that neither; no, Smokoe won’t ferget!’

  Big John grinned. ‘Oh rot, Smokoe, it was the only thing to do.’

  The boys were sitting round the deal table in Smokoe’s shack. A fortnight had passed since the accident. Outside the fog was thick, so thick that the trees on the other side of the clearing were invisible; a world of white opaqueness which smelt like a tube tunnel, a dank, rather thrilling wild smell. Doctor Bowers had thought that Smokoe would be better in hospital and two days after the accident he had fetched him away.

  Smokoe had spent an agonizing eternity in a hospital cot. He had been washed all over for the first time since he was a boy, and he objected strongly to the indignity. ‘I tells them nurses they oughter to ashamed o’ theirselves washin’ an’ ole feller like me, as ef I wur a babby; told them straight I did … blame me! They said they could cure me nose fer me, cut it off or summat, but I’d about ’ad enough o’ orspitals.’

  ‘Never mind, Smokoe; you’re back again now, and next time, don’t go wandering about in the forest when it’s blowing a gale. It’s a lesson for you!’

  ‘Ah, this ole forest is queer, you know, very queer.’ Smokoe shook his huge nose again and his eyes glittered. ‘I must ’ave done summat the trees didn’t like fer them to serve me one like that. Don’t know wot I’d done but I’d done summat.

  ‘Livin’ wi’ trees you gets to know ’em, different from other folks. Trees be people, I sometimes think. They can’t walk about, nor yet talk, but they breathe an’ eat like people, ah they do!’ The nose nodded up and down. ‘And they do talk in a manner o’ speakin’. Not like we do, o’ course, but they talks togedder, sometimes quiet-like, all of a whisper like courtin’ couples; next they’re shouting an’ cross, then agin they’ll yell blue murder and get into a ugly temper, same as they wur that other night. You get a gale o’ wind in summer when all the Chase be in full leaf. That’s the time they let go full blast, so you can’t ’ear yerself spik. Trees are allus more talkative-like in summer. They don’t so much whistle then as roar.

  ‘An’ look at ’em tonight,’ said Smokoe gazing through the window at one slender naked ash which was bowed and motionless in the fog, a flat, cutout tree, ‘quiet as mice, quieter. That’s when the trees be thinkin’, for they thinks a lot, do trees.’ Smokoe paused.

  ‘Go on, Smokoe,’ said Robin.

  ‘You notice ’em in the spring when they begin to stir an’ stretch theirselves. Why, I’ve ’eard ’em sighin’, same as ef they’d just waked up from a long slip. And ef you cut a tree, then, master, they’ll drop blood, fast an’ thick, same as me old peg did t’other night – not red o’ course, but clear, waterlike stuff. Aye, they’d bleed ter death I don’t doubt. Then o’ course, there’re trees an’ trees, as you might say. Some are shaller sort o’ trees, like timid wimmin. Look at larches, one liddle puff an’ over they goo, most o’ the firs be like that. They pretend ter be very gloomy an’ wise-like, same as me old owl, but they’re soon knocked over wi’ the snow or the wind. An’ birds don’t like the fir woods neither; no, masters, birds know a lot about trees. Blame me ef they don’t.
r />   ‘They won’t sing in a fir wood. Only the pigeons goo there, an’ all the rascally birds that don’t want ter be seen, the ’awks an’ jays, ’pies an’ the like. Foxes like ’em too. But gi’e me the oaks, masters, them’s the boys. Them’s the trees to talk. An’ their roots goo down an’ down, an’ they live us out. They’ll live yer chillun out, and their chillun too, fer hundreds o’ years. Aye, oaks see a lot o’ life, more’n a lot o’ grown folks do. Look at the old tree where you be camped in.’

  ‘How old would he be?’ asked Robin.

  ‘’Undreds o’ years, maybe, a thousand very like, we don’t know fer sure; though a Woods an’ Forests man, a government chap yer know, told me once they can tell ’ow old a tree is by the rings on the trunk. Course I knew that, afore ’e told me. But wot we don’t know is that when an oak be finished ’is growin’ ’e don’t grow no more rings, ’e just stands where ’e is like, and meditates, same as an old elephant. We don’t know ’ow long ’ee’s bin standin’ there thinkin’. Mebbe ’ee’s thinkin’ wot stuck up fellers we be, pretendin’ to know a lot more’n we do!

  ‘An’ then there’s the birch, the Lady Tree I calls ’er. I use ’em fer me charcoal quite a bit. They’re pretty critturs, pretty as a lass in their silver an’ black. But they ain’t like the oaks; no, masters, they ain’t like the oaks. Yer see, a tree’s like us. They got ter grow up from tiddy totties, an’ then they ’ave their prime. An oak be in ’is prime when ’ee’s a ’undred an’ fifty years old. They don’t grow an acorn even until they’re seventy year old. A good big oak’s worth anything up to six ’undred pund, but wot’s money to a tree! Then, when they gets old like me, they grows all over knobs an’ blobs, like me nose, only nobody wants to cut those off. An’ they gets pot-bellied an’ crabby, an’ then they drop things on ye, like that ole tree in the ride. Get spiteful I suppose, an’ irritable like. Oh ah, blame me! There’s a lot to larn about trees.’

  ‘D’you mind cutting a tree down, Smokoe?’ asked Little John.

  ‘Cuttin’ ’em down, oh, dunno … never thought about it much. Yes, p’raps I does. I’ll tell ye a story about a tree I knowed, an old oak ’ee was in the Chase ’ere, ef you’d like to ’ear it.’

  ‘Go ahead, Smokoe,’ said Robin, who was crouched forward with his elbows on the table, his sparkling eyes fixed on the old man’s face.

  ‘Well, when I wur a young man, an’ ’adn’t got this,’ he pointed to his nose, ‘I wur a fine upstandin’ chap an’ the strongest forester on the Duke’s estate.

  ‘The Duke then, the present man’s farder, ’e’d just cum inter the property, an’ ’e didn’t take much account o’ trees. One day ’ee cums up ter me, when I wur cuttin’ poles in Duke’s Acres. “Joe,” says ’ee, “Joe, we’re goin’ to cut the Acres down; I wants to plant some firs, they’re quick growin’ an’ makes money.”

  ‘“Yes, Yer Grace,” I says, course I ’ad to do as I wus told.

  ‘“Well,” says ’ee, “wot d’you think o’ that idea, Joe?”

  ‘“Well,” says I, “well, Yer Grace, o’ course they’re your trees, but it ’ud be a mighty shame to see ’em goo.”

  ‘“But a lot o’ them ain’t no good,” says ’ee, “look at that old feller over there, ’ee’s got a belly on ’im like an alderman an’ enough boils fer a …” well ’ee didn’t use a very perlite word. ’Ee was rough wi’ ’is tongue was His Grace.

  ‘“I don’t allow ’ee’s much good fer timber,” says I, “but ’ee’s a rare old stager, ’an ee’s got plenty o’ go in ’im yet.”

  ‘“That don’t matter,” ’e says, “’e’s got ter cum down, an’ a lot more as well, an’ we’ll make a start wi’ that old feller first.”

  ‘To cut a long story short, I ’ears the trees a talkin’ that night. An’ didn’t they roar! There was a fine old how d’you do! I don’t know wot they was saying, but it wasn’t very perlite. An’ when I drops asleep they was still at it, a-roarin’ like a lot o’ lions at feedin’ time.

  ‘An’ then I dreams a dream that night, which fair made me sweat in the bed. I dreams I stood under the old oak ’an all of a sudden ’e says to me, in a deep voice same as an old organ, “You tell ’Is Grace,” ’e says, deep and rough like mind, “you tell ’Is Grace that ef ’ee cuts us down we’ll cut ’im down,” an’ I feel all ’is big roots – like ’ausers they be, ye know – jump and shake under me as ef it was an earthquake. Well, I wakes up at that, in a fine old fright, an’ I ’ears them still a-talkin’ outside in the forest, but quieter like, more mutterin’, ef you understand me. An’ then, arter a bit, I gets asleep agin, and blame me, ef I don’t dream the same dream all over agin! Well, next mornin’ I was in such a state over this, that I thought I must goo up to the big ’ouse an’ warn ’Is Grace. But the head forester, ’ee meets me goin’ up, an’ asks wur I be bound for. I didn’t know wot to answer, an’ looks a bit foolish like, I dare say, an’ then I tells ’im straight out I was goin’ to ax His Grace not to cut down the Duke’s Acres.

  ‘“You get back to yer work me lad,” says ’ee, “or you’ll be lookin’ fer another job, an’ it won’t be on this estate. I don’t wanter see the Acres down any more’n you do, but you’ve’a forgot yer place me lad.” So I goes back ter me work, an’ a little later, up comes the boys wi’ the tackle and we set to on the biggun, cos that was ’Is Grace’s orders. An’ afore he cum down who should chance along but ’Is Grace ’imself to watch ’im felled.

  ‘I would’a gone up then to ’Is Grace, but the head forester wur there, a-talkin’ to ’im.

  ‘Well, the last billet wur druv ’ome, an’ then the old tree ’ee began to cry like a man, same as they do sumtimes afore they fall, an’ the Duke ’ee laffed an’ turned to a lot o’ fine ladies standin’ by an’ says, “They ole chap don’t like it, do ’ee?” an’ they all laffs too. An’ then, wop! Bang! Down cums the tree.

  ‘Now the Duke, ’ee wur standin’ a long way off, forty yards – more I dare say – but one lump of a branch ’ee fly straight fer ’im same as ef it wur a bee, and I sees His Grace goo down all o’ a ’eap, an’ the ladies too, like ninepins, only they was in a faint.

  ‘We all runs up but ’ee was a goner, slap on the temple! Blame me, but I was scared! I ain’t ever liked fellin’ a tree since. I allus talk to ’em quiet-like, afore I do, an’ pat ’em, an’ tells ’em that it ain’t my fault they gotter cum down.

  ‘Well, masters, that’s the story, an’ it’s a true one, as true as my name’s Smokoe Joe, blame me!’

  There was silence in the shack, only the kettle singing gently on the stove and the chirp of a cricket somewhere.

  ‘My, you’ve made me quite creepy,’ said Big John with a shiver, ‘you might have told us that yarn some other time; we’ve got to go back to the oak tonight!’

  Smokoe smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, my masters. The trees won’t touch you. I’ll bet that old oak you’re under is chucklin’ no end at the games you’ve bin up to, and mebbe ’ee’ll look arter you fer lookin’ arter me. They know I don’t want to ’arm ’em, an’ I wouldn’t ef I ’adn’t to make me livin’ ’ere.

  ‘But I still can’t think why they wanted to deal me that crack on me leg, ’less it is they don’t think I oughter let you stay around in the Chase.’

  Smokoe came to see the boys off from the door. The fog had come down thicker than ever, but by now the outlaws could find their way almost blindfold to the clearing.

  ‘They’re very solemn tonight, Smokoe,’ said Robin Hood, waving his arm towards the misty wall of forest.

  ‘Ah, quiet as lambs they be. Thinkin’, as I told you, or maybe just sleepin’.’

  A minute later the door of the shack shut to and Smokoe went back to his fire. He got out his pocketknife and began carving a block of wood, and the chips flew sideways on to the floor, making Gyp prick his ears and hold his head on one side.

  19. Robin Hood Goes Hunting

  Smokoe’s story of the oak made a great impression on th
e outlaws. They had now been long enough in the Chase to realize that there was indeed something about the trees which was strange; not exactly uncanny, that would have been too strong a word, but personal, in a sense, as though they were people.

  It was now the first week in December and most of the leaves had fallen, but the forest was just as beautiful; indeed Robin thought he had never seen it looking so lovely. It was easy, he thought, to understand why primitive people practised tree worship; he felt sometimes he could almost pray to the trees himself.

  But then, Robin was a strange boy in these matters. He felt things much more keenly and deeply than either of his brothers; he was more sensitive to beauty. Such people may suffer in the rough and tumble of ‘civilized’ life, but they also enjoy worthwhile things a great deal more than the unimaginative, so it may be said that one cancels the other out.

  All three boys were highly imaginative or they could never have lived in the wilds – and had so few dull moments – for so long. They were of the stuff which makes our best pioneers.

  Robin preferred to wander alone about the Chase, the rifle under his arm, not so much because he wished to kill things – they never shot animals or birds unless they were in need of meat or skins – but because it gave somehow an added excitement to his rambles.

  He would sometimes come upon some specially lovely tree, an oak, or a birch, and he would sit down and feast his eyes upon it, just as he would go to the Blind Pool to watch the water and the floating leaves. There was something about the birches which was extremely attractive – their white bark was the colour and texture of kid – sometimes there was a beautiful golden flush on the smooth trunks which felt so soft to the touch. The delicacy of the tapering twigs and branches was exquisite. He had something in him of the true Red Indian’s awe of nature. He would perhaps see a fine oak, still clothed in its dead garment of foliage – which was of that rich buff leather hue so characteristic of the tree in autumn – and he would sit and take in every detail of it. Or perhaps it was another oak which took his fancy, bare and gaunt with each little twig and branch naked to the winds. His eyes would begin at its sturdy rough base and dwell lovingly upon it, working up higher and higher, until he spied the very topmost twig of all, the ‘King Twig’ as Smokoe called it, and he would listen to the low hiss of the winter wind among the intricate network, which sang like wires in every passing gust. That sound of the wind in a tall bare tree often made his heart beat quicker. He would put his ear to the kindly grey trunk and hear that wild song much magnified; the whole tree would be pulsing, almost as though a heart beat there inside its rough body.