The Tree that Sat Down

by Beverley Nichols

  ‘From Russia!’ There was a great rustling and panting and squeaking and twittering from the animals; this was indeed exciting.

  ‘From Russia?’ repeated Mr Justice Owl. He blinked, very wisely, at Bruno. To tell the truth, Mr Justice Owl knew even less about Russia than Bruno, but he had no intention of betraying his ignorance. From the way he blinked, you would have said that he knew it inside out.

  ‘What part of Russia?’ he enquired.

  ‘The steppes,’ gasped Bruno.

  ‘The steps?’ echoed Mr Justice Owl. There was a rather sharp note in his voice. He wondered if Bruno was trying to make a fool of him. What did he mean – the steps? The doorsteps? The steps leading up to the attic? He was about to rebuke Bruno, when he stopped short, and a melancholy ‘Too-wit, too-woe’ echoed from his beak.

  For Bruno, exhausted by all he had gone through, had fallen into a dead faint.

  Chapter Seven

  BRUNO RECAPTURED

  AND NOW WE can go on with our story, which we left on a bright sunny morning when Bruno was lumbering through the wood on his way to The Shop in the Ford.

  Many years had passed since all the sad things which we have been recalling in the last two chapters, and today if you had seen Mr Bruno, you would have said that never in your life before had you met a bear so happy, so plump, and so prosperous; he had developed into one of the most respected citizens in the wood.

  ‘Top of the morning, Mr Bruno! … All the best, Mr Bruno! … My! Mr Bruno, you’re looking fine!’ Such were the cordial greetings that welcomed him, all along the way. Miss Fox gave an extra twitch to her brush when she saw him, and Mrs Hare gave a very gracious bow. And even Mr Peacock, who only spread his tail on very special occasions (except, of course, when he was by himself, standing by the edge of the lake watching his own reflection, which was so beautiful that sometimes he felt quite giddy and fell into the water), even Mr Peacock greeted Bruno by spreading his tail to its fullest extent.

  ‘My word, Mr Peacock,’ said Bruno. ‘I almost need my sunglasses to look at you, you’re so bright!’

  And indeed, standing there all spread out in the sunlight, Mr Peacock was like a regular display of fireworks.

  ‘You are going to The Shop in the Ford?’ enquired Mr Peacock.

  Mr Bruno nodded.

  ‘They will be honoured by your patronage.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so. Coming along too?’

  Mr Peacock shook his head. If he went along with Bruno he would have to shut up his tail again, for he could only walk very slowly when it was open. And now that it was open, he simply could not bring himself to shut it. It felt so beautiful; it seemed to tingle all over; he could feel all the emeralds and the opals and the turquoises sparkling and shimmering in the air around him, and sending delicious tremors down his spine. No, it would really be a sin to shut it all up; and in a moment he would go down to the lake and look at himself, and go on looking and looking and looking; and he only hoped that this time he would not fall in.

  So Mr Peacock shook his head to Bruno’s invitation. ‘I regret,’ he said, ‘that I have a previous appointment.’ Which in a way was true, because after all there is no reason why one should not make an appointment with oneself. ‘But,’ he added, ‘do not let me delay you. It is an Interesting Establishment.’ His tail quivered all over when he pronounced these long words. ‘They sell Something of Everything. In fact …’ and here he lowered his voice, as if he was very important indeed, ‘I should not be surprised if they sold Something Russian.’

  ‘Something Russian?’ There was a sudden note of anxiety in Mr Bruno’s voice, and his tail gave a nervous twitch. Then he smiled again. After all, what had he got to fear? It was all so long ago. ‘Something Russian?’ he repeated. ‘That would be a pleasant surprise!’

  And with a wave of his paw, he went on his way.

  Poor Bruno! If he had only known!

  *

  And now – we can conceal it no longer – we must confess that Bruno, in the last few years, had been telling the animals a very big untruth. He had been telling them that he could speak Russian, whereas of course he did not know a single word, not even the word DA, which is the Russian for ‘Yes’, and a very nice word too.

  Mind you, we are not blaming Bruno, at least not very much. It was not as though he were doing anybody harm. If ever a bear had an excuse for telling an Untruth, he had, after all that he had been through.

  Besides, as the years had gone by, he had almost come to believe that he could speak Russian. For instance, when he was dozing in the sun, with a half-eaten honeycomb by his side, he would say to himself, ‘I have just five minutes more Sleepsky before I go home to Mrs Brunovitch.’ And he would feel that he was speaking Russian. Which was not really quite the case. And then, when he fell asleep, he would dream of quantities of beautiful white staircases, with banisters made out of ice, which were lovely to slide down, and he was almost certain that he was dreaming of the Russian steppes. And that was not quite the case either, as we have all learnt in our geography classes.

  So obviously it would have been better if Bruno had not told his Untruth. However, it is too late to think of that now. The Untruth had been told and he was about to pay for it, to the bitter end.

  *

  Sam was sulky this morning … the morning that Bruno was approaching.

  In spite of all the money that he was making, he still wanted to make more. And though it was very gratifying to see how all the animals were thronging to the shop, he did not care for animals, indeed, he actually hated them … particularly the small, timid animals like Miss Field-mouse and old Mr Caterpillar. He was not at all like Judy, who would pay just as much attention to the humblest of the Beetle family as she would, let us say, to Mr Peacock himself.

  For the moment the shop was empty, and Sam was adding up the morning’s takings. They were quite a lot, but in his opinion they were not nearly enough. ‘At this rate,’ he said to Old Sam, ‘we shan’t be able to retire till Doomsday.’

  ‘But ain’t we doing well?’ queried Old Sam.

  Sam did not answer, but only spat on the ground contemptuously.

  ‘At any rate we made a nice profit out of them ants’ eggs,’ Old Sam reminded him.

  ‘Pshaw!’ muttered Sam. ‘What’s a few ants’ eggs? Chicken food!’

  ‘But I thought ants’ eggs was for goldfish?’

  Sam made a rude face. ‘You make me tired,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know what chicken food means?’

  ‘Scraps and potater peelings?’ suggested Old Sam.

  Sam made an even ruder face. ‘That’s what you are!’ he said. ‘Scraps and potater peelings. Scraps for legs and potater peelings for brains.’ Which is not at all the way in which little boys should speak to their grandfathers, particularly when their grandfathers are over three hundred years old, and look their age.

  ‘You get worse and worse,’ growled Old Sam.

  ‘You couldn’t!’ retorted Young Sam. ‘You was born worse. You couldn’t get any worser.’

  ‘That’s not grammar.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s sense.’

  And Sam, just to show his spite, gave an angry pinch to the rubber bulb of the motor horn, which was only a few inches from Old Sam’s ear, making the old man jump in the air as though a bee had stung him.

  ‘What this shop wants,’ said Sam, when his grandfather had ceased rubbing his ear, ‘is Class.’

  ‘What’s Class?’ demanded Old Sam, keeping a watchful eye on the motor horn.

  ‘Class is everything that you aren’t, you old buzzard. Class is dough. Class is front row in the stalls. Class is throwing a clean shirt into the laundry basket just because you can’t wear it twice.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of hooey to me.’

  ‘It is hooey. But it’s what we’ve got to have.’

  Old Sam scowled and scratched his ear.

  ‘What we want’s new blood,’ continued Sam. ‘A partner. Somebody all these dar
ned animals respect. Somebody who can sell ’em a lot of junk and make ’em believe it’s the real article. Somebody who …’

  Suddenly he stopped, right in the middle of his sentence. His eyes lit up and a wicked grin twisted his mouth.

  ‘Gee whiz!’ he muttered. ‘Here he comes!’

  For down the glade, happily ignorant of his fate, wandered Mr Bruno.

  *

  He was not alone. On one side of him was Miss Fox and on the other side was Mrs Hare. They had all met on the way, and had come along together.

  No meeting could have been more unfortunate. For hardly had they walked a few paces before Mrs Hare, like Mr Peacock, had said to Mr Bruno how nice it would be if he could find somebody in the shop who spoke Russian, and poor silly Mr Bruno, instead of changing the subject, had pretended that this was just what he wanted, and that he was only too eager to have the chance of speaking Russian again.

  They walked up to the counter. If Bruno could have seen the expression on Sam’s face at that moment, he would have turned and fled.

  For Sam had recognized him!

  Often, in the old days, he had sat in the circus and watched Bruno as he danced and plunged through hoops. When Bruno had escaped, Sam had been one of the hottest on his heels. ‘Oh, this is rich!’ thought Sam to himself. ‘This is the biggest stroke of luck I’ve ever had. I’ve got this Bruno, and I’m going to hang on to him.’

  However, for the moment he kept these thoughts to himself. Bruno was much too valuable a prize to be treated lightly; he would be much more use to Sam as a partner than as a slave, because he was one of the most important citizens in the wood.

  Sam came forward with a pleasant smile, and his manner was very respectful when he said: ‘Good morning, ladies, good morning, sir, and what can I do for you, this morning?’

  Mr Bruno really wanted to buy a sponge cake. But since Mrs Hare and Miss Fox were both expecting him to speak Russian, he thought he had better get it over, once and for all. It never entered his head for a moment that he was walking into a trap.

  And so it was with a jaunty smile that he stepped forward and demanded, ‘Do you speak Russian?’

  As he asked the question he looked proudly round at his two friends, as if to say, ‘See how clever I am!’

  ‘Of course I speak Russian,’ lied Sam, who could not speak a word.

  Mr Bruno blinked. He could hardly believe his ears. ‘You … you do?’

  ‘Like a native,’ said Sam, who was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  If Mr Bruno had been able to turn pale he would have gone as white as his uncle in the North Pole. What on earth was he to do? They were all looking at him. He must say something. So he muttered …

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘What did you say?’ demanded Sam.

  ‘I said so do I,’ repeated Bruno. He could not stop his voice from trembling. Mrs Hare was looking at him eagerly, waiting for him to begin. So was Miss Fox. What could he say? Then he had a sudden inspiration.

  ‘But not on Thursdays,’ he went on. ‘I never speak Russian on Thursdays. It … it gives me a pain.’

  There! that was a splendid idea. Nobody could expect him to speak Russian if it gave him a pain.

  ‘But today’s Wednesday,’ said Mrs Hare.

  ‘Yes,’ chimed in Miss Fox, ‘It’s completely Wednesday.’

  ‘It’s as Wednesday as it can be,’ agreed Mrs Hare. ‘So now you can speak Russian after all.’

  Bruno cursed the two ladies under his breath. Why did they want to come butting in?

  What could he say? He wanted a sponge cake; supposing he asked for a sponge cakeski? That sounded like Russian, but it mightn’t be Russian at all. Sponge cakeski might mean poison. Or it might mean blackbeetles. Or it might mean a cold in the head. And whatever would they think of him if he said he wanted to buy blackbeetles or a cold in the head? They would think him quite mad.

  They were still waiting. He began to feel desperate. He lifted his eyes, and looked at Sam, hoping that perhaps Sam might see his plight and take pity on him.

  And as his eyes met Sam’s his heart nearly stopped beating. For there was something in those eyes that reminded him of another pair of eyes that he had known long ago – the eyes of his keeper in the circus – staring at him with a cold hatred.

  ‘Well, Mr Bruno,’ said Sam, ‘I’m waiting.’

  Bruno shivered. How often had he heard those words before … ‘I’m waiting’ … snarled at him through the clenched teeth of his keeper, as he stood over him with a whip!

  ‘Oh please … just a few words …’ murmured Mrs Hare.

  ‘Such an education, it would be …’ pleaded Miss Fox.

  He must, he must. If he did not, he would never be able to face the animals again; he would be exposed as a sham and a fraud; he would have to leave the wood for ever.

  He took a deep breath and said:

  ‘Stavolinski.’

  It was the name of his old keeper. He dared not look at Sam as he said it, for he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Sam had already guessed his secret.

  ‘Stavolinski!’ echoed Mrs Hare. ‘Fancy that!’

  ‘Stavolinski!’ giggled Miss Fox. ‘What a funny word! Whatever does it mean?’

  Sam’s voice cut it. ‘We know what it means, don’t we, Mr Bruno?’ For he had recognized the keeper’s name.

  Bruno could only gulp and nod.

  ‘It means bright lights, doesn’t it, Mr Bruno? And big crowds, and brass bands.’

  ‘Gracious me!’ cried Mrs Hare. ‘To think that one word can mean so much!’

  ‘Oh, but it means a lot more than that, too,’ declared Sam. ‘It means lions and tigers and giants and dwarfs. And it means …’ His voice sank almost to a whisper, so that only Bruno could hear him … ‘It means a CAGE.’ As he said the word he burst out laughing, and he laughed so loud that Mrs Hare and Miss Fox both joined in.

  ‘I must be going,’ muttered Bruno, desperately. But somehow his feet would not move.

  ‘Oh no, Mr Bruno. I couldn’t hear of it.’ Sam leapt over the counter and seized his arm with an iron grip. ‘You and I’s going to be friends, Mr Bruno. More than friends. We’re going to be Partners.’

  ‘Well, well!’ cried Mrs Hare. ‘Whoever would have thought it?’

  ‘It’s a great honour for Mr Bruno,’ tittered Miss Fox.

  ‘That’s just what it is, an honour. Ain’t it, Mr Bruno?’

  And he gave Bruno’s arm a cruel pinch.

  Bruno was speechless. He could only hang his head.

  ‘And now, ladies,’ said Sam, ‘if you’ll excuse us, me and Mr Bruno’s got business to discuss. This way, Mr Bruno!’

  Very timidly, as though the whip was already poised above him, Bruno looked up. His eyes met Sam’s. As he saw their cruel glare, he knew that he was doomed; he had to obey.

  Slowly he shuffled off into the cave. And Sam followed him, with a final bow to the ladies who went on their way through the wood to spread the news.

  And there, for the time being, we must leave poor Bruno, crouching miserably in the cave, with Young Sam chuckling over him on one side and Old Sam wheezing over him on the other, and both of them prodding him in the ribs with their sharp fingers, while they told him all the wicked things that he would have to do for them unless he wanted to be sent back to the circus.

  Chapter Eight

  A PEACOCK SPREADS HIS TAIL

  MR PEACOCK WAS feeling very proud.

  As well he might, for it was the morning of the opening of the Beauty Parlour; and all over the wood there were notices pinned to the tree-trunks, announcing …

  Miss Judy’s Beauty Parlour

  All the Latest Methods

  Tails a Speciality

  Open Today

  The Opening Ceremony will be performed

  by

  MR PEACOCK

  In smaller letters underneath it was printed:

  Mrs Judy’s Surgery will Also be Opened today

  All t
he Oldest Remedies. Strictly Confidential

  ‘Well, really,’ said Mrs Peacock, who looked rather a dim little figure as she stood by the side of her magnificent husband reading the notice, ‘I’m sure it’s a great honour.’

  Mr Peacock turned his head to look at her.

  ‘An honour for whom?’

  Mrs Peacock had meant an honour for Mr Peacock, but she realized that as usual she had said the wrong thing. So she quickly added: ‘An honour for Miss Judy, of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He bowed. ‘It certainly is an honour for her. But it is an honour that I feel justified in granting in such a Cause.’ He drew himself up proudly, and swelled out his chest. ‘The Cause of Beauty.’ And as he said these words, his tail, which was carefully folded and shut up, began to quiver violently.

  ‘Oh dear,’ thought Mrs Peacock to herself, ‘he is going to Open. Far too soon. And his tail will get all creased and dusty … after all the trouble I have taken.’ For Mrs Peacock had been up half the night, ironing and brushing and polishing Mr Peacock’s tail, and when it was finished she had folded it with the greatest care and wrapped it up in tissue paper, begging him not to open it again till he mounted the platform to make his speech.

  ‘The Cause of Beauty!’ repeated Mr Peacock, his tail quivering more violently than ever, and little bits of gold and purple beginning to peep out from under the folds.

  Mrs Peacock could not bear it. ‘Were you’ … she ventured very timidly, ‘were you thinking of Opening already?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ snapped Mr Peacock. ‘Why?’

  ‘I only thought …’ she began, casting an anxious eye on his tail.

  ‘Then you should not think,’ he interrupted. All the same, he was glad that she had thought, for if she had not checked him, he would certainly have Opened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ breathed Mrs Peacock, noticing with relief that the tail was closing up again.

  Mr Peacock felt that he was not being quite fair. He gave her a playful peck. ‘That’s all right, my dear. It was my fault. To tell the truth I’m a little nervous about my speech.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Peacock! The idea of you being nervous! Why – the minute you Open, you’ll speak like an angel.’