The Tree that Sat Down

by Beverley Nichols

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ she murmured. Thank you, Mr Peacock. You are too kind!’

  As the beautiful perfume spread among them, a sigh of relief swept over the whole assembly. And the sigh of relief changed quickly to a series of delighted sniffs and snorts and grunts as all the animals flocked closer to Mrs Badger. What was it? What could it be? It was like nectar; it was like wine; it was like sunshine.

  ‘I must certainly have some of this,’ announced Mrs Hare, hurrying to the counter, and her movement was the signal for a general rush. Judy could hardly wrap up the bottles quickly enough. And as she handed them over she told them some of the things that had gone to make up the beautiful perfume – lilies of the valley, cut with silver scissors in the moonlight, and yellow roses, cut with golden scissors in the rain. But there were many other fragrances, of course, that could only be captured in a magic bottle – the sweet drift of wood-smoke, the faint tang of moss, the odour of new-mown hay.

  And so the meeting, which might have been such a disaster, ended as a triumphant success. Judy and her grannie were nearly run off their feet, selling things; all the animals were delighted; and Mr Peacock stalked about in a cloud of glory, the hero of the hour.

  But the happiest person of all was Mrs Badger. Till late that night she kept the whole family enthralled with the stories of her great adventure.

  ‘And nobody,’ she kept on saying, again and again, ‘nobody mentioned the subject of drains!’

  Chapter Nine

  QUEER CUSTOMERS

  BUT WOULD THEY be able to keep it up?

  As the days drew by, Judy began to wonder.

  The opening morning, of course, had shown a wonderful profit, but after that, things were strangely quiet. They sold one or two bottles of Fur Lotion, and a little more of the scent, that was all.

  ‘They’ll come back for more as soon as they find out how good it all is,’ said her grannie.

  ‘I hope so.’ But in her heart of hearts Judy was not at all certain. Perhaps it had been a mistake to try to sell beauty to the animals, perhaps they were beautiful enough already!

  ‘And anyway,’ added Mrs Judy, ‘there’s always the Surgery.’

  Judy had almost forgotten the Surgery; in the excitement of Mr Peacock’s speech, and all the to-do about Mrs Badger, the Surgery had been overlooked, although Mrs Judy had been constantly popping about in the background selling odd bottles of balm, and giving advice about sore tails.

  ‘Once they know what I can do for them they’re bound to come flocking along,’ continued Mrs Judy. ‘Why, I declare that here are some patients at this very moment!’

  Judy saw a strange trio approaching.

  Mrs Judy blinked, and fumbled for her spectacles.

  ‘Who are they, my dear? My sight’s not too good.’

  ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Chameleon,’ said Judy. ‘And … and someone else.’

  ‘What do you mean, someone else? Isn’t it their son?’

  ‘No, it can’t be. Because it’s bright pink.’

  Mrs Judy peered at the approaching animals. Now you all know about the chameleon family, how they always change colour according to their surroundings, how they are green when they are sitting on the grass, or brown if they are sitting on the earth. And there was no doubt that this was the chameleon family, for both Mr and Mrs Chameleon were bright green when they walked across the clearing, but as they crossed the little bridge over the stream they turned blue, and when they came into the shadow of the willow tree they were grey and green with little specks of yellow.

  But all the time, Master Chameleon remained a brilliant pink.

  ‘It is most extraordinary,’ said Judy. ‘Whatever can have happened to him?’

  ‘Whatever has happened,’ replied her grandmother, ‘we must cure him, because he is our first patient.’

  And she pulled her wig straight, and polished her spectacles and looked very wise.

  Mrs Chameleon came straight up to Mrs Judy.

  ‘We need hardly explain why we have come,’ she panted, for she was slightly out of breath. ‘He speaks for himself.’ And she glanced at her son, who stood there with down-cast eye, as pink as a raspberry ice-cream.

  ‘But that is exactly what he will not do,’ observed Mr Chameleon. ‘He will not speak at all. He refuses to explain how he got like this.’

  ‘Never, never in our family has such a thing happened before.’ Mrs Chameleon’s voice was trembling, and she wiped a tear away from her eye. ‘We have always been quiet, simple people who liked to keep ourselves in the background …’

  ‘And to fit in with our surroundings,’ chimed in Mr Chameleon. ‘To adapt ourselves, in fact.’

  ‘If we have a fault as a family,’ Mrs Chameleon continued, ‘it is that we are too modest, too afraid of striking out on our own. I have often thought that if my husband would only assert himself a little more …’

  ‘One moment!’ Mrs Judy held up her finger. ‘Before we go any further I must examine the patient.’

  Mr and Mrs Chameleon bowed their heads and waited.

  ‘And in order to do that I must take him into the Consulting Room.’

  Mrs Judy pointed to a thick bush of may, which grew only a few yards away. Mrs Chameleon stared at it, and blinked.

  ‘It looks to me just like a bush of may,’ she said.

  ‘It is a bush of may,’ retorted Mrs Judy. ‘But that’s no reason why it shouldn’t be a Consulting Room too, is it?’

  Mrs Chameleon blinked again. ‘No,’ she murmured, ‘I suppose it isn’t.’ But she felt very puzzled. She glanced at her husband, hoping that he would explain.

  Master Chameleon’s shrill voice suddenly demanded, ‘What is a Consulting Room, Daddy?’

  Mr Chameleon stared at him with great disapproval. ‘Little boys,’ he said, ‘should be seen and not heard.’

  ‘You will soon see,’ said Mrs Judy, stepping forward. ‘Come with me!’

  Master Chameleon looked at his father, then he looked at his mother, then he looked at Mrs Judy. And though she was smiling at him kindly, he was obviously very frightened, for he squeaked, ‘No!’ and drew back as though he wanted to run away.

  His father took him by the tail and gave it a sharp tweak. ‘It is not for you to say “No”. Do as you are told. Go with the lady.’

  Master Chameleon still held back. It was not till his father gave his tail another tweak that at last he shuffled off with Mrs Judy.

  The minutes passed very slowly when he had gone. Judy tried to make conversation, but the Chameleons were too worried to listen to what she was saying. Mrs Chameleon kept walking to and fro, shaking her head, and now and then she sat down on a big black rug which was lying on the grass. Each time she sat on it she went as black as soot.

  ‘Please do not sit on that rug, my love,’ said Mr Chameleon. ‘You look so very sad.’

  ‘I am sad.’

  ‘But there is no need to take such a black view of things. We are not in mourning … yet.’

  The word ‘mourning’ and all that it meant was too much for Mrs Chameleon. Tears sprang to her eyes; her mouth dropped; and heaven knows what a moaning and wailing there would have been in the wood if, at that very moment, there had not been a stirring behind the bush of may. Mrs Chameleon blinked, gulped, and then suddenly uttered a cry of delight. For suddenly Mrs Judy stepped from behind the bush, closely followed by Master Chameleon … and what a transformation it was! For there was not a single speck of pink left on him. He was green and brown and dappled, just like the shadows under the willow tree.

  ‘Look, Mummy … watch, Daddy!’ he cried happily. And he rushed backwards and forwards, out into the sunlight, where he turned as green as the grass, on to the little blue bridge where he changed to a perfect blue. Suddenly he saw Mrs Judy’s pink shawl which she had left out to dry. He took a flying leap at it and was again as pink as a raspberry ice.

  ‘No! No!’ cried Mrs Chameleon, ‘not on that … you may not be able to change back again!’
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  But hardly had she spoken before he had turned and jumped back on to the grass, where he turned green, and had run to his parents under the willow, where he was as dappled as they were themselves.

  It was a very happy ending.

  ‘I shall never forget this,’ said Mr Chameleon, when he had paid the bill (which was quite a large one). ‘There is only one thing I would ask … how did you do it?’

  Mrs Judy looked very wise and shook her head. ‘I am afraid that must be a secret. In any case, I am quite sure that it will not occur again.’

  With that the Chameleons had to be content, and they took their departure.

  ‘How did you do it?’ asked Judy, when they had gone.

  ‘Come and see.’

  Mrs Judy led the way to the Bargain Basement. She pointed to a rocky shelf on which all sorts of bottles of sweets and candies were displayed. In the centre was a bottle of bright pink sherbet – almost empty.

  ‘Last night,’ said Mrs Judy, ‘when I was shutting up, I found that somebody had been at the sherbet. The jar was lying on its side and a lot had been spilt on the ground. Of course I was very angry, and was just going to send for PC Monkey when I saw a little note lying on the ground. Here it is.’

  She handed Judy a piece of crumpled paper, on which a message was printed in a childish handwriting:

  YOU WAS OUT AND I COULD NOT WAIT. I AM VERY SORY TO HAVE SPILT THE SHERBET. THIS IS ALL THE MUNEY I HAVE.

  SIGNED

  MASTER C.

  ‘Lying beside the note,’ said Mrs Judy, ‘were two pennies. Of course it was not enough for all that he had taken, but it showed that he was not a thief. I tried to think who it could be, but “Master C” might have been so many people – Master Crow, or Master Calf, or Master Caterpillar or Master anybody. So I decided to say nothing and just to wait. Of course, when I saw Master Chameleon I guessed at once what had happened. It rained heavily last night, and he was covered with the bright pink sherbet and the colour came off on his skin.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I gave him a wash,’ said Mrs Judy. And then, with a smile … ‘And I gave him some more sherbet, too!’

  *

  But Master Chameleon was the only patient they had; it seemed as though all the animals had suddenly decided never to be ill again. Which was all very well in its way, but not very satisfactory when you are running a Surgery.

  To make matters worse, it was at about this time that they suddenly lost one of their best and oldest customers, Mrs Manx. Since there was afterwards a great deal of discussion among the animals about this affair, we must give the true facts of the case.

  It happened like this.

  Ever since she had listened to Mr Peacock’s speech, Mrs Manx had been restless and ill at ease, for Mrs Manx, as you know, belonged to that branch of the cat family whose members have no tails, and though she would never have admitted it in public, she felt her lack most bitterly. It had gone to her heart when Mr Peacock said, ‘Some are born with tails, some achieve tails, and some have tails pinned upon them.’

  She would never forget how all the animals had stared at her. As though she would ever pin on a tail! It would be most vulgar, apart from the fact that it would also be extremely painful.

  However, Mr Peacock’s words had put an idea into her head. Why should she not achieve a tail? Surely that would be quite a proper thing to do. To pin – certainly not: to achieve – a very different matter. The more she thought of it, the more she liked it. She would not tell Mr Manx about it, of course – not until it was actually achieved – for Mr Manx had absurd old-fashioned ideas about tails. But achieve it she would; and the obvious place to achieve it was at The Shop Under the Willow Tree. Was there not a notice there, in large letters, saying ‘Tails a Speciality’?

  And so one day Mrs Manx set out for the shop. She went at a time when there was no one about, because she did not want any of the other animals to see her.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Manx?’ asked Judy, when she arrived.

  Mrs Manx looked over her shoulder to see that they were not observed. Then she leant forward, and spoke in a very confidential voice:

  ‘It was about tails.’

  Judy looked surprised. ‘Tails? I should not have thought that tails would have interested you, Mrs Manx.’

  ‘Oh, but they interest me very much,’ protested Mrs Manx. ‘Very much indeed.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Judy, wondering what she was getting at.

  ‘After all,’ continued Mrs Manx, ‘tails are being worn.’

  ‘Not by your family,’ suggested Judy politely.

  ‘Maybe not,’ agreed Mrs Manx. ‘But I have often felt that my family was a little eccentric. A little lacking, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not lacking in manners, surely?’

  ‘Not in manners, no. But in … how shall I say? … In dash; in what I might perhaps describe as “finish”.’ And as she said the word ‘finish’ she twitched the back part of her body in a movement that struck Judy as so odd that she wanted to laugh. If Mrs Manx had possessed a tail, the movement would have been very grand and impressive. As it was, it only looked absurd.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ said Mrs Manx, guessing her thoughts. ‘One has nothing in reserve.’

  ‘I do see, in a way,’ agreed Judy.

  ‘I often feel that a tail is rather like a fan,’ went on Mrs Manx. ‘When one is at a loss, it fills in the gaps. When one can’t speak, one waves. That at least is how I see it. If one has no tail, one is stumped. In more senses than one.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘And so,’ she continued, ‘as I have decided to … to embark on this adventure, I thought I would do it properly. No half measures. It would look ridiculous, at my age, to make a sudden appearance with – let us say – the tail of a small stoat attached to my … well, attached behind.’

  ‘It would indeed.’

  ‘On the other hand, I do not want to look vulgar. I do not want to blossom out into ostrich feathers.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Judy, who was wondering how long she would be able to stop laughing.

  ‘I suppose the chief difficulty will be to make it look natural,’ continued Mrs Manx. ‘I do not wish for a tail that sticks up like a flag-pole all the time. I wish it to wave. But I do not wish it to wave so much that there is any danger of it waving off. That would be very humiliating.’ She sighed, and glanced behind her, to where her tail would have been if she had owned one. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I don’t want anything in the least showy … just a tail.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Just … a tail,’ repeated Mrs Manx. As she spoke, Judy seemed to hear something sad in her voice, something wistful, as though she had never known what it was to be happy in life.

  Judy still hesitated. She had a number of tails in stock, but they were all meant for fitting on to animals who had lost theirs in accidents. She felt that it would be unnatural and foolish to fit one on to Mrs Manx – you might as well fit wings on to a tortoise. And she was sure that all the other animals would jeer at her and make her sorry that she had wasted her money.

  ‘Well,’ she began. ‘I don’t know if it will be possible now.’

  ‘But I’m in a hurry. I want it today.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid that is quite out of the question,’ said Judy. ‘It may take weeks.’

  ‘Weeks? But when Mrs Persian had the top of her tail bitten off by that dreadful Mr Fox, you fitted a new top in half an hour.’

  ‘That was different,’ said Judy. ‘Mrs Persian had a very easy figure to fit.’

  ‘Really!’ Mrs Manx sounded quite indignant. ‘I suppose that means that I’ve got a very difficult figure.’

  ‘Not at all, but …’

  ‘Never in my life,’ continued Mrs Manx, her voice growing more and more shrill, ‘have I been told that my figure was difficult. I simply don’t know what you mean.’

  Judy tried to calm her down. ‘You
misunderstand me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean that there was anything wrong with your figure, I simply meant that it would be more difficult to fit a tail to it than to Mrs Persian’s because Mrs Persian has long hair and you have short.’

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ snorted Mrs Manx. ‘So now it’s my hair that’s wrong!’ She rose to her feet, and her stump twitched backwards and forwards so angrily that if she had been wearing a false tail it would certainly have fallen off. ‘I shall not stay to be insulted any more.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Manx, please don’t go!’ Judy felt very distressed and unhappy. The last thing she had wanted to do was to offend Mrs Manx, not only because she was an old customer but because she liked her so much for herself. However, it was in vain that she pleaded. Mrs Manx was already gathering up her belongings, muttering to herself, and giving angry little noises that sounded like gas escaping – a noise that you would write like ‘hhichchh’. When a cat says ‘hhichchh’ it is a very bad sign.

  At last she was ready to go. She looked Judy straight in the eyes and she spoke as follows:

  ‘I am very sorry that this has happened, Miss Judy. But you cannot expect me to continue to patronize your establishment any more.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Manx … after all these years!’

  ‘Quite. After all these years. That, in my opinion, only makes it worse. I come to your Beauty Parlour with a perfectly simple request. A tail. Just a tail. It is not much for a hard-working cat to ask.’ Here her voice trembled, as though she was trying not to cry. She went on: ‘If I had asked you to fit me a pair of horns, I should not have been surprised at your behaviour. Horns would be vulgar, expensive, and dangerous. I would not entertain the idea of wearing horns for a moment.’ She shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Nobody suggested that you should wear horns,’ began Judy.

  ‘So I hope that you will not suggest it now,’ retorted Mrs Manx, not very fairly. ‘Again,’ she continued, ‘if I had asked you to put diamonds on the ends of my claws or to give me luminous whiskers, I should have understood if you had protested. Luminous whiskers would be in very bad taste …’