The Holm Oaks

by P. M. Hubbard

  She looked at me, this woman I loved so much, out of the appalling unplumbed depths of female unhappiness, and I stood before her, almost unable to meet her eye, a self-convicted philanderer. I said, ‘Don’t do this all at once. Don’t meet me for a bit, if it’s better not. But don’t shut the door all at once. Give me time to think, at least.’

  She said, ‘Oh Jake, Jake.’ She pulled me to her again, but would not kiss me. Then she turned and ran off through the wood. I went along the path, under the dark threshing trees, while the hard fact of an immeasurable, comfortless future slowly permeated my mind. I stopped, half turned round and went on again. I said, ‘You can’t, Carol, you can’t,’ aloud. But I did not for a moment believe she could not.

  When I got to the house, the car was gone and so was Elizabeth. I went into the empty kitchen and began to put on a kettle, mechanically, because it seemed the right thing to do at that time of day. Then I thought better of it and turned it off. I do not know how long it was before I heard the car coming back and went out to meet her. She must have left the car door open. I did not hear her shut it, and usually she slammed it fit to have the hinges off. She came running up the path towards me. Her whole face was aflame with excitement. She said, ‘Jake, I think we can stop him. I’ve been into Burtonbridge. But you’ve got to help me. You will, won’t you?’

  I said, ‘Of course I’ll help you,’ not minding, at that moment, whether they cut down all the oaks in England. ‘I’ve just put on a kettle. Let’s have some tea and then tell me what’s to be done.’

  She nodded and went straight through into the kitchen. I sat till she brought the tray, trying to convince myself of a world in which a call to action had any validity. I suppose she found that the kettle was not on and relit it, but she did not say anything. She knew something was up. She put the tray down, poured me out a cup, handed it to me and for a long covert moment looked at me. Then she said, ‘I’ve been to the County Council. I couldn’t see the man I wanted. One never can. But there was a good girl at Enquiries. They can issue a Tree Preservation Order, or something of the sort. Only we’ve got to move fast. It’s no good today. Will you come in tomorrow morning?’

  ‘All right. Do you know the man you want?’

  ‘A man called Absolam. But I expect he’s all right.’

  ‘He ought to be interested in oaks, anyway.’ My small joke took me by surprise, like a voice from a world I thought no longer existed. Elizabeth passed it over altogether. ‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I’d ring up first thing in the morning and make an appointment to see this Absolam. Otherwise he’ll be in committee or drinking coffee. He’s an official, I imagine, not a member?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. I mean part of the office staff.’

  ‘Good. Start with him, by all means. We’ll probably have to chase the local legislators later, but let’s get the facts from an official first.’

  I walked along the beach in the evening, going westwards into the wind and away from the wood. The sea bellowed on the stones at my left hand. The place would take some living in even if Carol had never existed. With her present but unavailable at the far end of the wood, it was immediately and demonstrably intolerable. I turned and came back with the wind behind me, moving quietly into a lethargy of despair. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I fell asleep as soon as I was in bed and slept through in one piece. This was no doubt nature applying balm to my hurt mind, but it did not, on balance, do me much good. I woke up unable to accept the reality I had grappled with the night before, and had to absorb it gradually all over again as the day took its course, and I had no expectation of seeing Carol on this or any other day.

  At breakfast Elizabeth said, ‘I rang up but couldn’t get a reply. Do you think it will be all right?’

  I looked at my watch. It was still not nine. ‘Good God,’ I said, ‘you don’t really think there’s going to be a girl on the switchboard, let alone Mr Absolam at his desk, by half past eight? Try after breakfast. There’ll be someone about then.’ We left, in fact, at about half past ten with an appointment to see Mr Absolam at a quarter past eleven. The journey could not possibly take us longer than twenty-five minutes and did not. We parked outside and looked hungrily at the seat of power. It was a new seat of power, built in pre-stressed Georgian among the pleasant surroundings of a rural county town that still had space to spare. It was no good roaming about outside and impolitic to go in before our time. I persuaded Elizabeth to drink coffee while Mr Absolam had his, and we turned up at the Enquiries window a minute before the quarter past.

  The girl was, as Elizabeth had said, good. She was a sharp visaged blonde with a quick mind and a husband somewhere in the background. She said, ‘Mrs Haddon?’ politely and smiled at me over Elizabeth’s shoulder. ‘Mr Absolam can see you at once. It’s about a Tree Preservation Order, isn’t it? I’ve told him. Will you come this way?’ We went down the corridors of power. The doors were enamelled pale green and neatly ticketed with names. It had none of the old-world charm of Whitehall. Mr Absolam’s room was small and full of plans. Mr Absolam himself was gigantic. He was shaggy, saturnine and educated-local in speech. He waved us to chairs, sat down again at his desk and said, ‘Well, now?’, rubbing his enormous hands together.

  Elizabeth looked at me, but I pretended not to notice. It was her hare. Let her chase it. I only reserved the right to head it if it looked like running completely wild. She said, ‘We live at Marlock, in a house called The Holt House right above the beach. There’s a wood of holm oaks in front of the house. It stretches along just above the beach. It’s quite a big wood.’ Mr Absolam raised one shaggy eyebrow. I said, ‘Nearly six acres, I’d say,’ and he lowered it again. Elizabeth said, ‘It’s owned by a Mr Wainwright now. It used to go with The Holt House, but the previous owner sold it to Mr Wainwright. He says he’s going to cut it down. It would be a crime, Mr Absolam. I-we wondered whether he could be stopped.’

  Mr Absolam nodded shaggily and heaved himself up to look at the survey map on the wall behind his desk. ‘Marlock?’ he said. ‘I don’t know—Oh yes, I see.’ He made a gentle hissing noise in his teeth and then said, ‘What does the wood consist of, Mrs Haddon? Holm oaks, you said. Anything else?’

  Elizabeth said, ‘I don’t think—’ and looked at me again.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It was clearly a piece of deliberate plantation. And right above the sea like that I suppose they didn’t want to try anything else. It needs thinning, but the trees are well-grown now, and generally speaking in very good condition. I’m not an expert, but I’m interested in trees. I shouldn’t say there could be any possible case for doing more than a bit of thinning. And the wood adds greatly to the character of the place.’

  Mr Absolam nodded. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he’d want a felling licence to start with. That’s a Forestry Commission job. Do you suppose he’s got one? Is he aiming to do the cutting himself, do you know?’

  ‘No,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s got in a contractor.’ She looked at me again.

  ‘Barrett and Son,’ I said. ‘In Castle Street.’

  He nodded again. ‘We know them,’ he said. ‘Well, as I say, first he is got to have a licence to cut more than a few hundred cubic foot of wood. That’s under the Forestry Act. Then if we put a Preservation Order on, he can’t fell at all. That’s a matter of amenity value under the Town and Country Planning Act. This looks a good case, but of course that’s for the Committee to decide.’

  I thought, ‘Now we’re coming to it.’ I said, ‘Which committee in fact?’

  ‘Well, the County Planning Committee makes the Order, subject to confirmation by the Minister.’

  ‘And what moves the County Planning Committee?’

  ‘Well, they’d act on a resolution of the Planning, Reference and General Purposes Committee. That’s a Sub-Committee of the Planning Committee, really.’

  ‘And what starts the Sub-Committee resolving?’

  ‘The P.R. and G.P. Committee? Well, they’d have a rec
ommendation from the Tree Preservation Sub-Committee.’

  ‘And how often do they meet?’

  ‘Them? Once a month. As a matter of fact, they had a meeting only three days ago.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘But—’ Mr Absolam shifted his dark face to her for a moment and then came back to me. I said, ‘Look, Mr Absolam. Your Tree Preservation Sub-Committee is due to meet in four weeks’ time. They recommend to another Committee, and when that meets it issues an Order which the Minister still has to confirm. That looks like Christmas if we’re lucky. Wainwright’s going to start felling the week after next. Aren’t there any emergency procedures?’

  ‘Ah. Soon as all that, is it? Well, we can do a bit in anticipation, if we have to. Get the Order out, and get the Minister to give provisional approval. But we’ve got to have the recommendation from the Tree Preservation Sub-Committee.’

  ‘And they don’t meet for another month.’

  ‘Well, not in the ordinary course, they don’t. But they could call an emergency meeting, I expect, if the facts were there. If I were you,’ he said, turning suddenly to Elizabeth, ‘I’d go and see Mr Greenslade. He’s Chairman. He’d know your wood, I expect. It’s his interest, you see. He knows most of the woodlands in the county. If he takes your view of the matter, he could get things moving all right. In the meantime, I don’t mind having a word with the Forestry Commission and telling them what’s going on. And if there’s no licence been issued, I expect they’d send someone out to have a word with this Mr Wainwright. Just to tell him the requirements, and so on. And then I don’t mind having a word with Jim Barrett. He wouldn’t want to have trouble over the job, I’m sure, and if we told him there was a Preservation Order on the way, I expect he’d hold things up a bit. But you want to go and see Mr Greenslade really.’

  ‘We’ll go,’ I said. ‘We’ll go now. But I still don’t see—Supposing Mr Greenslade is a hundred per cent on our side and sets everything in motion as fast as he can – how long will it be before you can get your Order provisionally confirmed?’

  Mr Absolam got up, darkening all the small room. ‘I reckon we could do it in a week,’ he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘I like my Mr Absolam,’ said Elizabeth. ‘He’s shaggy and comforting, like a very big dog. But what a game it is. All those committees, and in fact if you push them the thing can be fixed in a week.’

  ‘Not permanently fixed. All we’re asking for is a stand-still order, after all. I’ve no doubt the Act provides for objections to the Order and appeals to the Minister within thirty days and God knows what else. All we’re trying to do is to see that no trees are cut until the law has taken its course. It’s like an interim injunction from a civil court. You can get them quick enough if there’s a reasonable case and if the whole thing can be made nonsense of if the other side’s allowed to do what it wants in the meantime. But it doesn’t settle anything permanently.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘What happens if our damned Dennis says to hell with the Orders; I’m cutting anyhow? He’s in a mood to at the moment.’

  I stopped short on the synthetic marble floor of the entrance hall. ‘Damn,’ I said. ‘I forgot to ask about that. I think I’ll go back and have a word with Mr Absolam. But there’s one thing, Absolam’s evidently going to put the fear of God into Barretts’, and if they drag their feet, Dennis can’t do much. If he starts in with his little chopper, it will be an awful long time before he gets far into the wood. Unless he bark-rings them or something. He’s capable of it, but probably he wouldn’t think of it. Anyway, let me go and have another word with Absolam.’

  I put my head round the door. Mr Absolam flashed his teeth at me, but did not speak or get up. ‘I forgot to ask about sanctions,’ I said. ‘What about enforcement? What penalties are involved?’

  He pointed to a chair and I sat down. ‘That’s where we’re weak,’ he said. ‘If we make an Order and the owner goes on felling, all it costs him is a maximum fifty-pound fine with an additional two quid a day for as long as he goes on. Well, it can be ten quid a day later. But look at it – it’s pathetic. With modern tools, felling a wood is a matter of a few days, not weeks or months. The Authority says, “Don’t cut down those trees,” and the owner says, “Thanks, but I think I will. Here’s a hundred quid for the privilege of breaking the law.” And the felled trees are still his and may be worth a packet. The Act’s all right, but there’s no teeth in it. What saves us half the time is that people don’t know what’s involved. They see the Order and think there’s no arguing with it. They don’t look into it and see what’s involved. Lucky for us they don’t. This Mr Wainwright of yours – is he likely to be troublesome, do you think?’

  ‘Very troublesome indeed, I should say. Doesn’t like parting with money, but bloody-minded about the trees, all right.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, there’s two things. First, he can’t do it himself, and I think I can frighten Barretts’ off, for a bit, any how. More important, there’s the Forestry Act. That’s better off for penalties. If he exceeds his felling licence, or fells when a licence has been refused, he can be fined twice the value of the trees cut. Well – if this wood is what you say, that’s going to add up to quite a bit. Mind you, it’s still no good if the trees aren’t worth much and the owner has a profitable use for the land. But in this case, it ought to do, even if Mr Wainwright looks into what’s involved. And as I say, most of them don’t.’

  I nodded and got up. ‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘You’ll get on to the Forestry Commission, will you? We’ll go and see Mr Greenslade.’ He nodded and reached for his telephone. ‘I will,’ he said. I left him to it.

  Elizabeth was clacking up and down impatiently on the synthetic marble. She said, ‘Well, can they send him to jail?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. But they can fine him twice the value of the wood if he cuts it in defiance of their orders. And that’s going to be a pretty tidy sum. I can’t see our Dennis risking that, even if he considers defiance at all. He takes his money much too seriously.’

  She looked at me, slightly puzzled. ‘But he said he didn’t care about the money at all. He was having the trees down regardless. Don’t you think he means that? I must say, I believed him. Or did he say anything else after I’d gone?’

  I shook my head knowingly, while my mind flew round in a small, rapid circle and settled down again. ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I don’t see Dennis getting himself stuck in public. He might swallow a private loss to indulge his spite, but being hauled before the courts and fined a packet, virtually on our information, is another thing.’

  As we got into the car she said, ‘I hope you’re right. I don’t really see what he’s got to be spiteful about. To me, I mean.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain I’m right,’ I said. ‘Anyway, old Absolam’s going to scare off the contractors, for the time at least. I feel myself that the situation is in hand. But let’s find this Greenslade.’

  Mr Greenslade lived three miles out on the other side of Burtonbridge. After we had gone a mile and a half Elizabeth said, ‘She’s a funny woman, Mrs Wainwright.’ I made an exploratory noise, expecting her to go on, but she never did. When we got to the village, she said, ‘There’s the house. Leisure, he said. Sounds suburban. Golly, it is, too.’ I stopped. It certainly was. It looked almost incredibly out of place in that thatched, embowered countryside, as if some lunatic enthusiast had numbered each pink brick and reverently transported the thing, bit by bit, from its original site in Kenton or Harrow Weald. I had expected Mr Greenslade to be a sort of green man, who would have bark on his knuckles and would need, once a month, not so much a haircut as pruning. This must have been the name and his known interest in woodlands. He could hardly have been more different. He had probably built the house himself because it was the kind of house he liked and was used to. He was smallish and bright pink and point-device in his accoutrements. How long he had been settled here I did not know, but his speech was the terrible speech of the south Midlands. He
was sitting in a garden chair of striped canvas over steel tubes. Except for a small laburnum, there was not a tree in sight.

  I leant over the gate and said, ‘Mr Greenslade, they’re going to cut down the Marlock holt.’

  He got up slowly and came over to the gate. He said, ‘No, not really? The howlm owks? Tst, tst, that’s too bad. We can’t have that, can we?’ He opened the gate. ‘Come in, Mr—I don’t know your name.’ He nodded to Elizabeth, but made no attempt to include her in the conversation. ‘Who’s the owner now, then? Used to be a chap called Haddon, but there’s new people come. Who sent you to me – Absolam?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My name’s Haddon, as a matter of fact, but unfortunately I’m not the owner. The previous owner was my uncle. He left me the house but sold the wood before he died. The present owner’s a Mr Wainwright, who lives at the eastern end of the holt.’

  Elizabeth could not gaze up at Mr Greenslade, but she gazed down at him without losing any of the effect. She said, ‘Mr Greenslade, please, you can’t let him do it. It would be so wicked. And there’s no need. He’s only doing it out of spite.’ She nicked her eyes sideways at me. ‘We none of us want the wood destroyed. Even his wife doesn’t want it. Mr Absolam said your Committee could stop it. Only there’s very little time.’

  ‘Doing it soon, is he? What about the Forestry Commission? Do they know?’