Chances. Freya North
DeeDee would say, I want doesn’t get.
‘It’s a healthy tree, it’s a superb specimen and it is not affecting your house.’
‘Well, I’ll tell the council, I will. It’s their bloody thing. It’s on their land. I pay my council tax. They can cut it down. I’ll sue. That’s what.’
And Oliver thought, As soon as we’re back in the car, I’ll phone Martin in planning and I’ll tell him this tree mustn’t come down. That’ll save him a journey.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m photographing the tree,’ said Oliver. ‘I don’t give permission for you to take my picture.’
‘You’re not in the picture.’
‘Why are you photographing that tree? For the council? Yes! Show it to them. They’ll see what I mean.’
‘Not for the council – for my own archives. I’m photographing it because it’s stunning,’ said Oliver. ‘Goodbye, Mr Macintosh. There’s a hand car wash on the way to Asda.’
‘Are you not going to do anything today? Can’t you give it a trim?’
‘No, I can’t, I’m afraid. Paperwork.’
‘Good God! How long will that take?’
‘Difficult to tell,’ Oliver shrugged and walked back to his truck. He and Tinker sat and marvelled a little longer.
‘What a jerk,’ said Tinker.
‘It’s not just extraordinary trees you meet in this job,’ Oliver told him.
Back at the yard later that afternoon, ash branches cut, split and added to the pile of seasoned wood, the team shared tea and anecdotes. Oliver looked around. There was a little clearing up to do, a couple of calls to make, some paperwork.
‘Call it a day, chaps,’ said Oliver. ‘See you at eight tomorrow.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure – Jonty’s playing cricket so I’ll finish off here and then collect him. It’s a strange sight, moochiness and Goth-dark hair – in cricket whites.’
‘Is he good?’
‘He’s not bad at all.’
‘Cool. How’s he doing?’
‘He’s doing well, Boz – thanks for asking.’
‘Is he going to hang out here in the vacation? He was useful last time.’
‘I hope so – though he’ll probably want to renegotiate pay and working conditions.’
‘Good on him.’
‘Don’t put ideas in his head, Spike. Go on, all of you, off you go.’
‘Cheers, boss.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘Laters.’
Good God.
But Oliver smiled as they walked off. He could hear them chatting and they weren’t talking about beer and birds. They were talking about cherry trees and gifts.
‘I need to send home a present for my sis. Any ideas?’
‘Go online and do the whole Amazon dot com thing.’
‘Nah. She’s going to be ten. Requires something special.’
‘Gap? Topshop?’
‘I can’t go in there on my own.’
‘Twat.’
‘Cheers, mate.’
‘Try that shop in town? You know the one – That Shop? All the trinketty things in the window?’ Tinker was often teased for the way he made every sentence a question.
‘Oh yeah.’
‘We can go past that way – come on.’
* * *
To Vita, the three young men with a good day’s manual work written all over their tired faces, dusty boots and forearms, were far more incongruous customers than her notorious little old lady, currently rifling through the fruit-shaped scented soaps. When she started the business, Vita swore never to utter the four words sure to dampen the ardour of any unsure shopper, May I help you? She’d researched it – listening in other shops, trying it herself. May I help you? Nine times out of ten, four words sprang an automatic reply. No thanks, just looking. Vita, therefore, devised other techniques, discovering how casual asides worked best. She assessed the posse and tried to work out which one was buying. The tallest one, she reckoned, the one with the curly dark hair and the smudge of something or other on his neck. Yes, the other two appeared to be looking on his behalf while he stood still and scanned the wares as a whole. She put down her book as if it was high time she had a little tidy of the table with the notecards and scented lip balms. As she neared, one of them – the one with the closely cropped hair and goatee – picked up the linen-and-patchwork beanbag mouse.
‘Lovely for a baby,’ she mentioned as she passed by. ‘Organic cotton – and nothing that can be pulled off or swallowed.’
The lad looked at her, jiggled the mouse, put it back down. ‘Oh, it’s not for a baby?’ he said. ‘It’s for his kid sister?’
Aha!
‘How old is his kid sister?’ Vita asked.
‘Boz – she’s ten, isn’t she? Ten, ma’am?’
Vita, who’d never been called ma’am before, was suddenly quite taken with it. ‘Ten, hey? Ten-year-old girls have secrets – and they need places to hide them.’
The other two had gravitated towards her and their mate.
‘Well – I don’t sell secrets, I’m afraid,’ said Vita. They all laughed. ‘But I do have – these.’ She guided them towards the back of the shop, smiling sweetly at the old lady who was pocketing something. ‘Here.’
She showed them the balsa-wood boxes made to look like miniature wardrobes. Each had a drawer under a door, with a proper keyhole and brass key that was ornate and looked old. They were about the size of a shoebox, deceptively light, in paint washes that suggested they’d been found on a sand dune.
‘Yeah!’ said the brother of the birthday girl who she thought was called Bruiser or something. ‘That’ll hit the spot.’ Australian, Vita thought.
‘Ma’am?’ said the American or Canadian who’d first spoken to her. He was talking quietly but urgently. ‘That old woman? She’s – I think – well, she’s kinda taken something? I don’t know what. Would you like me to – you know?’
Vita brushed the air quickly. ‘No, no – she’s fine. I know her.’ She was much more interested in matchmaking a ten-year-old with a gift.
The three young men looked towards the door where the old lady was headed – and then earnestly back at Vita.
‘But she’s—?’
‘Please,’ Vita said, ‘it’s fine. Honestly. Now – about your sister?’
‘It’s awesome, miss,’ said the Bruiser brother. Vita thought she preferred miss to ma’am. ‘I’ll take it. The bluish one, I reckon. What do you think, Tink?’
‘If I was your sis? I’d think you were damn cool, Boz.’
‘Boz,’ said Vita, to herself but out loud.
‘Yeah?’
Vita reddened. ‘It’s just the male customers I usually have are mostly called Felix and Ted and Blaise – names like that. And they’re usually holding