The continuing story of Malcolm Brown and his transition from art student to arb expert on the local parks department.

IT was early autumn and Malcolm strolled through the sun-dappled paths of Hambridge Cemetery, gazing up at the trees. He was looking for signs of sickness, bare branches or trees dropping their leaves early, any problems that might provide work over the winter period. He’d already spotted several likely candidates, a beech with a severe fungal infection and a couple of old mountain ash with a sparse-looking canopy and clusters of dead branches. He also noticed a few large rotten branches on trees that looked like they would come down sooner rather than later.

Those would need sorting in the next few days.

Passing the rotting trunk of a long dead tree, rising, totem-like out of a bed of brambles, he reflected on how times had changed. When visiting as a child the graveyard had been trimmed and neat, with well-edged paths and tidy shrub beds.

Now the area was left to grow wild and the shrubberies were overgrown and encroaching on the lank and unedged grass. This move to “light touch” maintenance was a deliberate policy, ostensibly to increase “bio-diversity”. Notices to this effect had been erected around the wilder areas with colourful pictures of the wildlife one might spot. In this case mainly grey squirrels. In reality it was less about the council’s concern for the planet than a way of justifying its reduced staffing levels to the general public.

At least the squirrels liked it, Malcolm thought, as a pack of asthmatic fur balls waddled towards him. There was no getting away from it – the squirrels of Hambridge Cemetery were fat, fed daily by an army of regular dog walkers.

WANT MORE TREE GANG? 

Some were familiar to Malcolm, the dog walkers not the squirrels, and he gave a cheery hello to those he passed. Early walkers tended to be young workers, taking their pooches for a hurried sprint before they had to dash off to the office. Then it was the parents and schoolkids, and after them, as the morning quietened down, the pensioners. Of the regulars was a smart old gentleman with a handle-bar moustache, who always carried a backpack. He came at the same time every morning dragging a wheezing black Labrador. A little after him came a sweet blue rinse lady in her late fifties accompanied by a decrepit schnauzer. A very refined-looking woman, always immaculately dressed.

Malcolm spotted several trees with particularly worrisome branches and headed back to his team, whom he’d left raising the canopy of street trees on the road outside. A task made nigh-on impossible by rush hour traffic. Taking down dead branches in the cemetery would make a relaxing change, he thought.

They pulled up by the central chapel just as the first round of dog walkers arrived.

Before the engine had cooled, Spudda was off like a greyhound from the slips. “Come on lads, we’re burning daylight,” he cried hauling the ladder off the van.

“Wait up, Spud. Put the damn cones out first.” 

Malcolm leapt after him and dodged around a party of schoolkids as they filed past the van.

Spudda’s enthusiasm always raced ahead of any health and safety concerns, and Malcolm wasn’t keen on filling out accident forms this early in the day. Karl and new lad, Leon, hung back to finish off the obligatory pre-work cuppas. After all, the trees weren’t going anywhere.

Ten minutes later, with cones and signage all placed out, Leon joined Malcolm and Spudda in rigging the ladder against a large horse chestnut. All this activity alerted the squirrels who gathered around with curious, hungry expressions in growing numbers.

“It’s like that film, the Birds, only with squirrels,” said Leon.

Malcolm looked about him. “Where’s Karl?”

“Eaten by squirrels?” ventured Leon.

Spudda supplied the truth. “Lurking in the van. He won’t come out.”

Annoyed, Malcolm strode over to the van, scattering hungry rodents from his path.

“What’s up, Karl?”

“I’ll not get out with those bloody maniacs waiting to pounce.” With a suspicion bordering on fear, he pointed to the squirrel hopping beside me.

I shooed it away. “Good grief, Karl. They’re only squirrels.”

“Only squirrels? You don’t know the half of it.” 

Karl proceeded to tell a sorry tale about how he had been sitting on a bench one lunchtime when a squirrel had approached him. “It looked cute with its little black eyes and twitchy nose so I threw it some peanuts. It ate them up then hopped up on to the bench beside me.”

Malcolm climbed into the van as Karl continued. “It looked at me longingly with big sad eyes but I said, no Mr Squirrel, no more nuts for you and put my hand over the packet. Then the little beast grabbed my finger, looked me in the eye and sank its bloody teeth into me.”

Malcolm stifled a laugh but movement outside caused him to glance up. An inquisitive squirrel was peering in through the windscreen.

“See what I mean,” said Karl, shrinking back from it.

Malcolm rapped on the window and it scuttled off. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t show them you’re afraid.”

“Easy for you to say,” muttered Karl.

Once the tale of Karl’s savaging got out so did the jokes.

“You should get a jockstrap,” Leon joked. “That’ll stop the buggers going for your nuts.”

Spudda chimed in. “I can sell you one if you like. I know this bloke on the car boot circuit who flogs cricket stuff.”

“It’s not funny,” said Karl, edging about the squirrels as nervous as Indiana Jones in a snake pit.

By now the pensioner walkers were starting to arrive. Malcolm shared a round of good mornings with the blue rinse lady and the moustache man, then shattered the quiet morning by firing up the chainsaw.
Soon chainsaw and chipper were going full tilt and Malcolm was enjoying himself.

This was far easier than dodging traffic on the main road, though the Victorian gravestones proved something of an obstacle. Huge crosses and broken-winged angels stood beneath nearly all the trees with many graves being consumed by the expanding shrubberies.

Malcolm found himself hacking his way through tangled laurel and rhododendron to get at one self-setter ash with a particularly dodgy branch hanging like a sword of Damocles over the main path. At ten o’clock they took a break and as soon as there was a lull in proceedings the squirrels came out.

“Shoo!” cried Karl, drawing up his feet as he sat on a gravestone. The portly creature waddling towards him paid no heed.

He tried throwing acorns but stopped when it only attracted more squirrels.

“We ought to train one,” said Leon as Karl backed away.

The pack crept ominously closer in a series of short hops.

“I’ll bet we could get them to do tricks,” suggested Spudda.

“Don’t encourage them.” Karl eyed the nearest squirrel warily.

“Juggling. On a little unicycle,” mused Leon.

“You won’t get that on a unicycle,” Malcolm pointed to a barrel-shaped squirrel as it munched on a piece of discarded apple. “Perhaps a small invalidity scooter?”

“With a shopping basket for its nuts,” Leon laughed.

“I thought there were foxes here. Don’t they eat the squirrels?” asked Karl.

Malcolm shrugged. “Why bother? They get fed as well. A woman comes and throws dog food about in the evening. Less effort than chasing a squirrel.”

Leon nodded. “This place is not so much a cemetery as a fast-food takeaway for wildlife.”

Break over, Malcolm prepared to de-rig the tree with Leon and Karl, while Spudda dashed off to the toilet, aka a large overgrown shrubbery a few yards away.

He returned quicker than expected in a flush of excitement. “Lads, you’ve gotta come see this.”

Overcome with curiosity, Malcolm, Leon and Karl downed tools and followed Spudda into the mass of rhododendrons. Passing through into the dark interior Malcolm was puzzled to notice two familiar old dogs sitting quietly in the sun by the tombs.

Inside, all was revealed and the lads couldn’t believe their eyes. On a cleared patch beneath some of the larger shrubs a picnic blanket had been laid out. On it, clothed but in an obvious amorous embrace, were the old gentleman and his blue rinse lady friend. Next to them was a bottle of French wine and two glasses.

The pair looked up and saw the four surprised faces staring at them.

The old woman hid her face in embarrassment but the old man frowned. “I say, would you chaps mind buggering off. We’re having a moment here.”

Muttering their apologies Malcolm and the lads retreated out from the shrubbery and slunk away.

Forestry Journal:

The squirrels were forgotten as conversation around the old couple filled the rest of the morning. Were they having an affair? How long had it been going on? Malcolm had seen them around for at least three years but never imagined them together.

Not long after, the woman appeared from the bushes, gathered her dog and hurried off along the path as if nothing were amiss. Soon after, the old gentleman emerged, brushed himself down and, taking his dog, set off in the opposite direction. As he passed the team, Malcolm thought his clipped “morning” seemed a little briefer than usual and he didn’t smile or make eye contact.

“Have a good rest of the day,” called Spudda, who had no filter when it came to social interaction.

"Who’d have thought it?” said Karl.

“At least we know what’s in his backpack now,” Leon smiled and glanced at Karl.

“There’s hope for you yet, old man.”

“Hey! I’m not that old,” Karl replied with a frown, but Leon wasn’t listening.

“Look!” he pointed to the little army of squirrels scampering in and out of the open van window.

One of them paused to look back, a bag of cashews in its teeth.

“The little tree rat’s got my nuts!” Leon cried and sprinted towards the van as the squirrels scattered into the wilderness of the cemetery.

“I’ll sort out that jockstrap for you,” shouted Spudda, as Karl doubled up with laughter.