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

“DID you know inner cities are a great place for wildlife?” Leon turned to look back between the front seats of the van, distracting Malcolm from his driving and blocking access to the gearstick.

“Wildlife? There’s plenty of that up Hanbridge on a Friday night,” laughed temporary worker Doug. “It’s like World War Three most weekends.” From the tone of his voice, Malcolm gathered he didn’t consider this a disadvantage.

One of several summer workers employed by the council, Doug was a big lad cut from the same mould as Spudda, prompting Malcolm to wonder if they’d been separated at birth. Doug, sporting a wild pink Mohican haircut, had all the finesse of a pitbull terrier, but was actually quite amiable – much like Spudda, in fact.

“I don’t mean that sort of wildlife. I meant foxes, badgers and such,” said Leon.

“I was bit by a badger once,” said Doug.

Leon gave him a disbelieving stare. “A badger? Seriously?”

“Well, his real name was Frank, but everyone called him Badger.”

“I heard he chased you halfway across town,” bellowed Spudda.

“He did not. I was running for a bus, that’s all.”

WANT MORE TREE GANG? 

“How did you upset him? Oi! You’ll have me on the tarmac in a minute,” Karl yelled, finding himself shoved up against the side door, as Doug and Spudda began wrestling.

“Cut that out,” yelled Malcolm, looking in the rearview mirror.

Leon passed Doug and Spudda a withering glare. “I’ll have you know there are more urban foxes per square mile in the city than out in the countryside.”

“How do you know?” asked Spudda.

“Quentin says so. He runs the urban wildlife course for Green Heart, a local action group.”

“Has he counted them?”

“How should I know? I’ve only been in it a week.”

“He might be making it up,” said Doug.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long summer at this rate. 

Since joining the team three weeks ago, Doug had fallen from a pair of ladders, tumbled off the back of the van, hit Karl with a brush (accidentally) and broken the chipper by mistaking a steel fence post for a branch. Nothing, it seemed, was beyond his capacity for carnage. He was worse than Spudda – and Spudda was his own accident black spot. 

They drew into the narrow dead-end road behind the civic offices, between the bland 1980s building and the multistorey car park. The area had been softened by shrubs and trees, which had become sorely neglected over the years.

“What we on?” asked Leon.

“That.” Malcolm pointed to a weed-killed wasteland containing three rather sorry-looking mountain ash trees. The beds contained little more than hardy self-setter sycamore and common ash, trimmed to look like shrubs. The official trees were pretty much dead. Shattered branches littered the ground and spilled out onto the road. Two of the trees were still just about standing, but one had keeled over and was leaning against the security fence. Malcolm’s heart sank as he peered through the rails to the culvert and the mass of decaying branches gathering debris in the brook. His team had a bad track record when it came to water.

First off, they tackled the trees still standing, Karl and Doug gathering rotten branches as Spudda shook the trunk. Being almost the constituency of paper, they shattered on impact. Then Leon took the team’s tripod ladder and started cutting down the ones still hanging on. 

“Mind out, Doug,” called Karl, as Doug ran about below the falling debris, oblivious to the branches bouncing off his back.

Once the branches had been removed, Malcolm started to reduce the trees further with the chainsaw, slicing through the trunk like a knife through butter. The logs were so decayed not even Spudda wanted them. Finally all that was left was the one in the drink.

“Back the truck up to the fence and I’ll climb over,” said Doug, with far too much enthusiasm.

Malcolm shook his head and gave a firm, “No! There must be an easier way. The last thing I want is to have to fill out another accident form.” 

Leaving the others to load the debris onto the van, Malcolm and Karl took a walk around the block to look for easier access. Luckily they found an inspection gate where a side road crossed the culvert. 

Karl gave Malcolm an expectant look. “Waders?”

“Waders.” Malcolm nodded. The brook ran deep, as litter gathered around the fallen tree had caused a blockage.

And so, after lunch, the team returned with waders, haulage bags and coils of rope. Malcolm, Karl and Spudda stayed on the car park side, to haul stuff up, while Leon and Doug waded downstream to take out the tree from the culvert side.

Leon stroked his chin and inspected the tangle. “Plenty of plastic bags and stuff. Doug, you load them into the haul bags while I cut back the branches.”

“And mind you don’t fall in,” called Malcolm. “I don’t want any more accidents.”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Doug.

In truth, Malcolm thought the narrow brook to be the safest place. At least Doug couldn’t spear himself on the railings.

As Leon and Doug cleared away the rubbish, the brook surged past with a rush and disappeared down a tunnel under the council buildings.

“Where does that go?” asked Doug.

“It joins up with the main river,” said Leon. “Where Green Heart are establishing a wetland habitat by the university.”

Doug wandered up to the tunnel entrance, where ivy, spilling over from the council grounds above, had created a green curtain.

“The only wildlife you’ll find in there is rats,” called Spudda.

Paying no attention, Doug stepped forward through the curtain and disappeared with a loud whoop. A moment later he reappeared splashing frantically. 

“Help,” he cried, having discovered a deep pool just beyond the ivy. Fortunately, the pool was only chest deep and he was able to scramble out, a bedraggled punk with floppy Mohawk, draped in scraps of twig and plastic bags.

“You okay?” called Malcolm from above, wondering if his team were basically a bunch of water magnets.

“I’m wet,” Doug shouted in response. Malcolm took him home to change, then they removed the rest of the tree without further incident. 

The following day, Leon was excited to learn they had a job helping Green Heart on the wetland project. They arrived to find a team of volunteers, busy with shovels and digger. The aim was to lower the bank to create miniflood plains and channels to re-direct the flow of the river. It looked more like a building site than a wildlife project.

Quentin was on hand to explain, in educated tones, what was required of them. He reminded Malcolm of a particular type of book-learnt enthusiast. Keen, but low on common sense. Nevertheless, Malcolm found him open to a little professional advice and the two of them were soon getting along fine. Malcolm helped him choose which of the willows, growing along the bank, to pollard and which to take out. Quentin was insistent that all arisings be left, neatly stacked, on site to provide homes for wildlife. This pleased Malcolm, as it meant no endless trips to the tip.

Across the river and over a small footbridge was a stretch of woodland that had also been incorporated into the nature reserve. As it was somewhat overgrown, Malcolm suggested to Quentin that they not only thin out some of the trees, but also create a series of rides for greater biodiversity. Quentin thought this a splendid idea. Malcolm thought it would keep the whole team occupied for a couple of weeks on pleasant work that didn’t involve sealing off roads or any of the usual inconveniences.

Accompanied by Quentin and a few volunteers, Malcolm and team headed up the steep wooded bank to decide where and what to fell. They soon discovered more than foxes and squirrels occupied the wood. The smell of wood smoke, drifting through the trees, led them to a trampled glade. Neat piles of empty beer cans, stacks of hardboard and plastic bags of rubbish were gathered around a somewhat rustic tent, created from tarpaulin and tree branches.

“Oh dear, this isn’t good,” said Quentin, looking a bit hesitant.

Malcolm reassured him. “Don’t worry. It’s just some homeless person camping out.” He’d come across such encampments before.

This one seemed almost neat in comparison. There were no needles littering the ground and small signs, made from offcuts of wood, had been placed about the clearing, each inscribed with a different anti-government slogan. The volunteers, students from the local college, kept well back while Malcolm and his team, plus Quentin, approached the tent.

“Hello?” called Malcolm to the ragged entrance. He didn’t expect an answer, such camps were often abandoned during the day. 

A bearded face thrust from the mass of leaves and canvas and hollered, “Whadda ya want?”

Malcolm hadn’t really thought this far ahead. He’d only meant to ascertain whether the camp was empty or contained a rotting corpse. Answering questions from a live bearded hermit hadn’t been on the agenda.

Before Malcolm could conjure up an answer, the man spotted Doug. 

“You,” he yelled, his face turned a rather startling shade of red. He pointed at Doug.

“You owe me fifty quid!”

“Sorry Badger, I forgot,” said Doug, backing away sharply.

“What’s happening?” said Quentin, looking at Malcolm.

Malcolm shrugged, not sure himself.

“Forgot? I’ll show you forgot! Just let me get my debt reminder.” The bearded hermit disappeared back into the green.

Spudda explained the situation. “That’s Badger – the man who bit Doug. I think he’s a bit pissed off.”

“Was it drugs?” asked Quentin.

“Sex?” ventured Leon.

“No,” frowned Doug. “He carved me a green man sculpture from a log. I meant to pay him, but accidentally spent it.”

“Accidentally?” There was a flurry of activity and Badger leapt from his tent wielding a machete. “I’ll carve a reminder in your bloody arse, you capitalist Nazi!” 

Big as he was, Doug turned and legged it. Quentin also squealed and pelted off through the student volunteers, scattering them as he went. They all bounded off through the woods like startled deer save for Spudda, Leon and Malcolm, who merely made sure to keep out of the way.

“He’ll be fine,” said Spudda. “Badger’s not as young or as fast as he once was.”