The Day I Said No

Past glories are remembered in this lighthearted short story by Jon Harle.

I was an easy-going kind of guy. But there had been one time . . .

HAVE you ever been a revolutionerist?” Luke asked as he exploded through the door on his way home from school. “We’re doing a project about revolutions, and we’ll get extra marks if we can find a real revolutionerist!”

I looked up from my newspaper, taken aback. I loved it when my elevenyear-old grandson called in on a Thursday while he waited for his mum to finish work. He always surprised his gran and me with his questions and comments, and we never knew what he might come up with.

“You mean a revolutionary? Good grief, no.” Jean laughed. “Grandpa’s much too cautious to be a revolutionary. Although he did take a library book back late once!”

I smiled. She was right;

I’d never been particularly radical. I worried about upsetting people, and when I was at school I was small and timid.

Then I remembered. “You’re wrong,” I told her. “I was in a revolution once. In fact, I led it!”

Luke gaped.

“Did you shoot anyone?” he asked.

I laughed.

“No, it never got to that. But I was very cross! I was about your age, too. Tell you what, put your coat back on and I’ll take you to where it all happened.”

“Will you be long?” Jean asked. “His mum will be home in a couple of hours.”

“If I can lead a revolution, I think I can get Luke back home in time.”

I picked up the car keys and Luke and I went outside.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Back to school!”

****

It was only a few minutes’ drive to the school gates, but we didn’t stop there. Instead, I pulled up in a lane beside the playing fields.

There was a game of football in progress on the other side of the field, but apart from that it was quiet.

“Come with me,” I said. “I’ll take you to the scene of the revolution. I think I can find it. It was a lovely sunny day like today, too.”

I looked around to get my bearings. There were many new buildings at the school since I’d been a pupil there several decades ago, but the playing fields hadn’t changed much.

In fact, hearing the distant sounds of a football game, with the shouts of encouragement and the referee’s whistle, gave me a bit of an uneasy feeling.

I’d always been the youngest in my class, and my nickname was Titch. I used to hate playing football, and was usually made to go in goal where

I’d cause the least damage.

I started looking around in the hedge that separated the lane from the football pitches.

“It’s somewhere around here,” I said as I pushed aside the foliage and peered into the undergrowth.

“What are you looking for?” Luke was intrigued. “Is it some sort of weapon?” I laughed.

“Nothing as exciting as that. Ah, here it is!”

Luke was obviously a little disappointed.

“An overgrown tree stump?”

I crouched down.

It was probably about four feet in diameter, and it was covered with some sort of brown fungus.

It wasn’t much to look at, it was true, but slowly the memories came back of that summer’s day about fifty years ago, when I had felt angry – really angry – for the first time in my life.

****

One day at school we were told we had to stay away from the huge oak tree. It was unsafe, and was going to be taken down.

Sure enough, a couple of weeks later we were allowed to watch from a safe distance as a team of men from the timber mill came with chainsaws and a winch, and prepared to cut it down.

It didn’t take them long, and a big steel cable attached to the winch ensured it would fall safely on to the playing field.

We all shouted, “Timber!” as it crashed to the ground with a terrific crack of splintering wood.

A big cloud of dust and leaves rose into the air, and then, to our surprise, the men climbed into a van and disappeared.

After lunch we all ran to the fallen tree, and had a brilliant time playing in the branches. It was much easier to climb a tree when it was lying on its side.

For a couple of weeks the tree was the best playground in the world. It was certainly better than the rusty old “witch’s hat” roundabout and dilapidated swings in the schoolyard.

In our imaginations the tree was a bridge over a river, a space rocket, a gun emplacement, a battleship and all sorts of other things.

But one day, during lessons, we heard buzzing and cracking coming from the playing fields.

When we went out at break time we were distraught: all that was left of our tree was the huge trunk, lying on its side and surrounded by sawdust and twigs and leaves.

All the lovely branches had been cut off and taken away.

After school that day, a group of us went to have a closer look at the trunk. We could see that parts of it were rotten, which was presumably why it had been cut down. But even on its side, it was pretty high.

“Give me a leg up,” I said to my best friend, Pete, and I managed to scramble on top of the horizontal trunk.

From my lofty position I was able to see down the lane, and I was horrified to spot a big, green truck coming towards us, followed by a crane. It was obviously the workmen from the sawmill coming back to collect the trunk.

I wasn’t a naughty child, and I was rarely in trouble at school. Much as I hated being the smallest in the class, it made it easier for me to keep my head down.

But I was determined they weren’t going to take our tree without a fight.

“Quick, get up here!” I shouted down to Pete, and everyone else who was milling around. “They’re coming to collect what’s left of the tree.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then a mad scramble as about 20 boys climbed up on to the trunk. They were just in time. The truck and crane were already turning in through the gateway on to the playing fields and heading towards us over the grass.

“What are we going to do?” Pete asked breathlessly.

“I don’t know. I think we need to call for reinforcements.”

There was a group of boys kicking a ball around nearby, and we yelled at them to come and join us.

There were others, too, outside the school building.

By the time the foreman arrived, there were about 60 boys balanced precariously on the tree.

“Come on, lads,” the foreman called cheerfully. “The fun’s over. Off you get!”

“No, we jolly well won’t!” I shouted back, and there was a murmur of agreement from the other boys, who were all beginning to look rather determined.

I suddenly felt important and popular for the first time. I pushed my shoulders back, and felt a little bit taller than usual.

“Seriously, boys, you’re going to get hurt if you stay there,” the foreman warned rather less cheerfully.

Someone started chanting and we all joined in.

“We want our tree. We want our tree! We want our tree!”

The foreman, who was wearing a blue boiler suit and a flat cap, took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette and shook his head. His face was beginning to go a bit red.

“Right!” he shouted over the noise. “You’ve got ten seconds to start moving or there’ll be trouble.”

There was a slight hesitation, and the chanting became a bit quieter. One or two boys jumped off and retreated, but I was determined, and energised by this new feeling of being the the centre of attention.

“We want our tree!” I bellowed, and everyone else joined in again at maximum volume.

The foreman threw his cigarette down in disgust, and went to talk to the crane driver.

He revved his engine, and moved his crane into position by the trunk. Two other workmen attached steel cables to the hook and started dragging the cables towards the tree.

Despite the bravado, I was scared. I didn’t want to get into trouble.

But we couldn’t just give in.

Then I remembered something I’d seen on the news a few days ago about a sit-down protest on the site of a new motorway.

“Listen, everyone,” I yelled. “Just sit down. They won’t be able to move us if we’re all just sitting down quietly.”

The chanting stopped, and everyone sat down carefully. One boy fell off, but his friends pulled him back up again, and we waited to see what would happen next.

The two workmen with the steel cables looked a bit uncertain as to what to do. One of them took a step towards the tree, but someone threw a tiny twig at him and he retreated.

“Do you give up?” I shouted at the foreman.

He didn’t reply but sighed impatiently, made a decision, and started walking over to the main school buildings.

“I don’t like the look of that,” Pete whispered to me. “I bet he’s gone to get Old Bullface.”

Old Bullface was the nickname of Mr Hurley, our fearsome headmaster. He was a former Army major, a veteran of the D-Day landings, and we were all terrified of him.

There was a ripple of urgent muttering along the length of the tree trunk. Someone started chanting “We want our tree” timidly, but nobody joined in, so he stopped.

Sure enough, a few minutes later Old Bullface came striding over the playing fields towards us, with the smirking foreman in tow.

The headmaster was a tall and imposing figure, and he was clearly angry. His black gown streamed out behind him as he approached.

“What are you boys playing at?” he bellowed before he even reached us. “Get down from there at once!”

We all looked at each other uncertainly.

“Come on, get down now, or there’ll be trouble!” he shouted again.

He was used to being obeyed, whether by the soldiers he once commanded or the schoolchildren now in his charge.

My heart was hammering

Despite the bravado, I was scared. I didn’t want to get into trouble

in my chest as I stood up. “But, sir, it’s not fair.” “Fair?” he roared, walking towards me and looking up. Old Bullface was well over six feet tall, but he still had to tilt his head back to glare at me.

“Fair? It’s not ‘fair’ that I’ve been dragged across here from my study. It’s not ‘fair’ that these men have been delayed because you silly boys have been stopping them getting on with their job.”

He was standing beside the tree trunk, with his huge hands gripping the bark. I could see he really wanted to shout right into my face, like he often did with other boys, but he couldn’t reach me.

“It wouldn’t have been ‘fair’ if this tree had fallen down and landed on someone,” he continued. “It wouldn’t have been ‘fair’ if one of you had fallen off the trunk and broken your leg. Now, get down. Now!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that everyone was looking at me for a decision, and, somehow, that gave me the sort of confidence I’d never felt in the classroom or on the football field.

I drew a deep breath.

“Sir, why can’t we keep the tree? It’s much better than what we’ve got in the playground at the moment. Everything’s broken.”

He looked at me incredulously.

“Stop being a cheeky little boy, Titch, and get down,” he demanded.

I felt my eyes sting.

It was bad enough when everyone in my class called me “Titch”, but it was worse coming from the headmaster.

I realised my fingers were digging into the palms of my hands and my mouth had gone dry.

“Anyway,” Old Bullface continued, “the sawmill is going to want the trunk for making planks of timber, aren’t they?”

He looked over his shoulder to the foreman.

“Er, well, actually, the trunk’s pretty rotten, so it won’t be much use for processing. It’ll probably just get chopped up and made into firewood.”

Suddenly emboldened, I realised my chance had come.

“Well, sir, how about we all get down, and they move the tree to that corner of the playing field where it’s all a bit of a mess anyway?

“Then you wouldn’t have to buy new playground equipment! It’ll save the school loads of money.”

There was a buzz of agreement from the boys on the trunk, but I held up my hand and everyone went quiet.

I was still looking at Old Bullface, but behind him I could see the foreman looking at the ground and shaking his head, trying not to smile.

The headmaster spun round and looked at him.

“Would that be possible?” he asked impatiently.

The foreman looked thoughtful.

“I don’t see why not. We’ve got to move it anyway, so it’s no skin off my nose. But I’d better phone the boss.”

Old Bullface thought for a few moments more and then made a decision.

“Right, you do that and

I’ll go and get one of the other masters to supervise. Now, boys, get down, all of you.”

Again I felt everyone looking at me for guidance as to what to do next.

I took a deep breath. “Three cheers for Mr Hurley! Hip, hip . . . !”

The first hooray was a bit tentative and rather muted, but by the time we got to the third cheer all the boys had joined in enthusiastically, and some of them even started clapping.

Old Bullface looked rather uncertain as to how to react.

I jumped lightly to the ground, and everyone else followed, and suddenly they were all slapping me on the back.

Micky Brooks, who was eighteen inches taller than me, and one of my main tormentors, ruffled my hair.

“Well done, Titch!”

****

As I finished my story, Luke looked up at me.

“So did they move the tree?”

“They did,” I told him proudly. “They even hollowed out the trunk to make a sort of tunnel, and they gave us some big logs and old planks, and we used it to make dens and everything. Micky Brooks even asked me to join his gang. It was brilliant.” I smiled at the memory. “Shall we go and see if it’s still there?”

We walked over to the corner of the playing fields, to an area that had been fenced off. There, in the long grass and nettles, was the hollowed-out tree trunk, beside various other mossy logs and bits of rotting wood that had been our playground for hours on end.

It had been a playground for plenty of other children through the years, too, until the authorities decided it was all too dangerous.

Luke looked puzzled. “What does that old sign on the tree trunk say?”

I squinted my eyes, and suddenly remembered the pride I’d felt when that crudely painted sign – red writing on an old piece of hardboard – had been nailed to the tree. I wasn’t very big, and I couldn’t play football, but this was a reminder of my victory.

Luke cocked his head left and right, trying to make sense of the peeling paint.

“The second word is

‘tree’, I think, and the first word starts with T.”

At last he worked it out. “I’ve got it,” he exclaimed, looking up at me with shining eyes. “Titch’s Tree.”

The End.