A STORY OF A TREE AT CHRISTMAS

This story is by Margaret Wykes, and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The story was collected by Joyce Gibson, transcribed by Elizabeth Lamont and added to the site by Bruce Logan.
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It was Christmas 1944 in a middle-sized town in the middle of England where it was so flat, people would go for a day out to admire the modest height of Croft Hill, five miles away. They had few cars and little petrol. Bicycles were enjoying a surge of popularity so that demand far exceeded supply. The exercise and the food rationing had produced one of the few benefits of this miserable war: better general health for those the bombs missed. The town was thriving on the manufacture of footwear and hosiery. These were useful commodities and socks make an ever-popular gift. Not, though, for Roger, a small boy who really wanted a bicycle for Christmas when bicycles were almost impossible to get. Reg and Nora, his parents, were at their wits’ ends.

“G’night, Reg”. The local home Guard were gathering in their hall.
“That’s a cold one, George.”
“At least it’s a clear moon and we can see what we’re aiming at.”
“And so can Jerry.”

Mordant humour helped keep up their spirits. These were men who, though unable to join the regular forces because of age or impaired health, nevertheless worked all day at their ordinary jobs and used their spare time to firewatch and train for war. By this time Dad’s Army was a real force, prepared to take on the enemy face to face should it be necessary.

Reg had honed his firearm skills with, first, a Tommy gun, then a rifle and now a Sten gun. He was also the company medical corporal. So far, in this war, he had healed rather than wounded.

The men came from all walks of life and had forged close links of friendship and support. Also, a useful exchange and mart for all sorts of things.

“How did Vivien’s blackberry wine go down?” asked a teetotaller.
The soldiers looked about: Vivien was absent.
“Sarr as varges”. The local dialect was almost another language.
“Really bitter, I’m afraid, yes.”
“It was grand with a spoon or two of honey.”
“Honey? You have honey?”

“By the way” said George Featherstone, “D’ye know anyone would want a junior size bike? My son’s outgrown his.” Reg had snapped it up before the town surveyor had finished speaking. “Talk about a Christmas blooming miracle!”

Then, where to hide it? Roger would be exploring his house, his granny’s and his auntie’s trying to outwit Santa. The solution: Mr Featherstone would keep the bicycle and deliver it on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve was moonless. There were no streetlights and blackout was strict, not even a bicycle lamp was permitted. Mr. Featherstone would keep the bicycle and deliver it on Christmas Eve.

Christmas Eve was moonless. There were no streetlights and blackout was strict, not even a bicycle lamp was permitted. Mr. Featherstone was confident enough to cycle the distance to the Wykes’ home. He was the town surveyor, after all, and knew every inch of every road and pavement. He hopped on to the junior-sized bike and set off along the pavement, carefully. There was no traffic and few people about. George could hear an occasional footstep, easily voided. He whistled softly to warn any quiet footed pedestrians of his approach. He enjoyed cycling through the velvety darkness to the hiss of tyres. His confidence grew.

Reg answered the knock on the door and drew in the visitor before turning on the light. Before him stood Mr Featherstone, blood dripping down his face and over his greatcoat. Reg stared at him, aghast. Nora came to the door of the living room. “Good Heavens, what happened to you?” Reg immediately moved. “Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you up.” He brought the slightly stunned Surveyor over to the sink and gave him a chair. Nora darted over to the bike to examine the damage. Reg quickly stopped the bleeding and moped up. He wielded his small torch. “Pupils equal and reacting”, he murmured with satisfaction.

Mr. Featherstone held a cold compress to his swollen, throbbing nose. “It was that tree, the big elm tree in the middle of the pavement at the Grammar School playing field. I clean forgot it was there and slammed straight into it. Do you think I’ll have a black eye for Christmas?”

“Not necessarily, all that bleeding will have helped,” comforted Reg, pushing thoughtfully at Mr. Featherstone’s poor bruised nose., “Thank goodness, there should be no real damage.”

“No, indeed,” said Nora, coming in from her inspection of the bike’s handlebars. “All it needs is to be straightened out. You could do it, Reg, you’ve got pliers!”

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