Under The Whether At one point or another, everybody in the village had been under the Whether. They came, they sat, they sorted, they went. That was what one did whilst ‘Under the Whether.’ Let me explain. The Whether is a huge and very old oak tree. It stands alone at the top of a hill overlooking the village of Oakgarth, and it would be easy to imagine that it had been the overlooker of the village since time began. The roots of the mammoth tree had spread in such a way as to fashion comfortable ‘seats’; these had been worn smooth over the years by a million rear ends. My father’s granddad proposed to his fiancée under the Whether, and so, apparently, had every line in the family tree since. It was tradition, and not just in my family but in every family in the village. Many first kisses had been stolen under that tree, and many a young beau had plucked up the courage to approach the object of his desire to ask for a first date. Trying out first one advance and then another to himself, going over and over what he would say and how he would react if he was rejected. And likewise, lots of young girls with eyes full of dreams sat and wished their boy would ask them out, and each wondered what she would wear when he did. The tree learned of the hopes, dreams, loves, failures and triumphs of generations of local folk and it never once told. It was friend and confessor to all. That was how Miss Elizabeth Brown came to be under the Whether that day. The sun was relentless and her back was slightly moist with the exertions that the hilly climb had subjected her to. The light material of her Indian cotton blouse clung to her, emphasising the feel of rough bark from the tree supporting her back. The oak bent its boughs to protect her from the sun’s heat, and she sighed a sigh of one part contentment to three parts confusion as she watched the leaves swaying gently in the sweet, fragrant breeze. She leaned back, allowing the trunk of the tree to support both her and her mind-full of burden. Closing sun-blind eyes, she tried to make the thoughts come into her head in an ordered fashion; each one to be mulled over and considered carefully. A traveller was sitting a little further down the hill, sheltered from both the sun and observers by a ledge of rock. He painted furiously, oblivious to all but the sombre girl beneath the oak tree. At first he had been irritated when she had huffed up to the tree and plonked herself down right in the middle of his masterpiece in progress. His eye tried to blot her out of the picture, but she refused to be erased. Something about this girl pulled the man within the artist to take notice. She was nothing particularly special to look at. Mousy brown hair, mid-length and hanging loose. Her posture was relaxed and elegant and she carried a few extra pounds, yet this only served to enhance rather than detract from her appearance. She had a longish face with well-covered bone structure and, in fact, nothing remarkable at all to note. Not from this distance anyway, and yet he wished he were close enough to see her eyes. He just knew that they were pale indigo, unusual eyes in an average face. That was how he painted them anyway. Elizabeth wore a flattering loose cotton skirt in vivid purple and an ivory coloured top. Her knees were drawn to her chest with her arms wrapped round them. The skirt fell away to the side, blowing in the breeze and giving a pleasing glimpse of tanned thighs. His brush moved swiftly, he wanted to get the picture to canvass before she moved. Mixing colours to the exact shade that he wanted, his hand lashed across the easel in deft, sure strokes. Jimmy Thompson was good. Good enough to never have to sleep beneath the stars unless he chose to, good enough to eat at a different country pub every night if he didn’t feel like making a fire and cooking himself. Good enough to maintain his nomadic lifestyle in as much comfort as he wanted to on any inclement day. Jimmy drove an old camper van that served as the nearest thing to home. He moved around the country, staying for as long as it pleased him before moving on to the next place that his old van took him. When the country closed in on him, he dug out his passport and drove further afield, but his home Isles always called him back eventually. He made a living selling his paintings in roadside lay-bys, and he kept himself fit and well by taking on short-term farm labouring jobs. He was a man at peace with his lot in life. He was one of the few who could hold up his hand and say that he was truly happy and wanted no more than what he had. So far nothing had ever held him in any place for long, but maybe something, somewhere, sometime would hold him steady without restraint. Some reason enough to put a peg in the wall for his van keys to hang on. For today at least, his resting-place was half way up a hill, painting a perplexed lady surrounded by a mist of indecision that was perceptible to the artist. This was the air of something that needed to be captured in paint. But there was something else about the young woman that only his spirit could draw. Long after the picture was finished, he sat and watched in silence. Mesmerised by the girl, not wanting to show himself and encroach on her time of solitude. Not yet. She stood and dusted herself down. Specks of golden tree-dust alight from the sun fell in a shower from her hair as she shook herself free of the stiffness that had come from sitting immobile for so long. Jim watched, fascinated, as she turned and placed a surprisingly slender hand upon the trunk of the tree. What was she doing? What was it about this average woman that made her so very interesting? She waited for the blood to flow back into her legs. That was it then, a decision had been made. She turned and touched her hand briefly to the trunk of the “Whether.” The very human caress was one of real affection for the living thing that sheltered her from the world as she had sat thinking. She moved off down the hill to tell him of her decision. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was best to get it over with quickly. Greg was a good man. A solid, kind and gentle man. A man who could make her both laugh and cry. He made her happy, he made her feel special and so wanted. For a time there, just for a little while when the moon cast a fairytale light over the porch, and even this morning when she awoke from dreams of white lace and rose buds, she had thought that she loved him. But sitting under the tree, she realised that he was not the one. There was someone else, she didn’t know who he was, but she did know that he was on his way and wouldn’t come in the form of Greg Mason. She was sad at the thought of hurting Greg, and even a little sad at the loss she would feel when she refused his proposal, but she had to be true to herself. The girl in the tight blue jeans stopped short with a startled “Oh” when she almost collided with the man. He had long black hair that curled scraggily onto his shoulders, and a smile that took her thoughts before they had formed and swirled them round her head in a blaze of pure clarity.“You’ve come then, I knew you would”, she told the stranger. “Aye lass, I’m here.” His voice was low, with more than a hint of an Irish accent. Neither of them seemed surprised by the first words they ever spoke to each other. When he’d made her jump in fright, she’d dropped the photograph that she held in her hand. The photo was special to her, it had helped her to make the right decision. It was a picture taken from a family painting. He stooped to pick it up and handed it to her. Each of them had hold of one corner, fused together by the photographic paper. He looked into her clear grey eyes and was not disappointed that they weren’t pale indigo. She had eyes that would reflect the beauty of the world when he showed the world to her. There was magic at work on the hill, and the old tree that a distant age of locals had named ‘The Whether’ dropped the first acorn of the new season. Autumn was a good time to come home. “Oh, I’m Beth by the way. Beth Thompson. This is a picture of my grandmother. Pretty isn’t she? I don’t know if the story of how they met is true, but that’s how Granddad always told it to us. You’d have liked my granddad. He died last year and Grandma sprinkled his ashes by that rock over there. That’s where he did the painting, and under the tree is where it all began. She still comes here every Sunday you know, and she’s eighty-three. Look, an acorn, and it’s only the fifteenth of August. It’s said that the Whether drops its first acorn of the year when new lovers meet. I’ve never seen you here before. I’ll show you round the village if you like.
Copyright © 2000 Sue (Sooz) Simpson |