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Short Fiction
The Princess and the Trees It was in the news every day, the
protracted campaign of resistance to the building of a
new bypass in Suffolk, designed to ease congestion in the
picturesque village of Baglady-On-Straw. But room to roam
the narrow streets in safety meant cutting a searing
swathe through the surrounding ancient woodland. And why?
That was what the campaigners demanded to know. These
trees were older than Robin Hood. Why should they be
decimated, just to accommodate even more bulging-eyed
stress head drivers on their moronic little roads to
nowhere? The villagers had mixed views; many
were in favour, but the resistance of those objecting was
boosted by the arrival (by motorbike) of environmental
guerrillas, known only as Bigroot and Soilsoldier. With
these handsome modern heroes came their bands of
followers. These quickly created a woodland
citadel from which to defy the enemy – the
government and the road construction company (now owned
by a overseas conglomerate) and their poor deluded
stooges, the police. Newcomers found it took dedication
to sleep rough and be smelly, though wet-wipes were a
help. While for Bigroot and Soilsoldier, this was their
way of life, and they saw no better place to be, for
others it meant putting life on hold and entering into a
state of indefinite and whiffy suspension. For some, like young Sapphira Nisbet, the twenty one year old daughter of a wealthy city banker, the excitement soon palled. She had decided to disappear from home during the university summer vacation in order to join the protest (what would have been the use of all her years of riding lessons if there were no longer any proper woods to trek through?) It was great, upsetting her stuffy family for a worthy cause; daddy had thrown a total wobbly, it was great. But one week in, she was desperate for home comforts. Hot baths, proper sheets instead of her increasingly manky sleeping bag, hot buttered toast and she was missing the telly and she really hated the nightly fireside sing-a-longs. They were a total puke-fest. Now Sapphira was a knockout as far
as men were concerned and Bigroot had taken an instant
fancy to her, to the despair of his other devoted female
followers. He nicnamed her Dryad and it was transparently
clear whenever he turned his eyes upon her, that his
thoughts were running along the themes of seed-drilling,
propagation and so forth. However, Bigroot was a seasoned
campaigner, so though he’d got Sapphira logged as
‘business pending’, he was determined for the
present, to remain focused on the main objective. Not far upwind of this increasingly
mighty gathering was a hotel. The proprietor, Rob Chance,
had great hopes that the bypass would turn his luck
around and bring him more business. In anticipation of
its completion, he and his wife had recently been making
improvements, and were confidently expecting to have the
hotel upgraded by the RAC and local Tourist Board. They
could offer landscaped parking, Egyptian cotton
pillowcases, breakfast eggs so free-range, they were
delivered to the kitchen door still smeared with muck and
straw. Their coffee was Fairtrade, and there were
sparkling new bidets for in each ensuite, whose taps were
satin-finish chrome. Their son Jake was twenty and his main interests were muscle building in hopes of developing a six pack (which he might never achieve on account of his devotion to beer) and girls. His tastes in this department were not all that his parents might have wished. The girls were usually loud, orange and top- heavy and they lowered the tone in the hotel bar. The previous year there had been trouble when one of these girls had succumbed to a vodka overload and had, to the Chance’s horror proceeded to perform a loud and knicker-less cancan which the other guests disastrously mistook for official entertainment. there were complaints (though not from everybody) and the girl spent a night in police custody, wearing a pair of beige up-to-the-armpits control knickers borrowed in haste from Mrs Chance. More seriously, the scandal cost
the Chances their precious Highly Commended rating with
the Tourist Board, and to their chagrin the hotel had
been demoted to Commended (*review pending) Following this they extracted a
promise from their son that from now on his girlfriends
would stay sober and knickered whilst on the premises.
Any loss of sobriety or knickers, any deviation at all
from this rule, and Sonny-boy would be permanently denied
access to the family’s Supuki Fourtrak. It would be
shank’s pony, stressed his exasperated father. Business was quiet when one rainy,
miserable evening, a cool, gorgeous and extremely
well-spoken young lady arrived in reception, wanting a
room for the night. Sonny-boy was agog, taking in this
vision in jeans and cashmere sweater but she seemed to
regard him as some kind of lower life-form, such as a
porter, negligently handing him a surprisingly scruffy
rucksack to take upstairs. ‘Would you just?’…
she murmured, handing it over. You bet I would, he thought,
bearing the rucksack upstairs as though it was the Holy
Grail. She requested pate de foie gras
toast and a cup of Assam tea, to be delivered to her room
tout de suite, and then she gave him a tip, and his ears
burned at the indignity. Novel to see Sonny-boy being so
helpful, his parents snickered, as he toiled upstairs
with a succession of trays. Could the young lady be some
kind of journalist--- or even, possibly, an undercover
hotel inspector, Mr and Mrs Chance wondered. Her lofty
attitude, and humble luggage didn’t tally. Could
this be the longed-for opportunity to get back their
"Highly Commended"? She was sufficiently demanding.
She buzzed for aromatherapy bath oils (it must be citrus
please, she specified, I need revivifying) Later she
buzzed for cocoa and shortbread. Sapphira’s original plan had
been to eat an early and substantial breakfast and rejoin
her fellow-protestors in the hope that they would not
have missed her. But the breakfast was so good she
decided to defer her return and stay another night. One
good solid dinner, she told herself, and she’d be
set up for the rest of the protest. Bigroot and Soilsoldier had
meanwhile been planning a diversionary tactic, designed
to distract the police away from the road site so the
protestor’s could trash some enemy equipment. In
addition, they had discovered that adjascent to a certain
nearby hotel, was a wicked venison farm, full of
desperate bambis awaiting rescue. Why not, Bigroot
suggested in war council, make two protests
simultaneously? After all, deer were entitled to their
protection no less than trees. ‘Good thinking, man,’
said Soilsoldier, nodding his approval. He picked up his
mobile phone, gulped the last of his acorn coffee and
began sending texts round all the newspapers. That evening, Sapphira, wearing
some amazing stretchy dress – rucksack
glamour, no need for ironing - sat alone in the hotel
restaurant scanning the menu. Nearby, Sonny-boy hovered
in attendance, eyeing the back of her neck and trying not
to drool down his white shirt front. It was a Saturday and things were
starting to pick up again. The restaurant had quite a
decent crop of bookings and the Chances felt very hopeful
that their menu and service were going to do them credit.
Sapphira, with a pang of guilt, but quite powerless to
resist, ordered lobster bisque, to be followed by roast
venison with creamed potatoes and artichokes. As she ate her soup though, her
mind began to clamour. She became confused and wondered
what she was doing here. Did sneaking off like this mean
she was an unprincipled person, irreversibly programmed
for a life of selfish consumption? The clamour in her
mind grew and grew until it blotted out all other sound.
Then the restaurant’s French windows shattered
inwards. My goodness, she realized, the noise – it
isn’t in my head at all!! Two seconds later forty-seven irate
red deer burst through the french windows and came
stampeding through the restaurant, scattering croutons,
tables and diners like chaff. Sapphira was knocked to the
floor. After the deer came a psychadelically decorated
van, beeping its horn, driven by Bigroot, with a dozen
supporters and an excited press photographer beside him.
In through the demolished french windows and right up to
the dessert trolley they drove. The uproar was incredible. Frantic
deer, one with profiteroles impaled on its antlers,
escaped into the lobby and the bar, to the terror of all
bipeds. Bigroot leaped out and declaimed
the rights of deer and trees using a loudhailer while
flashbulbs illuminated the scene for posterity. The most
sensational picture was taken when Bigroot and Sonny-boy
engaged in mutually hostile physical interaction, in an
effort to decide who should pick the fallen Sapphira off
the floor, while deer were leaping and bucking in the
background. The police were swiftly on their
way to the hotel, and in such numbers that the
road-wrecking taskforce, led by Soilsoldier had quite
sufficient opportunity to wreak havoc upon some
earthmoving equipment. Meanwhile, in the hotel bar, deer
grazed quietly on peanutted carpets. Sapphira was greatly impressed and
excited by the daring of Bigroot as he pulled her to her
feet and aimed a last kick at the defeated Sonny-boy as
he slunk off. ‘Dryad’, he said, pulling
her close, ‘what are you doing here in this den of
iniquity, girl?’ She went weak at the knees, and
whether it was fear or his lean and muscled proximity, or
both, she couldn’t have said. ‘Em, I thought
you might need someone on the inside…?’ she
offered feebly. It was the right thing to say. ‘Cle-ver girl!’ he said
and printed a hard kiss on her mouth. ‘Brains and
beauty and I have to say that dress looks great, babe,
but I know what would look even better on you –
me!’ He was somewhat surprised to
discover that he was not, on a hormonal level at least,
completely averse to her posh totty dress or the cherry
lipstick or her upswept hairstyle either. ‘Now let’s get out of
here;' he said sternly, 'those trees won’t save
themselves.’ They escaped the scene in the
Chance’s Supuki Fourtrak, hot-wired by Bigroot with
one of Sapphira’s hairpins. It was a typical instance of the
Law of Sod, the Chances were later to agree, that a hotel
inspector was indeed resident in the hotel that very
night. They later learned that he had been really looking
forward to his roast venison, but what he actually
received was a hoof-print on his behind, and that does
not form part of any criterion for a Highly Commended
grade, not even when arnica is offered. From 'Tales of Our Times', anthology by Thatcher, Whyte and Hazeldine The Pentland Press 1998 Signed copies £6 available direct from Katie-Ellen. Book is hard-back and illustrated with black and white cartoons. katie.ellen@virgin.net |