In the Shade of the Shady Tree: Stories of Wheatbelt Australia

eyewitness

153 • eyewitness The sublime artist must flee from details. —Stendhal, History of Painting They came in the early hours of the morning to bring down the tree. To cover the sound of the chainsaw, the father had his boys rev the shit out of their motorbikes. He was a man who loathed hoons, but when needs must . . . The tree was a cause célèbre in town. It was as old as the town’s oldest citizen, and though it wasn’t native, it felt as if it belonged. That’s what everyone said. And to support the case for “saving the tree,” the most vocal supporters pointed to the fact that one of the most respected Nyungar elders also defended the tree. Not that the tree’s enemies thought this carried much weight. Never does when it comes to “official” land ownership arguments around here.The owners just wanted the tree gone because it was right where they wanted to build a fast-food shop. A fast-food shop in a “picturesque” country town. A huge shady tree with seats beneath where old and young sheltered from extreme summer heat. In one way or another, all the town’s buttons had been pushed over the question.The issue went all the way to the state parliament. It made the big state newspaper. It York 154 j o h n k i n s e l l a dragged on and on, said the owners, who were bitter, and fumed that landowning meant nothing. These were the “facts,” as everyone round about knew. So when Baz woke up behind the pub, where he had crashed out after staggering through the back door at closing time, and started slowly to drag himself home, he knew what was up, no matter how dazed he felt. He stood there and watched it happen. The tree “removalists” saw him standing and watching, but they kept on at it. The headlights of utes and motorbikes shone on the tree, and the noise was incredible. Huge limb by huge limb, the old ficus tree fell.They went for about an hour, slicing it up like an onion.That was the best description Baz could muster at the time. Like an onion. Since there had been a preservation order on the tree, the police became involved. They cautiously asked around, though I guess they knew, as well as anyone, what had happened. It was an open secret, but there were “no witnesses.” Everyone would say,Well, we heard something, but it just sounded like the local hoons at it again.We are used to it.The police usually break it up on the weekend. This was a Monday night, though, and out in the country it’s not as simple as calling the cops, who were probably in bed, vaguely hearing the racket in the distance and wishing it would go away. I mean, that must be it, because it’s actually what happened. No one owned up, of course, and no one reported seeing anything at all. At first, Baz laughed about it, and said nothing. He was feeling pretty crook when he woke, and after that, it was a rough day at work. At the pub that night, he listened to the gossip and made no comment, but when anyone mentioned the removal of the tree, he laughed in the kind of way that made them look twice. Still, things got pretty heated around town, and arguments and even fights broke out over what had happened. The family whose land it was, who’d been trying so hard to get permission to remove the tree, had gone on holiday. All of them. They 155 e y e w i t n e s s were a farming family, and the boys worked on the farm as well as the dad, and as it was almost the start of harvest, it was an odd time to be away. Something about the cloak-anddagger nature of it all got to Baz. He felt annoyed at first, then angry. He wasn’t even really sure why. He couldn’t give a damn about any old tree. He’d never sat under it, that was for sure. But then he thought back to his childhood, and recalled how often he had played around that tree. It was a giant even then. A door had opened to his...