Friday Flash: The Hanging Branch

He sat on the back step, hands curled around his mug. The steam rising up from the tea tickled his nose as the November cold pinched his ears. He was wearing his favourite gardening jacket, the warmest one he had, but he was still shivering.

He stared up at the tree.

The squeal from the back door's hinges made him jump. "I'm off out then," his wife said.

"See you later," he stood up to peck her on the cheek.

"I won't be long," she said, looking up at the same branch that he'd been frowning at moments before. "You will get it done by the time I'm back, won't you?"

"Yes love."

"Because I want to get the rubbish cleared and the packing boxes off to the dump before the party tomorrow."

"I know love."

"I'm not fussing," she said, putting her hands on her hips and watching him sit back down on the step.

"I didn't say you were," he replied, tired.

"You did with your eyes," she muttered and looked back up at the branch. "One storm and that'll go through the conservatory roof. The old owners were lazy buggers, look at the state of this garden! After the housewarming is out of the way, we'll cut it all back and start it from scratch."

"I think there's an old patio under here," he said, scuffing a hole in the deep pile of autumn debris at his feet.

"That can come up too. I want decking. And a pond. And for that horrible tree to go," she pointed up at it.

He didn't look up. "I know love. You get on now, we're almost out of milk. And can you get me some of those jammy doughnuts?"

"Mmm. Don't sit on that step too long. It's cold, it'll give you piles."

She left him to his tea and eye-rolling. The cold stone was making his buttocks numb. He found himself thinking of all the jobs he could be doing in the house, or in the new garage, before a gust of wind made the tree creak and bow towards him. The low hanging branch his wife had heard in the night, knocked on the conservatory roof as if asking for permission to come in.

He shuddered and downed the last of the tea. "Come on lazy," he said to himself and went to the shed, leaving the mug on the step next to the fading patch of warmth left by his backside.

He found the chainsaw easily enough, thanks to his meticulously labelled boxes. Maggie had moaned that if he paid as much attention to packing the rest of the house as he had the garage and shed, the move would have been a lot less stressful. What she didn't understand was that all of the things in these boxes were critical for getting the new house sorted out. And that he didn't give a rat's arse about the rest of it. Maybe if they'd been able to have children, she'd have had less of an urge to fill their house with ornaments and sentimentality.

He noticed that some of the roofing felt had come loose and dug out a hammer and tacks to repair it. Then it seemed important to screw his tool organiser onto the shed's wall and get all of those unpacked and organised properly too. It wasn't until he heard the tree's creak again that he remembered the branch.

He found the chain-link gloves, wrestled the ladder out of the garage ready for when he'd need it and set up the extension lead, running it through a window in the conservatory.

All the while, he didn't look at the tree, though he could feel it looming over him and the small garden. He retrieved some rope from the shed, thinking that he'd tie the branch back to pull it away from the conservatory, and then shimmy up the ladder to chop that branch off near the trunk. It was heavy enough to smash the roof if he didn't take that precaution first.

Rope coiled in his hands, he had to force himself to look back up at the branch. The moaning, groaning wood swayed above him. He thought of this tree, standing for hundreds of years and he, some insignificant gnat of a man, about to mutilate it.

And he was a gnat. Couldn't even father a child when thousands of idiots did it every day. Couldn't keep a job, couldn't make real friends, couldn't even talk to his wife.

Couldn't even love her.

He tossed the rope over the branch and held onto both ends, letting them and the branch take his weight.

The new house would make no difference. It would give Maggie somewhere to redecorate, something new to fill the hole in their lives. They were only having the housewarming so she could show her friends how awful the house was. Then she'd have a big reveal six months on, and they'd all gasp at how she'd transformed it. Two years from now they'd be in another neglected house, profits in the bank, more photo albums of the latest amazing refurbishment instead of tiny feet and babies on play mats.

It was all so futile.

He took one end of the rope, looped it without even thinking why, listening to the mournful creaking of the tree. It would be so easy to end it now.

"Malcolm, I'm home!"

He released the rope and leapt back, as if it had just turned into a snake. A horrid cold sweat ran down the back of his collar as Maggie opened the back door.

"Oh bloody hell Malcolm, I ask you to do one thing!"

"It's the chainsaw," he lied. "Needs a new part. I'll sort it out next week love, alright?"

Muttering, she withdrew into the house and he pulled the rope from the branch. The last owners hadn't been lazy, he realised. They'd just listened to the tree.

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P.S. If you enjoyed this, you'll love From Dark Places.