been found which could result in branches falling on unwary passers-by.
Henceforth the great tree’s candles would no longer light the village in spring, nor the burnished shingle of its conkers beguile the children of Willowwood in autumn, which was an added plus for Health and Safety who considered conkers weapons of mass destruction. The tree would no longer obscure the CCTV view of the much extended rear of Primrose Mansions. The Major, who, as head of the Parish Council, had backed the felling, could feast his eyes on Cindy Bolton undressing.
A smell of burning logs was softening the night air, as Woody bumped into the Major outside the Fox the following evening.
‘At least you’ll make a few bob cutting the thing down, Woody,’ joshed the Major, ‘and I’ve no doubt Lester Bolton will give you a cut for disposing of the timb-ah. Ouch,’ he squawked, ‘ow-ow-ouch,’ as Woody’s long fingers closed round his short, thick neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.
‘Don’t ever mess with me again, you fat greedy bastard, or I’ll really kill you,’ spat Woody. Leaving the Major groping in the gutter for his spectacles and his new check racing cap, Woody stumbled off into the dusk.
This exchange was witnessed by Niall as he returned home from choir practice. He was too shy to run after Woody, but incredibly fit images of him surging up trees in his harness, leaping from branch to branch like Tarzan, had haunted Niall’s dreams since Newbury, so he pondered what he had heard in his heart.
Next Sunday’s Sung Eucharist was combined with a christening, which meant the church was quite full. Etta was admiring the stained glass window of Sir Francis Framlingham and Beau Regard – so like Mrs Wilkinson – and idly wondering if Niall would run out of drink if he had to give communion wine to so many people, when he launched into his sermon. Taking a deep breath, he exhorted the congregation to come to the rescue of one of the village’s most beloved citizens: the Willowwood Horse Chestnut.
Instantly everyone woke up, particularly Ione Travis-Lock who, armed with a spade, which she’d left propped against Beau Regard’s tombstone, to plant another willow for another local son, had absolutely no desire to see Cindy undressing.
Striding round to the village shop after the planting, she launched a petition to Save Our Chestnut, which soon attracted hundreds of signatures.
What tipped the balance, however, was Ione’s dropping in on Lester Bolton, his first visitor at the officially renamed Primrose Mansions, and telling him he had upset the people of Willowwood more than enough over the past two years. Their gas and electricity had been frequently cut off while his was installed, the traffic had been constantly held up due to deliveries, the roads wrecked by his lorries, and his workmen, making a din worse than the Nibelung, had prevented mothers ever getting their babies to sleep in the afternoon. If Lester ever wanted to be welcomed as a member of the community, he’d better start by leaving the Willowwood Chestnut alone. It could easily be trimmed back to give access to CCTV.
Lester took it well, placating Ione by pointing out the solar panelling, the rain-harvesting plant, and his plans to install a wind turbine and to lower the wattage on his lights up the drive. Finally he promised not to cut down the chestnut.
An eternally grateful Woody dropped a lorryload of apple logs and a crate of red off at Niall’s as a thank-you, but was too shy to stay for an answer. The rest of Willowwood, however, who were gagging to find out what Primrose Mansions looked like inside after two million had been spent on it, were disappointed with Ione when Mop Idol imparted the information that her boss hadn’t noticed anything in particular – except that Bolton had made out a generous cheque to the Compost Club.
Phoebe and Debbie, who were having a rapprochement because Bonny hadn’t, as promised, invited Phoebe to the premiere of her latest film, were delighted when Bolton summoned the Major for a drink the following evening.
‘Can’t we come too?’ pleaded Phoebe.
‘No,’ replied the Major pompously, ‘Lester Bolton wants to talk business with me wearing my Parish Council hat.’
‘I bet it’s very OK.’
‘Very un-OK with Madam Cindy’s taste,’ sniffed Debbie.
‘No, OK as in OK! and Hello! WAG taste,’ giggled Phoebe.
‘Take your camera, Normie, and as many pictures as you can.’
Lester Bolton had taken Ione’s sermon to heart. He had also seen the papers and the pictures