Getting Into a Scrape

 

Photo credit: Yuri Fadeev

I’m six or seven, climbing trees in my garden with my best friend. We’re spoilt for choice, with apple trees, plum, cooking apple, and pear. The tied cottage that comes with my father’s farming job is nothing short of idyllic and belies the material poverty we live in. We are not nature poor, but I’m often reminded that money doesn’t grow on trees.

It’s a hot day; we both wear shorts and t-shirts. The difficulty of rating each tree is varied and each of us has differing climbing capabilities. I am the youngest of three, and when I’m with my elder siblings I can only lay claim to climb the cooking apple tree. Why? According to them, they are more adept than me. Plus, with its low, wide branches, in some places it’s even easier to climb than a ladder.

I’m not allowed to attempt their trees. The pear trees require much more skill, with the first branches at head height. This requires grasping a branch with both hands, followed by some fancy leg swinging and walking feet up the trunk, then hooking legs around the branch and then more upper body strength than you’ve got to pull yourself up. Plus, the bark is extra rough and scratchy, so you must be careful not to pull your body in too close.

The pear trees are covered in nobbles that are uncomfortable because they’re pointy and scrapy. And anyway, who even likes pears? Apples have always tasted better than pears and no, I don’t get stomach ache from eating cooking apples raw, and besides the bantams like to sit in the low branches with me. We’re a kind of team.

My friend and I decided to tackle the pear tree nearest the wire fence, after I discovered I could use the diamonds in the wire to squeeze my toes in for extra purchase and hoist myself up to the lowest branch with less strength and effort. We made it and sat side by side, clinging onto the trunk and surrounding branches for support, legs dangling. Quite proud. Until we remembered we had to get down.

There is a branch you must swing on and then you drop down to the ground. The taller you are, the less distance to drop. It was agreed I’d demonstrate because I’d seen the expert actions of my elder siblings, in comparison with my friend, who’d only heard second-hand stories from me. The branch was short as it was rotten and snapped in half. The other half was somehow still solid and jutted out like a large spiky thorn. Our hands would acquire some damage due to the rough bark, so we prepped ourselves for the pain. Spit would help, we agreed.

From where we sat, we had to dive forward, both arms outstretched as if leaping for the top asymmetric bar, like in the Olympics on the telly. We’d have to take our full weight, swing a bit, then hang and drop. As I suspected, I felt like a truly accomplished gymnast as my feet hit the ground. I’d done the whole thing in a continuous flowing movement. My friend was heavier and less nimble and as she lurched forward, she went too rigid. Hands gripped the broken branch but instead of swinging, her torso made full contact with the trunk, her T-shirt riding up, and a ripping sound as skin scraped bark. She hung there, mouth in a wide O, not daring to move. I urged her: let go, you’re nearly there, not far to drop. Releasing her grip, I heard the sound of a vacuum as she sucked in enough air for both of us.

We congratulated ourselves on a job well done, marvelling and laughing at how we’d tell my siblings. It was then that I mentioned it. How’s your side now? The graze? What graze?

You were very brave. I thought, ooh, that’ll hurt.

I don’t know what you mean?

And then I pointed at it. Look, here.

And on her side, on her right ribcage, was a graze about three inches long, discoloured green-brown from the pear tree bark. It wasn’t bleeding, really; it left no blood on her shirt, which somehow wasn’t ripped.

And that’s when the wailing started. Long, and low, and loud, a bit like a cow. It attracted the attention of the adults who’d just emerged from the back door. The nearer they came, the higher pitched the noise became, until they were upon us, all questions, and worry, and anger, and blame.

My agility was suddenly a bad thing. How could I possibly expect others to be able to do the things I could do? Why did you decide to do it? Why did you encourage her? You’ve got your own tree. No one listened when I pointed out she’d not even noticed the injury until I’d shown her. It made no difference. Whatever I said or did just caused more upset. At that moment, I was held in this peculiar space of having all the power and simultaneously having absolutely none.

Simone Chalkley