The Old Oak

2

The town hall was filled with the noise of ceaseless chatter. Even the mayors cry for order as he knocked his gavel on the head table could not subdue the crowd. It was not quite a lawful setting, but this sort of excitement had not been roused in Speeler Hollow since the Buxton brothers feud with the Harrisons, which had ended in both families having set each others barns ablaze (all over one families dog eating another's chicken).
    Naturally, with the commotion Beatrice had been stirring this past week, the town had gathered in the hall with all the gusto of someone needing to be punished at whatever the outcome.
    Beatrice, sensing the meeting had fallen into disorder sidled out of her chair. Giving the mayor one last look of restrained contempt before she left. Guilt surfaced, in doing so. She had, after all, roused almost the entire town, and was now leaving them divided on the matter.
    When the warm afternoon air surrounded her, fresh and free from the pandemonium of a hundred voices, the guilt began to wane. She looked down the cobbled main street of Speeler Hollow from the town hall steps. It was like looking down the sights of a rifle, with the oak tree and its field dead centre.
    Beatrice thought of walking along the porches of the shops on main street, though she wanted the sun on her neck. She relished in its fierce heat. A punishment for not being swift-of-tongue enough to convince the officials that this airfield only forebode the end of Speeler Hollow as they knew it.
    Oh, what was she to the mayor and his influence? What deal was he getting to allow this to take place? Of course he knew of AeroTech and its plans long before and would have kept it silent until the first brick was being put into place.
    She had put up her argument, her case to protect this field, its oak tree, and therefore the history — no —the sanctity of Speeler Hollow. Blood soaked that soil from those who had fought to defend this area. It was the planting of that oak tree that symbolised that. From sacrifice new life would arise.
    The sentiments in that hall had been clear. She was but a school teacher. What would she know or understand of progress? We are living in a time of change, the mayor had said, change that would be written in to history books, and if she wanted to be a part of it she would shape up and not impede. After all, a tree is but a tree. More can be grown.
    "But the factory, the aerodrome, would stand as a new symbol of sacrifice, ingenuity, and progress. Industry! That is where growth lies. This town will prosper from it. Whereas what will one single oak tree bring but shade?" The mayor had scoffed, laughing.
    She could hear the scoffing, still. The mayors followers bleating the same retort. The insolence of it! No one there with any forethought or self management of thought. They could not, would not, see her point of view. Some in the crowd had, and that was when the raucous arguments started.
    Beatrice broke her vision away from the ground. Her neck demanded respite. As she looked up there was a man standing, cap in hand, underneath the oak. She crossed the lane, taking note of her school and knowing that the view from her window would not be the same again.
    The man looked up at her approach and gave a vague smile. Perhaps she was scowling. The sweat glistened off his dark skin, giving the man a sort of radiance to accompany his smile. He wiped his brow on his sleeve and returned to staring up at the oaks spreading limbs.
    "My grand-pappy planted this tree."
    "Mister Albert Smith, the stationary gunner. The first of the armies gunners class, if I'm not mistaking. It was the steam repeater."
    He turned to look at Beatrice. His smile was wide now, with a stunned look in his face.
    "You know my grand-pappy?"
    "Of course. I wouldn't be much of a school teacher if I did not take pride in knowing my own local history."
    "I s'pose not. You're fighting for that history."
    "I am. And losing."
    He shook his head. His smile hadn't left him. "Nah. You jus' need more help is all. Here,"
    From his back pocket he pulled out a folded bit of paper, handed it to her. She unfolded it and saw two pages, one filled with signatures. The other explaining that the signatures were petitioning for the aerodrome to not defile Speeler Hollows history.
    "Mister Smith," Beatrice said, with an air of disbelief.
    "Please, jus' John."
    "Well, John, this is most remarkable. You drew this up yourself? Got everyone to sign it?"
    "I did indeed, ma'am."
    "We may still have a fighting chance, John. Do you mind if I keep hold of it?"
    "It's yours. I was goin' ta leave it tucked in the school door for you."
    "I will add my own letter to this. Then I will see if I can get any more signatories. It shan't be hard. There were a lot of people feeling quite bitter at being left in the dark of this new development."
    "Me too, ma'am. Me too." He looked up at the tree once more. "Grand-pappy lost an eye. The guns vent valve malfunctioned. Pa always told me he would say he lost his bad eye that day. His good eye was spared. Said he only saw beauty in the world from that day on."
    Beatrice was silent. She could only but smile at John as he donned his cap, tipped it at her and departed.
    She would save this tree. She would fight for it and every thing it stood for. It was important, for the town. For Speeler Hollow's unique history. For the people, their sacrifices, and the future of those to come. 
    The aerodrome here would be a blight on this natural landscape. It must not come to pass.