The Old Oak

4

Gareth sparked up his second cigarette. Blew out the smoke and watched it rise and disperse. Then his eyes fell back onto the tree. Its bark was so aged and weather worn it looked polished smooth.
    Gareth smiled. He felt like the trees gnarled, smooth-wrinkled appearance was a reflection of his own. It seems they had both had a hard life. He indoors, smelted, pelted, and belted by a life in the factory. The tree, well, maybe the tree had had it rougher.
    He had come to work at the air factory not long after it came to Speeler Hollow, back when they were still making the Copper Corsair prop plane. Back when Speeler Hollow was a dusty one street town. The walled courtyard with this tree at its centre had quickly become his refuge from the hot, stinking, grind of factory work. He was surprised the tree still budded each spring. After the ash speckled snow smothered it all winter long.
    A rumble moved through the ground. From beyond the wall Gareth saw the rising of iron. Two big engines, gushing steam and smoke, propellers pointed skywards. The fuselage of the craft came into view. A fat iron cigar with wings and a domed cock-pit at its front, a gunners cock-pit at its rear. This was the first flight of the Ironclad Invader. An armoured sky-tank capable of vertical lift off.
    Gareth ignored its take off into the sky, and the resounding applause of the factory workers and managers that had attended its maiden voyage. He puffed his smoke and went over to the tree, looking at the etchings of love hearts and initials in its bark. The hefty gouge line at its base. This tree was hardier than anything they produced in the factory, he thought with another smile.
    He kicked over some old leaves to sit in its roots.
    Funny, he had never noticed this before. It was a plaque. Brass. Tarnished. The etching faded. He smoothed it with his hand, inspecting it closer.

    In honour of Beatrice Fischer.

    He pondered it a while. Perhaps this was planted here when the airfield was built? Maybe she was someones special wife, or child, of the factories founder or something. The tree would have been a gift, perhaps. That name seemed familiar. Yes, likely someone to do with the Greenshaws aerodrome.
    Gareth shrugged. Dragged on his smoke and snubbed it out under the toe of his boot.
    It was time to head back in. He said a silent goodbye to the tree and wished someone would plant a tree for him when he died. Then he could be remembered long after he was gone.