The Last Witness

There are places that become part of you. Sometimes because extraordinary things happened there. Sometimes because they quietly stood in the background while life unfolded around them. You don’t realise it at the time. Then one day the place changes… …and you discover it wasn’t just part of the landscape. It had become something more. Fifteen years ago, I married the love of my life at Rumwell Manor. The sun was glorious. Not just warm… Glorious. An outdoors ceremony, surrounded by everyone we loved, overlooking the rolling Somerset hills. Field after field stretched into the distance, broken only by ancient hedgerows and magnificent old trees that looked as though they’d been standing there forever. It was breathtaking. If you’d asked me that day what I’d remember most, I’d probably have said seeing my husband waiting for me at the end of the aisle. His hair, incidentally, looked less “groom” and more “recently electrified.” He’d spent so long making sure everything else was perfect that hair gel never quite made it onto the priority list. I didn’t care. Because all I saw… …was him. The love of my life. I would probably have remembered our families laughing. Or one of my husband’s mates, who stealthily added enough gin to tranquillise a rhinoceros to a pitcher of Pimm’s, just to spice things up a bit. And the fact I was so gloriously drunk before our first dance that my poor husband practically had to dance for the both of us just to keep me upright. If you’d asked me what I’d remember fifteen years later… I wouldn’t have said the trees. And yet, somehow… …they’re what stayed with me. A few years ago, I found myself driving back past Rumwell. The manor was still there. My memories were still there. The view… …wasn’t. The hills had been carved open. Diggers crawled across the landscape. Roads had appeared where skylarks once nested. Foundations spread across the earth like cracks in porcelain, while rows of identical houses climbed steadily across what had once been unbroken green. Overcome with emotion, I had to pull over. And I just cried. And cried. Not because people don’t deserve homes. They do. But because it felt like something had been erased rather than built. That wasn’t just a field. It was my field. The backdrop to the happiest day of my life. The view that framed the beginning of my marriage. Fifteen years earlier I’d stood there believing those hills would always be there, rolling endlessly into the future, just as my husband and I believed our own future stretched out before us. Now… …both had changed. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Eighteen months ago, that very housing estate became part of my postal round with Royal Mail. “Bushy.” A fascinating choice of name, given whoever came up with it clearly arrived after they’d chopped all the bushes down. Now it’s just a concrete jungle. Every morning I deliver letters to roads that, not so very long ago, belonged to rabbits, foxes, butterflies, badgers and trees. Every neat little driveway sits where roots once stretched beneath the soil. Every brick rests upon land that spent centuries simply… being. Perhaps that’s why it unsettles me so much. Nature never disappears all at once. It slips away unnoticed. One tree. One hedge. One meadow. One field. Until one day you realise the landscape you’ve carried around in you no longer exists anywhere except inside your own memory. Perhaps that’s why I dream about trees. Not haunted forests. Not enchanted forests. Just… …one tree. I find myself standing in Bushy. Roads. Brick. Streetlights. Cars. Concrete. And there he is. An enormous oak. The last one left. He stands alone in the middle of the estate as though someone forgot to erase him. I walk over. Rest my hand against his bark. It’s warm. “Morning.” I freeze. Slowly look over my shoulder. Nobody. The tree lets out an exaggerated sigh, his branches trembling. “Honestly, Amanda… it’s as if you’ve never met a talking tree before.” I stare. “You… you just talked?” “I’ve been talking for centuries,” he replies. “You’re the only one who’s finally listening.” I blink. “I’m sorry…” “It’s alright. Most humans don’t notice us until they’re looking for shade.” I laugh nervously. “What… what’s your name?” “Terry.” “…Terry?” “Yeah.” “…Terry the tree?” “Yeah.” “It’s a bit… clichéd, isn’t it?” He sighs so dramatically half his leaves flutter. “Expecting something more whimsical, were you?” “I don’t know… maybe.” “So did my mother.” I laugh. He continues. “You should hear some of the names people call their dogs.” “Oh?” “Tinkerbell. Biscuit. Crumpet. Weiner…” “Weiner?” “Dachshund.” “Fair enough.” “I’ve also known two Cockapoos called Kevin.” “…Kevin?” “I’ve stopped asking questions.” We fall into an easy rhythm. “You’ve had thirty-odd years of listening to humans,” he says. “I’ve had four hundred.” Another pause. “Trust me,” he adds. “Terry isn’t the embarrassing one.” I shake my head, smiling. “So… why are you still here?” He snorts. “Apparently I’m carrying too much timber.” “How bloody rude.” “Isn’t it just? They measured me. Too expensive to move. Too awkward. Too much hassle.” He sighs. “So here I am. The last tree standing.” I look around. “You’re the only one.” “I am now.” Silence settles between us. Then Terry says quietly, “I remember your wedding.” I smile. “You do?” “Oh yes. Your husband’s hair looked remarkably like my mate, Henry.” “Henry?” “The hedge.” I laugh so hard I have to wipe my eyes. “He spent the entire morning making sure everyone else was happy,” Terry continues, “and completely forgot his own head.” “I didn’t even notice.” “Yeah… you humans never do.” He doesn’t say it cruelly. Just… knowingly. “And then there was the gin.” “Oh, don’t.” “You became wonderfully unstable.” “I became absolutely hammered.” “You did.” “I ruined our first dance.” “From where I was standing, it looked less like dancing…” he chuckles, “…and more like your husband refusing to let you fall.” He pauses. “Looked like love to me.” I can’t help but smile. “And then there was the summerhouse incident,” he says. I groan. “Oh God, you knew about that?” He looks at me as though I’ve asked the daftest question imaginable. “I could hear the pair of them having at it from halfway across the rolling hills.” I wipe tears of laughter. “I admired the confidence,” he says. “Privacy,” he says, “is something humans like to think they have.” “How do you mean?” “You have a remarkable habit of doing very private things…” He pauses just long enough. “…outdoors.” I laugh again. “I suppose we do.” “The wildlife usually knows before everyone else.” The laughter fades. I look across Bushy. The rooftops. The roads. The concrete. “I hate this.” The words leave before I can stop them. “I hate what they’ve done.” Terry is silent for a while. When he finally speaks, he says, “You think I like this view?” I turn towards him. He gestures with a branch towards the estate. “Every morning I wake up to this eyesore.” His anger softens into sadness. “I used to look at fields, hedgerows, and watch the foxes crossing the grass before sunrise.” He goes very still. “I knew every tree that stood here. My brothers. My sisters. My children. My oldest friends.” A pause. “They’re all gone.” His voice is still calm. But somehow that makes it worse. “They’ve taken my family,” he continues. “My friends.” “One day the children growing up here will think this…” He gestures towards the houses. “…was always the view.” A silence settles between us. “And they’ll never know a place where foxes crossed the fields at dawn… or where one nervous groom forgot to put hair gel in his hair.” I smile through the tears. “Do you know why I remembered your wedding?” I shake my head. “Because humans hardly notice us…” A gentle breeze stirs his branches. “…until we’re gone.” I don’t know what to say. “But we always notice you.” He smiles to himself. “I watched your husband waiting for you,” he says gently. “I watched you trying not to cry before the ceremony.” “I watched your first dance…” A tiny pause. “…well, what passed for dancing.” A soft laugh catches in my throat. “You were magnificent,” he says. “I was a disaster.” “You were in love.” Another silence settles between us. Then he continues. “I watched two idiots sneaking off into the summerhouse.” “Oh God, please don’t.” “I remember every wedding,” he says softly. “Every picnic. Every child who climbed my branches. Every dog that chased a stick. Every goodbye.” The smile slowly disappears from his face. He takes in the estate. His home. Or what used to be his home. “The trouble is…” His voice is barely louder than the wind. “I’m starting to remember places… that no longer exist.” I follow his gaze. The roads. The houses. The pavements. The neat little gardens. Everything that came afterwards. And suddenly I realise… He isn’t mourning the trees. He’s mourning an entire world that only he remembers. And when he’s gone… so will its last witness.