Fences

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I saw a grey languorous squirrel stare at me from behind the shrubbery. Which was odd. Squirrels are never languorous, at least none that I’d ever met. They’re always motionless like sculpture or shift like quick-silver. Their heads stare at some point in the grass then they’re watching something else. There’s no in between, hardly a perceptible movement. And never languor.

 

‘It’s rude to stare.’

 

The voice came from where I was looking but all I could see was the squirrel.

 

‘I said it’s rude to stare.’

 

Christ, it was the squirrel.

 

‘Sorry,’ I said then immediately felt stupid. Surely I wasn’t talking to a bloody squirrel.

 

The animal stood on its hind legs, reached into a pocket and put on a pair of glasses. They were a terrible fit. The loops curved approximately round his tiny pointed ears and the lenses sat wobbling on a long bridge-less nose that extended the length of its face. The creature repeatedly put its claws up to steady them but eventually gave up the effort and just held them in place.

 

‘Male?’ it enquired.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Are you male? Its so difficult to tell these days. You all seem to be wearing the same clothes from down here. It was different in my young day. Shoes were distinctive then.’

‘I’m a man,’ I said limply.

‘Are you cutting down our homes?’

‘I was just gardening that’s all. I thought your homes were in the trees.’

‘Of course they’re in the trees. Over there.’ The squirrel pointed with his glasses to a copse that extended from Mr Turner’s garden to Mrs Willoughby’s. ‘An entire village is in danger.’

 

Mr Turner was removing trees. He’d told me his plans last week.  He was going to build a patio at the end of his garden to catch the sun. He’d got fed up with sitting in shadow outside his lounge.

 

‘I’m not cutting anything down except dead flowers,’ I said. ‘But I know who is. I could give you his address if you like.’

 

The squirrel snorted. ‘Well I’d appreciate it if you told him to stop doing it.’

 

‘I can’t tell him what to do with his trees.’

‘They’re not his trees,’ the squirrel said indignantly. ‘They’re our trees. We’ve been living here for generations.’

‘So now Mr Turner owns them. He bought them with the garden and the house. If you can read as well as you talk maybe Mr Turner could show you his deeds.’

‘If he owns them why have you tied a swing to this oak tree?’

‘He doesn’t own the oak tree.’

‘You just said he did.’

‘I own the oak tree because it’s on my side of the fence. You don’t seem to be a very intelligent squirrel.’

 

The squirrel re-balanced his glasses and looked to where I was pointing.

 

‘That fence, as you call it, is a path so we can get from tree to tree more easily. My kids are always running up and down it. Keeps them out of mischief.’

‘You don’t seem to understand,’ I said with some exasperation. ‘The trees are in three different gardens, divided by fences. This bit is mine but I have no intention of pulling the oak tree down. The other trees belong to other people and they can do what they like within reason.’

 

The squirrel placed his hands on his hips. ‘You’re the one who misunderstands. For all your size you don’t seem to have much on top. This is a group of trees. It’s not three groups of trees as any idiot can see for themselves. Your artificial boundaries are meaningless. Do you think the birds care or the snails or the butterflies? They just move about living their lives and minding their own business. And that’s just what we want to do.’

 

He raised his eyes to the sky and tutted. ‘People!’ it said.

 

I tried to think of another riposte. Losing an argument to a squirrel was just too embarrassing. But I could suddenly see that all I had to defend myself were bits of paper signed at the bottom and I knew that that wasn’t going to impress.

 

‘I’ll have a word with Mr Turner,’ I heard myself saying and then my wife said, ‘Pardon, dear.’

 

She was sitting next to me reading. The sun had crept down towards the horizon and I felt hot and sticky.

 

‘Have I been asleep?’ I asked.

‘Probably,’ she said. ‘I’ve got lost in this book. Its about African villages being split apart by colonial boundaries. Fascinating stuff.’

‘Squirrels get it just as bad,’ I said but I don’t think she heard me.