The Triumph of Reason

"Outside the house, the ash tree hangs its terrible whips" Lawrence
Suffolk, 1951

The ash tree had always stood by the outside door of Whitfield Farm. Given the farm's frequent and rapid changes of freehold, often effected by executors of wills, it had grown into an object of intense local superstition.
The marks of what had begun its legend remain, having weathered the storms of time- old axe marks, now several feet higher than when they were inflicted. Beneath it were other marks, mostly made by subsequent inhabitants. The tree was a calendar of its supposed owners, all of whom it had survived, and it seemed proud of the fact.

The first of the axe cuts were made over a century ago, when a previous owner, in a fit of madness (or clarity, say the credulous), decided that the ash tree was the source of all the farm's troubles, and went to cut it down. Some say what happened next was caused by the ash tree itself, others believe that he was simply an old man who overexerted himself. The doctors pronounced him "dead of natural causes", which did nothing to dispel the rumours of either. He was buried in the village churchyard, his funeral packed with villagers hoping to find out some more on the matter. Meanwhile, in the mild March breeze, the ash tree unfurled its young green leaflets in a mocking salute.

"Stuff and nonsense!" declared Captain Perry, on hearing this. "One dead old man, and gullible yokels cower!" The estate agent, who was a local, and knew how difficult this property was to sell, said nothing. Captain Perry turned to his wife, and continued self-importantly, "Anyway, dear, all this superstitious rot means we can pick the place up dirt cheap!"
Captain Perry was the sort of man who always seemed to talk in exclamation marks. Tactless, stout and ruddy-faced (the phrase "in rude health" was probably coined with him in mind), he had decided to buy a nice place in the aftermath of the War, and the country had struck him as a capital venture. Their adult son had been less than enthusiastic, but as Captain Perry had told him firmly, "It's not as if we're asking you to come. Stick with your Emma girl."

"Emily," his son had corrected him quietly, and the interview was at an end.
His wife nodded and said, "Quite, dear," almost inaudibly. Mrs. Perry was almost the exact opposite of her husband, mousy and quiet. She dressed with unobtrusive tastefulness, as if she hoped to be mistaken for part of the furniture, but a neat, co-ordinating piece of the furniture.

A short span of time elapsed (for Captain Perry, behind his bluff and medals, had been a very efficient Captain, and knew how to pull the strings) before the Perrys took possession of Whitfield Farm.

Equally, it was not long before the couple discovered that their country idyll was not exactly what they had bargained for (a cliché which here is meant literally). It was most unfortunate that Mrs. Perry was so accustomed to her creature comforts- this was to cost her dear before the summer had run its course. In fact, she was what her neighbours would have called 'a blimmin' townie'.

The discovery that there was no hot water on tap, and that there were no decent places to have a coffee in, or to obtain fashion periodicals bought out her shrewish streak, which so many women possess, and artfully conceal until the end of their honeymoon.

Not to mention the necessity of dealing with rural life- she found herself repulsed by the thought of doing away with the infestation of rats, but too terrified of them to contemplate letting them stay. An expensive pest control team had to be called in from Ipswich. This was the defining moment as to the locals' opinion of her. Suffice it to say that she was frequently referred from that moment as 'that daft city woman'. The friendlessness that resulted was another of the gripes she laid firmly and frequently at her husband's door.

But Captain Perry had difficulties of his own. All the animals rapidly became sickly; not anything serious enough to merit veterinary attention, merely a lack of lustre and productivity. It also seemed to be impossible to get anything to take seed on their land. In fact, the only thing that was flourishing was that blasted ash tree by the back door. It had put out a healthy crop of leaves (pity the damned things were worthless), while his special hybrid seeds died- as if someone had sowed the earth with salt.

"The cows are barren and the sows are farren and the King's Evil and the Queen's Bane and the Prince's Heritage ravages our crops. 'Cos why? 'Cos there's a curse on us, Robert Poste's child," he quoted to himself absently, before realising what he had said, and adding, "Curse! Humph! Codswallop!"

The days lengthened, and were soon reaching their longest. The farm's prospects had not improved; indeed, more than half the dairy herd had run completely dry, leading to wrathful promises of the abattoir come September. Mrs. Perry, however, had become heartily fed up with the rural life, and her complaints had grown steadily in frequency and volume:

"James, I simply cannot tolerate this!"

There were many things Mrs. Perry would not tolerate. One of them was the spoiling of the few artefacts of civilisation she possessed. These steadily dwindled in number, until the fateful Sunday that they were returning from church in a fair breeze, which a glance at the horizon confirmed was the forerunner of a summer storm.

The breeze, which was only playful in the sense of a cat playing with a trapped mouse before putting the creature out of its misery, had tugged at Mrs. Perry's hat all the way along the lane, and finally succeeded in wrenching it off her head as they reached the back door. The hat landed in the fateful ash tree, where the thrashing tendrils quickly reduced the delicate article to a felt rag topped by an ornamental flower. Things probably would have turned out quite differently had it not been Mrs. Perry's last, and most precious hat.

"James," she screamed, her voice swirling with the wind. "I simply cannot tolerate this! That ash tree has to go, or I will!"

Since this did not produce quite the desired effect, she expanded. "Did you hear me, James? I said, either you cut that tree down, or I will leave you! I will go back to the land of hot baths and new stockings!"

Captain Perry realised that she meant it, and that in addition, a new hat would have to be bestowed as a peace offering. He sighed and went to get the axe, the first drops of rain spotting his yellow jacket. He had a brief difficulty finding it, and then returned quickly, keen to get the job over, as the storm had broken very swiftly. His wife was still in her temper, waiting for him. She didn't seem to care about her clothes getting soaked.

"Cut it! Cut it!" she shrieked, as though possessed.

As Captain Perry raised his hatchet to lop at the tree, she grabbed it, and pulled, as though her feeble, ladylike arms could uproot it.

It was really most unfortunate that the first bolt of lightening chose that moment to strike. If Captain Perry had found the axe a little sooner, they would probably still be here to tell the tale. But he didn't, and they were found the next day, by the man who came to collect the milk. The doctors pronounced that they had died of electrocution, the coroners returned a verdict of natural death, and they were buried in a cemetery in Ipswich. They were soon only remembered by another notch on the ash tree.

But if anyone had chanced upon the scene while the storm was still raging, they would have seen the two prone bodies, and the ash tree, stripped bare of its leaves by the bolt, waving its naked branches in the air in an eerie victory dance.