“Bloody pine trees”, Dad always said, as we passed that grove of huge old trees at our boundary fence. He had a set against them, but I don’t remember any specific explanation for his dislike. For us, they offered escape, adventure, testing boundaries, skills; an opportunity to command a realm as wide and as close as the sky, a secret shared only with the magpies.
My tree was the second in from the road. My cousin, she had chosen the fourth one. We passed them on the walk to and from the bus, and there was always time for a climb. She was still a bit of a sook – she was only eight and liked to perch on a flat bit, about four branches from the ground. At nine, I had conquered the treetops – almost, well, I mean, my crowsnest was just below where the branches started to sway in the wind. But I could still search out the sea, the beach, highway traffic, and I could yell across to Suzie in her nearby possie. My sword and shield were tucked into a group of smaller branches, always at the ready to ward off marauding Vikings, dinosaurs or tigers, and we would still be home in time for strawberry jam on pikelets, with globs of Daisy’s scalded cream.
I think it must have been my elder brother – it was the sort of thing he did. I knew dinosaurs couldn’t reach up that high. It was Monday arvo and standing at my tree, I saw my weapons, broken, lying on the ground. There were scuff marks in the needles. I was sure my gear didn’t just fall. It was a hot December day, just before Christmas, no breezes, still as the cemetery down the road. Nah, they didn’t just fall. I needed to change my hidey-hole.
I went to the shed, rummaging through Dad’s tools and stuff. Got it – a roll of tape. I put it carefully into my school bag for tomorrow’s repair work. My stomach reminded me it was pikelet-time!
We heard the racket first, ‘clank, clank, squeal, clank …’. We started to run, then gobsmacked, we stopped, frozen, as around the corner we see the bulldozer working on our trees. Piles of broken branches already heaped up, Dad and my uncle at the edge of the pile with a jerrycan. I saw, felt a whoomph, as the match caught the fuel. “What have you done? Why are you knocking down our cubbies?” I madly danced towards them, swinging my bag in a desperate effort to stop them. I was snivelling, Suzie started to cry while Dad and my uncle looked quizzically at each other.
The dozer continued to work on the clearing. I threw the roll of tape at Dad. I yelled through my tears and utter desolation. I think I may have wet my pants, too!
Not even strawberry pikelets and cream consoled my sense of betrayal. That night, over dinner Dad said “Bloody pine trees!”