I was puzzled! Why was this old woman making such a fuss about an old copse which was of no use to anybody? She had written letters to the local paper, even to a national, protesting about a projected by-pass to her village. Looking at a map, the route was nowhere near where she lived and it wasn't as if the area was attractive. I was more than puzzled, I was intrigued.
The enquiry into the route of the new by-pass was due to take place shortly, and I wanted to know what motivated her. So it was that I found myself knocking on a cottage door, being received by Mary Smith and then being taken for a walk to the woods.
"I've always loved this place," she said. "It has a lot of memories for me, and for others. We all used it. They called it 'Lovers' lane'. It's not much of a lane, and it doesn't go anywhere important, but that's why we all came here. To be away from people, to be by ourselves."
It was indeed pleasant that day. Squirrels gazed from the branches, quite bold in their movements. I could imagine the noise of vehicles when the by-pass was built. I felt she probably had a point, but as I believed the needs of the community overrode private opinions, I said nothing. The village was dangerous because of the traffic; safety was more important than an old woman's whims.
"Take this tree," she said, pausing. "To you it is just a tree. Not unlike many others here." She gently touched the bark. "Look here, under this branch, what can you see?"
"It looks as if someone has done a bit of carving with a knife," I said after a cursory inspection.
"Yes, that's what it is!" she said softly. "There are letters and a lover's heart."
I looked again, more carefully. The heart was there with a suggestion of an arrow through it. The letters on one side were indistinct, but on the other an 'R' was clearly visible with what looked like an 'I' after it. "Some budding romance?" I asked. "Did you know who they were?"
"Oh yes, I knew them," said Mary Smith. "It says 'RH loves MS'."
I realised I could be getting out of my depth and longed to be back in my office.
She went on... "He had a penknife with a spike for getting stones from a horse's hoof, and I helped him to carve my initials. We were very much in love, but he was going away. It was the last evening we ever spent together."
Mary Smith was quiet for a while, then she sobbed. "His mother showed me the telegram. 'Sergeant R Holmes… Killed in action in the invasion of France.'"
"'I had hoped that you and Robin would one day get married,' she said. 'He was my only child…' Two years later she too was dead. 'Pneumonia,' the doctor said, but I think it was an old-fashioned broken heart."
There was a further pause. Mary Smith gently caressed the wounded tree. "And now they want to take our tree away from me." Another quiet sob. "I was young and pretty then… I had everything… a lovely man, health, and a future to look forward to."
She paused again. "There were others, of course, but not a patch on my Robin! And now I have nothing—except the memories this tree holds. If only I could get my hands on that awful man who writes in the paper about the value of the road… I would tell him. Has he never loved? Has he never lived? Does he not know anything about memories?"
I turned away, sick at heart.