Tree Hugging Can Be Fun

Some of the "facts" in this story are blatantly untrue.

Peter Knole wasn't a man given to extremes of temper, seemingly in spite of his thickly coiffeured locks of almost dazzlingly red hair he remained, outwardly, the essence of calm contemplation. But some days started with memos like this:

Get down there and sort that bitch out.

Which generally had the effect of diverting any kind of contemplation into action. Peter always added the word 'Precipitative' to anything which moved him from his routine. He rose from his desk and picked his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugging into the sleeves, whispered to himself "Precipitative." He enjoyed the word. The sibilants and plosives rolling around his teeth, lips and tongue. "Precipitative."

As he walked through the outer office his secretary 'the delightful Shirley' looked up from her keyboard and smiled. "Hat?"

"What would I do without you Shirley?" Peter said as he walked back the way he had come to retrieve his wide brimmed fedora that kept the sunlight from making a burning orange desert of his almost albino complexion.

* * *

Surrounding the manicured pitch of the Vine Cricket Ground are eight oak trees. Another stands on the pitch itself, making nine. The pitch is one of the oldest in England and two of the trees are amongst the oldest of the flora which decorate "England's mountains green." These two trees are the remains of what give the name to the town of Sevenoaks in Kent. Your local council want to tear down these graceful examples of English heritage to satisfy the expanding globalization of disinterested "free marketeers." Please support our peaceful campaign to preserve your children's legacy.

McKenna squinted her eyes, wishing she'd remembered her sunglasses as she watched the 'suit' strolling towards her.

Here it comes

she thought.

The trouble shooter. The heavy brigade.

She slid her back down the bole of the tree feeling the warm bark tingle her spine, as she deliberately assumed a position of lowly supplicant. A fleeting smile crossed her lips when she caught a glimpse of her own cleavage and acknowledged her deliberate choice of summer shirt with three buttons missing. That and her present position (chained even) would be all the better for negotiating with authority suits. Keeping the opposition unbalanced was one of the first things she'd learned in her short civil service career.

Still reading the flyer which he'd picked up from a nearby leafleter, Peter slowed as he entered the dappled shadow of the tree, smiling his thankfulness for the intermittent shade. He stopped, unwilling to put on his specs now that the bright sunlight no longer aided his vision. He glanced towards the young... make that youngish - woman apparently shackled to the trunk, turned on his smile in pre-greeting and continued reading the flyer.

Well at least he knows the game

she thought

and as long as he sticks to the rules this might be quite entertaining,

McKenna decided that the open knees weren't necessary and shivered slightly as she extended her lengthy limbs to flatten against the sward.

Sward? It's grass you silly tart. This isn't gothic romance, it's keeping the greenery.

When she looked up she saw the puzzled expression on the suit's face

Oh God, he's reading my internal commentary

Well at least she'd managed to keep from actually whispering the words to herself. A trait which she suspected had been the entire reason for non-promotion whilst training to be a suit herself.

"Good morning." Peter smiled. "My name is Peter Knole, and you are?"

"McKenna." Said McKenna.

"So Ms McKenna --" emphasizing the Ms

"Just..." she interrupted. "Just McKenna."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "Just McKenna, like just Madonna."

"Not like just Madonna, no. McKenna is my name not a persona." Shit, he was already pressing her buttons after two sentences. She looked up and noted happily that the suit's eyes didn't move quite fast enough from her open shirt back to her face.

Fifteen all

she grinned.

"McKenna." Said Peter feeling a slight warmth which must be reddening his ears if not his cheeks at having been caught looking.

"Knole." McKenna said, "Any relation?" she asked referring to the family name of the local seat.

Glad for the distraction Peter replied. "Vaguely if at all. Removed by generations and geography."

"Well good for you." She noted the cut of the suit's suit and the matching, wide brimmed hat and decided that that however vaguely related the suit had taste. The suit

was

taste. "How can I help you?" she said in a paradoxical question. The supplicant offering help to the giver.

"You do know this is all rubbish." Peter said holding out the leaflet, which he used to block any view of the open shirt and give him a better chance to look McKenna in the eyes. Those strikingly blue eyes, with irises outlined in millimetre deeper shade before giving way to bright white.

There's something wrong here.

Peter thought.

I've managed to antagonise her within one minute of supposed negotiation and now I'm just staring into her luscious blue eyes

* Blink *

McKenna squinted as the suit paused and said. "You don't appear to have any eyebrows."

* Blink *

"Should you be standing in the direct sunlight?" She patted a large root of the tree in invitation. "Sit here."

Peter remained standing in indecision. She was asking him to get closer. Move willingly into her intimate space

Why have I never come across this woman before?

He moved to sit and asked "Have we met before?"

McKenna, smiling, shook her head 'no'

Thirty -- fifteen

"I think I would have remembered someone like you."

Too obvious. You're not some femme-fatale, you're a tree-hugging socialite -- socialist. The word is socialist.

* Blink *

"I.. erm... I think I'd have remembered someone so ginger." She said, twirling a strand of her hair to indicate what she had deduced.

Peter dropped the leaflet, removed his fedora with one hand and ran the fingers of the other through his flaming hair, before replacing the hat at a slightly jauntier angle.

McKenna looked away as Peter retrieved the fallen leaflet for want of distraction.

"This... Leaflet. It's all rubbish you know." Peter said brandishing the sheet of paper once more.

"Which part?"

"All of it."

"I didn't write it you know."

"But it's all a part of this protest."

"But still. I didn't write it. Would you scratch my nose please?"

McKenna wrinkled her nose and pointed her face at him. Peter grinned and extended his index finger to graze the end of the proffered part with a long, recently manicured nail.

"Thankyou."

"You're welcome." He recognised the tactic for what it was, a change of subject, probably meant to keep him off balance and away from the reason for his visit. He actually found that he liked her and that to get anywhere he would have to set himself for a longer haul than he had anticipated.

"I'll tell you what." McKenna said as if divining his thoughts "Let's move round a bit out of the sunlight. It's very warm." As a ruse it worked very well and Peter wasn't above 'going with the flow' if that's what it would take to resolve this. McKenna began inching her feet beneath her in order to stand up and move around the tree which is when he fully realised that she was actually shackled by three-quarter inch chain surrounding the trunk. He also realised that the request for a nose scratching, while not necessarily driven by an actual itch did constitute a further invitation to closer intimacy. He pondered this as he watched McKenna struggle to her feet

The age-blackened bark of the tree against her back gave McKenna some difficulty. As she rose to her feet the tree pulled at her shirt, tearing the fourth button and then embarrassingly popping the remaining three. Whilst she was not averse to employing her femininity for greater ends she did draw the line at public exposure and her decision to 'enhance her chances' by foregoing a bra that morning seemed to be deliberately going against her.

McKenna stopped in mid stretch and looked at Peter, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide a widening grin. "Please?" she asked of his down turned hat, which is all she could see at that point.

"Yes. Of course." Peter said "I apologise." He held the sheet of paper between his teeth as he reached for the wayward buttons. "Just hold it together while I stand up." She instructed. Peter wasn't entirely sure of what it was that he should 'hold together', the shirt or his outright laughter. He decided on the former and launched into one of his rehearsed patters gleaned vaguely that morning directly from google and wikipedia.

"Sevenoaks gets its name from the Saxon word "Se-wen-echa"," at this atrocious rendition Peter spat out the paper between his lips and continued ""Seouenaca" a chapel near seven oak trees in Knole Park.. Contrary to popular myth, the town is not named after the seven oak trees that lined the boundary of the Vine Cricket Ground, five of which were destroyed in the Great Storm of 1987. Those trees were one of several sets of seven oaks around the town and date from 19-something or other, when they were planted to commemorate the Coronation of King Edward the seventh"

McKenna noted the drone for what it was, noise to cover any embarrassment, and took her time and advantage of the situation. As she gained inch by inch up the bole of the tree she would suddenly fall fractionally back, causing her almost free breasts to barely brush through the thin material of her shirt onto the fingers or backs of Peter's hands as he manfully struggled for composure.

Thirty-fifteen

"The seventh oak of the ground is situated somewhat within the boundary of the cricket pitch and as such gives the pitch the unique distinction of being able to score a five rather than a six when a batsman lofts a delivery across the rope boundary.

McKenna now stood at her full height enjoying Peter's rather strained voice and the feel of the tightness of her shirt pulled closely in his grip. She urged him on. "How's that then?"

Peter risked a glance and saw McKenna was on her feet. With shaking fingers he started to fasten the few buttons remaining and laughed nervously. "What? Oh... How's that. Very good."

Peter's attention was now forced to focus on McKenna's shirt. Her shirt buttons to be precise but this angle gave him a direct view of her braless cleavage. Sweat stood out on his forehead, not all of it attributable to the heat of the sun on his back.

McKenna's grin was now wider than the one Peter had worn previously and she noted with some warmth that even though the buttons were now done-up Peter's fingers still lingered on the buttons and his head was still bowed. She would give him another minute. "How come you can score five instead of six?"

"Oh... erm" Peter considered the foolhardiness of remaining in this uncouth and positively ill-mannered position, staring at this woman's delightful cleavage, a dark V of freckle spotted skin giving way to the pale rise of pink flesh at either side. At least, surely at least until he had finished his muttering tale. "Any delivery which touches any part of the tree but escapes the boundary of the pitch is called as a five instead of a six." He straightened and looked into her eyes.

Fourty -- fifteen

McKenna took a step to her side and began to drag the chain around. Peter put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "It would be best if you let me help you do that."

"I'm a woman." McKenna almost screamed "Not some-"

"Erm no. No, no. It's not that." He interrupted. She stopped. He continued. "Dragging the chain around the tree might cause some damage to the bark. That could be construed as criminal damage."

"Right. She said. "Thankyou."

fourty -- thirty

After they both struggled a quarter way around the tree in order that the 'negotiation' could take place in slightly less discomfort McKenna asked: "Who sent you?"

He looked again into her eyes and crinkled his own. "Like you, I'm not at liberty."

"To divulge. Very good. I suppose you play chess as well?"

"Not as well as you, I don't think." Quite apart from McKenna's tantalising appearance Peter was very much taken with his opponent.

I could easily spend a very pleasant evening, over dinner with this 'girl'.

He put the quote marks around 'girl' in his own mind. Never having been any good at guessing ages he put her somewhere older than twenty but less than fifty. He also made the mental note never to use the term 'girl' when addressing her, realising that it would most likely come across as patronising or at least disingenuous.

"So what's this then? The Thomas Crown Affair?" She asked, straight faced.

"Hmm no. That would make you Steve McQueen and I could never pull off Faye Dunaway..." he paused for dramatic effect and then once more pulled off his hat to run fingers through his hair. "Not with this."

McKenna's face contorted with barely held laughter until she broke into a fit of giggling when Peter produced from a pocket of his dark coat a chess piece, the white queen, which he proceeded to delicately run about his lips and tongue. Every time that McKenna dared look Peter would raise coquettish eyebrows in a lascivious question at which she would fall into outright screaming laughter.

For the first time that afternoon Peter Knole had no mind for the job he had been sent to do

Eventually, and with almost perfect timing, Peter put away the chess piece and let McKenna catch her breath. After another five minutes she had regained enough composure to ask again: "Who sent you?"

"I've already said. I can't tell you."

McKenna waited.

"I can tell you what the memo said."

"Ok then, what did the memo say?" she asked.

"It said: '

Get down there and sort that bitch out.

'"

"Bitch? That sounds like Paul."

"You know Paul?"

"Ex-husband."

"Ah. That would explain the 'bitch'."

"Indeed."

"Well, being little more than an acquaintance, I tend to ignore pejorative terms in personal mail."

"Pejorative?" She raised her own eyebrows and Peter could feel himself falling into those blue depths revealed which is what made his decision firm.

I can't let her go,

"Pejorative, yes. And so the memo effectively said "Get down there and sort that out."

"Which is why you're successfully seducing me."

Successfully? If there was any seducing it wasn't started by me. Am I being played here?

Oh God why did I say that? It was me that started it all. Why did I say 'successfully'? I want him, Am I being played here?

DEUCE

Peter recovered first and said "They only send me as a last resort. If I can't sort it, it can't be sorted. It's what I do. And I'm very good."

"And have you sorted it? Are you going to sort it?"

"Actually..." Peter let the sentence hang, unsure whether to let this woman know she had won by default and not because he found himself captivated by her, but because it was the easiest route. Indeed had been the only sensible route as soon as he had read the memo.

"Actually," he began again but was interrupted by the shrill chirp of his mobile phone. For the second or third time that day, as a matter of fact for the second or third time in about four years, Peter stood immobile in indecision.

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"If it's important they'll call back."

"Well one day it

will

be important and they

won't

call back."

* Blink *

"I'll be back in a minute."

McKenna settled back into the warmth of the tree and mentally hugged herself wondering about her rapid pulse, the glowing feeling in the pit of her stomach and the unmistakable tingle of now-stiffening nipples as she watched the suit weave across the green sward,

Yes sward. It may not be gothic but it's definitely romance.

After twenty five minutes Peter walked back, snapping his phone closed and with a decisive grimace across his face. When she caught his eye, he smiled. A youthful, mischievous smile under the shadow of his wide brimmed fedora. McKenna opened her mouth to speak.

Peter raised his hand. "Don't say anything. I've made fifteen phone calls in the past twenty minutes. One of them for a reservation at that Italian restaurant for the two of us tonight at 8 o'clock." McKenna opened her mouth to speak again. "Ah-a-a." Peter stopped her again with the raised hand. He continued. "The other calls were to, it doesn't matter who to, but here's what's happening. The planning meeting is tomorrow night, starting at 5.30, this development has been pushed forward on the agenda so that it doesn't slip through 'on the nod', the developer, a friend of a friend, will withdraw from the project if the permission doesn't go through first time, he's got money tied up elsewhere and can't afford delay. The planning committee were about one third against the project on environmental grounds anyway. Your friends of friends I believe? She nodded. "It might be a bit touch and go but.. I am here and it has been sorted."

"So that's it? We've won?" McKenna began jigging in place in a miniature celebratory dance and then noticed that Peter was trying unobtrusively to 'adjust his dress' without actually moving, but squirming in seeming agony. When she realised what he was attempting and the reason for his discomfort she remembered again her morning decision to go without her bra. She stopped jigging.

"No-n-n-no. Not quite, you'll have to maintain a presence here, which means..." and all of a sudden Peter had become the shy guy again.

"I need a replacement." McKenna finished "If I've got a date for a fancy Italian restaurant."

"Is that a yes?"

She smiled "Did you doubt it Mr. Trouble shooter? Mr. Heavy mob? Mr. I'm-very-good-at-my-job?"

"Ok. Alright. Can you get someone to take your place?"

"No problemo." And McKenna simply let go of the chain which girdled the tree and walked forward shouting "CHARLEY. CAN YOU DO TONIGHT? FROM NOW?"

* * *

The public gallery of the council chamber where the planning committee met was partitioned from the meeting by a three foot high wooden balustrade, which meant the public in the front row had to lean forward with their arms on it to view the whole of the meeting room. This also meant that the councilors and various civil servants had a view only of disembodied heads as audience.

McKenna sat as though raptured whilst the interminable forms of welcome, minutes and reports were droned blearily on to a seemingly disinterested committee.

Peter, hatless, sat by her side, after finding that McKenna's ex was safely seated facing the Chair and apparently oblivious to the otherwise empty gallery, he watched the occasional sway of McKenna's breasts as she shifted position on the hard cushionless seats or the flutter of sun-browned hands pushing stray locks of hair from her face and heard the faint rattle of three quarter inch chain bracelets on her wrist.

His eyes narrowed. "We're you-"

"Shsh. This is us."

"McKenna?" Peter hissed.

"What?" she whispered back without turning her head and baring her teeth to the usher in the room below in apology.

Peter leaned forward and with his lips to her ear he asked. "Were you chained to that tree?"

McKenna tilted her head slightly and Peter turned to hear. "No silly." She placed the palm of her hand on Peter's lap and said "Now hush and listen."

Peter sat back stunned.

Very soon, as the debate on the floor got into flow Peter could feel McKenna's fingers twitching and dancing on his thigh which, given the situation and his professional standing, was both at once disconcerting and thrilling.

McKenna seemed to be getting hugely excited by the events below as councilors of both sides made their feelings (and consequently some of their dealings) known to the others, then once or twice Peter heard someone or other directly addressing McKenna's ex-husband and she would surge in her seat, pressing her chest to the wooden rail and digging her fingers into Peter's thigh. Quite soon Peter could feel his own passion rising, well not so much rising as snaking forward, and fortunately or unfortunately the forward was in the direction of McKenna's grasping fingers.