The Yunnan Poplars

He was standing by the double doors that opened onto the terrace and back garden. It was still early, not long after sunrise, and the garden was deep in shadow. He didn’t turn as she came into the room.

“You’re an early bird,” she said.

“No worms though,” he replied without turning around.

“Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

“Yes, yes. I made a pot of, pot of, you know. Should still be warm. If you want some.”

“What are you looking at?”

He didn’t reply.

She came and stood beside him.

“That dressing gown is dreadful,” she said. “They won’t let you in.”

She pulled a dangling thread from his sleeve, balled it up and flicked it onto the terrace.

“Well, that suits me. I’ll wear it over my clothes, then. Make a bad impression.”

“Don’t, Dad.”

He said nothing and she turned away impatiently.

“I’ll make a fresh pot.”

Her father pushed the doors wide open and stepped onto the terrace. He pointed to the row of six Yunnan poplars evenly spaced along the garden boundary.

“How high would you say they were now?” He squinted skywards, shading his eyes against the rising sun.

She shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. Why?”

“Must be about sixty, seventy feet, don’t you think?”

Only now did he turn and look at her. “They come from southern China. I planted them just after we moved here”.

“I know, Dad.”

“Must be nearly forty years ago. More. They’ve been good trees. Done a good job. Shade in summer. Let the sun in—in—oh, for pity’s sake! In, in—”

She touched his arm. “Winter.”

“Don’t tell me!” he shouted. “I’ve told you before not to tell me.”

“All right, Dad. I’m sorry. I’ll make the tea.”

She turned and went into the kitchen.

Slowly he lowered himself into a chair, and leaned back, looking at the poplars bursting with new growth.

“Winter,” he muttered. “They let the sun through in winter. Now is the winter of our discontent.”

He pulled his dressing gown more tightly around him and refastened the cord.

She was right. Really, it was disgraceful. Frayed and stained. So what, he thought. Who was he going to impress now?

“Dad!”

She was standing in the doorway, thrusting the kettle towards him like a weapon. “You left it on the gas. After you made your tea. Look, it’s ruined.”

He took the kettle from her and peered into its interior. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Dad. Look at it. It’s buggered.”

He wished she wouldn’t swear. When he was young you never swore in front of a woman. Now women seemed to take a special delight in swearing in front of men. He handed the kettle back to her.

“It’s only a thing. A—a—kettle. A thing. That’s all,” he said.

She forced down her irritation. The day was just starting and there was a long way to go. Yes, of course it was only a thing. Just a kettle. And what if he’d burnt the house down? What about that? That would have been some farewell.

She sat down beside him and put the kettle on the ground.

“Sorry,” he said.

She smiled and touched him again on the arm.

“It doesn’t matter, Dad.”

They sat in silence. A soft breeze rustled through the poplars. A pair of crimson rosellas shot across the lawn and wheeled out of sight. He was still gazing intently at the trees, as if fixing them in his memory.

“It’ll be fine once you’re settled in. I know it will,” she said.

“They have this sticky yellow sap. Terrible stuff if you get it on yourself. Which, young lady, you always managed to do. I’d have to hold your hands under the tap and scrub them with a bit of pumice. You hated it.”

“Well, it hurt.”

“I’m sure it did.”

He stood up, moved behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Coming?” he asked.

“Where?”

“To make that pot of tea. I’ll use a—a—thing—saucepan. You can supervise me. We’ll have it out here on the terrace. Then I’ll have my shower, get dressed, finish packing, and I’ll be ready to go.”

He looked up, above the poplars, up into the sky. He turned her towards him and smiled.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” he said.

Neither of them moved. Then, softly, the director said:

“Cut.”

There was a flurry of movement from the crew. The two actors were asked to hold their positions while photos were taken for continuity. An assistant checked the camera gate, to make sure it was free of dirt or hairs. The director watched a video playback of the scene, and declared himself satisfied. It was a print.

As the crew started to set up the next scene, the two actors helped themselves to coffee at the catering table then strolled across the lawn towards the poplars.

“They’re lovely trees. Is the sap really that bad?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. Terrible stuff.”

A crew member had put their folding canvas chairs in the shade of the trees and they sat down.

“We’ll have it out here on the terrace. You can supervise me,” he muttered.

“What?”

“That line. I got it the wrong way round. I said ‘You can supervise me. We’ll have it out here on the terrace’.”

She laughed. “I didn’t notice.”

He hunched forward, sipping his coffee. She saw that his hands were shaking. She leaned forward and touched his arm.

“It was good. Really good.”

He nodded. “I know. But I was fighting for every line. Thought it would never end.”

“It was a long take.”

“Too bloody long. Bad as being on stage.” He leaned back and sighed. “Really, this is no job for a grown-up.”

She laughed. “How many times have you said that?”

“Hundreds probably. And it’s true.”

She laughed again. “I’m a grown-up.”

“You’re a very young grown-up. Just you wait.” He put his coffee down on the grass and reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulled out a page of script.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “A quick run-through?”

She sighed. On the hour-long drive to the location they had run the dialogue of their scenes time and time again. The slightest mistake and he had insisted they go back to the beginning.

She must be patient. He was a wonderful actor. Eighty-something. An inspiration to them all. No retirement home for him. He would keep on keeping on.

The scene was short, barely half a dozen lines each: they ran it three times. He was word perfect.

As he thrust the page back into his pocket and picked up his coffee, a leaf spiralled down from one of the poplars and landed in her lap. She picked it up.

“Oh, yuk.” She looked at the sticky yellow resin on her fingers.

He smiled. “I told you.”