Meet me at the pear tree

Biggleswade village is picturesque, and back on the number one spot of 'most desirable place to live in the UK,' recovering from a tragedy 30 years or so ago. Few can remember when, less can remember what. With quaint thatched roofed cottages straight from the front of a chocolate box. Or those shortbread biscuits your neighbour brings back as a gift for you watering their plants while they enjoyed a week in the Cotswolds.

The residents peek through the tiny lead lighted windows with the odd stain glass window here and there, at the holiday makers who descend in spring and follow the blossom trail of the apple trees in bloom. A sudden out of season wind, the remnants of a tropical storm, itself the leftovers of hurricane Gertrud. Causes the blossom to fly, white petals fluttering eventually to the ground after a merry dance. More confetti than petals, a local couples photographer catching the most incredible wedding photograph which goes viral in its beauty.

The viral image increases the number of summer holiday makers and people trying to book the village church to marry in. They all join the regulars, who return year after year to sample the cider which is as famous if not more so than the blossom trail. Villagers tend to keep to themselves, they are not rude to their guests as they appreciate these people bring with them a rich source of income. Without this many local businesses will not survive.

If you follow the public footpath leading to Headerford, the nearest town. You will find yourself in a field, perhaps originally allotments, where locals without gardens grew vegetables and fruit to feed their growing families. Now just a field, the broad expanse of grass where relations gather to meet in the summer for picnics and rounders matches. Lying back in the grass sipping a refreshing cold drink and watching their children chasing the butterflies attracted to the wild meadow flowers allowed to grow unchecked.

Unaware of who this land belongs to, the pear tree takes pride of place in the centre. A focal meeting point for years with its thick branches and gnarled bark. 'Meet me at the pear tree,' is a common phrase in these parts. The rumour remains of allotments here back in the day, or an orchard. In the tree is carved several names but the most poignant one is 'GH loves TJ.' A true Romeo and Juliette tale if ever there is one.

Star crossed lovers, who's families forbade them from being together. They ran away to Gretna Green to marry, only to be followed by Tracy's brothers. Local poachers who are well recognised for solving problems with their fists.

When the brothers tracked the young lovers down, they didn't care they are already betrothed. In their eyes their sister is committing a sin. That night they don't only take her husbands life, they take the life of their own kin. The parents cover up the crime yet everyone fathoms what transpired, the couple vanish and the brothers are ostracised from the family. Perhaps this is why Biggleswade is considered to be such an extraordinary place to live, they deal with their own scandals, nothing gets out.

Many a couple lay under the shade of the pear tree in the hedy heat of a barmy summer day, watching dragon flys flit across the nearby pond. Listening to the crickets sing their merry tune, while bees buzz their way from one bloom to another. Enjoying the variety of meadow flowers before them as they bumble their way from one to another.

Pretty much everyone who grows up in the village possess a story of them or their pal climbing the pear tree's branches. Able to glimpse the village green, mown in every increasing circles and the duck pond, occupied or not, from the highest branch. Likewise there are as many stories of broken arms from falling badly from the tree.

One year a bright blue tow rope is begged, borrowed or, heaven forbid, stolen from somewhere. A thick branch savagely pulled from the tree and tied with several imaginative knots to form a seat. The other end tied as securely over a high thick branch. This summer is the best everyone can remember, a heatwave of days upon days of bbq's, picnics and shorts. Every garden sporting a full paddling pool whose water requires constant topping up due to the severity of the sun evaporating the water.

Young children plead with their mum's to finish with the washing up liquid bottle so they can fill it with water and chase around after the kids next door, or jump out and surprise them. Squeals of laughter ring through the gardens parched dry and browning grass due to a ban on using hose pipes to water them. Water a scarce commodity to be protected and not frittered away on the grass which will recover come Autumn.

This year no casualties fall from the pear tree, only the screams of delight as they swing from their homemade rope swing. Queues of local and not so local children waiting their turn on this high octane thrill ride. One morning the children race to the tree dismay quickly contorting their faces, a couple start to cry having never been able to have a turn on the swing yet. It is gone, not even a scrap of blue remaining.

The bounty of pears this year is the best ever and in hindsight this may be the old tree's swan song. A widow from Trent street concocts some pear cider which she donates to the church to sell at the harvest festival. Everyone agrees, the finest cider they ever tasted, and they raise £150. No one asks what the money is being raised for and nobody cares, such is the sense of community.

The heat of summer finally succumbs to the icy blasts of Autumnal gusts of wind, whipping the leaves from the trees and swirling them around, dancing dainty patterns on the pavements. Gathering in the gutters threatening floods if they block the drainage. But, the colours, the colours are magnificent ranging from browns to golds with every shade of russet reds in between. The villagers clutch scarves around their necks and hats to their heads with their gloved hands.

People scurry indoors, farmers knowledgable in the turn of the weather, hurry them along with a warning to stay inside and stay safe. A storm is brewing, a storm to end all storms. Hatches are battened down, gazebos are kissed goodbye as the likelihood of them withstanding this is slim at best. The first peel of thunder is so deep and low, it reverberates for at least 2 minutes. Dogs whine and horses who are stabled start to buck and kick into the walls surrounding them.

More thunder follows, then the lightening joins in. Not any type of lightening, the most dangerous. Cloud to ground lightening, the roar of the thunder proves it is positively charged lightening. The air is crackling like a bowl of cereal with the first splash of milk hitting. Anything which isn't tied down is ripped away as the wind picks up and a sudden squall rips through Biggleswade. Behind their windows the villagers peer out gasping at the lightshow Mother Nature is treating them to this evening.

With wind speeds inching higher and higher, over 60 mph and anyone stupid enough to be outside is regretting this choice. A gust powers through with the force of a train and an almighty crash, screech and wail fills the streets. The next day the sky is a perfect blue, the odd white fluffy cloud drifts along bobbing in the slight breeze which is the offspring of the previous nights fury. The air, tinged with ice is crisp, the perfect Autumn day in complete contrast to its' predecessor.

Who discovers it isn't important, word travels fast. The pear tree is a victim to the storm she is uprooted. Her tender limbs no longer roots grounding her to the soil, they point skyward. This pillar of the community is defeated, or is she. In her last act of community spirit she sacrifices herself to the storm to reveal what is buried beneath her. The remains of a child, a murdered child who will never climb her branches, be sheltered by her leaves, or carve their initials and that of their loved one in the bark.

Mourning, the village comes together again and assist the police with their enquires. Questions of anyone loosing a baby, missing children are standard type questions. At first the police believe the village is hunkering down and protecting their own. The outpouring of emotion in a silent twilight vigil they hold by the stump which is their tree, convinces a majority of the investigators. These people are as upset at this loss, as they are keen to find the perpetrator.

If you dig deep enough you will uncover anything. A young constable, the daughter of the postmaster, innocently asks, "What ever happened to Tracy?" Faces turn to her in confusion and she points to the carcass of the pear tree. The etched letters 'GH loves TJ' standing as proud as the day they are carved into the once erect trunk.

"Why?" Her superior asks her.

"Well, based on the age of the child, and the approximate estimate of when they died..."

"Yes, spit it out."

"I wonder if GH loves TJ had a baby, panicked and killed the baby, then did a runner?"

Her boss smiles, a proud mentor, he has taught her well, she will go far.

DNA tests are ordered of Tracy's family with a positive match identified. Tracy's youngest brother cracks first after they are tracked down. He confesses to following them to Gretna Green and stumbling upon Tracy giving birth. He confesses he is forced by his elder brothers to drown his niece, a tiny, petite, innocent crying and wriggling as he is under pressure from his elder brothers, to hold her under the water until she is still.

He never gets the image from his mind, pleased to confess and offers no defence to his actions. He offers to lead the detective to the moorland where they buried Tracy and her husband. Something the police and the villagers never figured out is why they bury them in a desolate spot yet bring the baby home and bury her in the warm embrace of the pear tree's roots.