Pear Tree

As the rain pounds against my hood with muffled thuds the screech of a rusty hinge fills my ears making me recoil, its pitch just the wrong side of acceptable for my hearing. Still, I trudge onwards through the wet cobbled street toward the offensive noise. Water laps over the front of my dark brown boots soaking the hem of the thick woollen trousers, weighing them down deeper into the stream that is usually a street. The screech is louder now, and I look up to see the familiar weather-beaten sign of the Pear Tree Inn. A simple painted wooden sign depicting a pear tree in full summer bloom with impossibly sized ripe fruit on the branches against a dark background. The name of the Ealdburgh establishment is the only hint at its cultural significance, yet even the sign is false, just another one of this city’s fables incorrectly used for commercial gain. To add some kind of authenticity to the Inn’s cultural appropriation a branch is attached to the beam above the bar with a sign declaring it to be the actual branch from which the fabled pear fell. It isn’t the branch, and this isn’t the site of that pear tree but since when did exploitation get in the way of business?

The actual pear tree was situated in the current slum area of the city where the poor and migrants are crammed together to live in squalor. Now they have become the playthings of the rich and when the rich have finished playing, they become unprotected targets of the thugs who can’t see beyond their ale-fuelled haze that we are all pawns in the same game.

Despite my heavy heart I chuckle as I walk into the establishment recalling the tale of the other character Ealdburgh is known for, the infamous Gray Cloak, a man named Grayson who wore a long cloak as many of us do. A homophone someone in history thought a clever play on his name and the colour of his cloak, or a misspell. The fable states that Grayson was a vicious robber along the main route to the south of the city who stopped carriages of the merchants and nobles demanding food or money in return for safe passage. According to the legend he had a large ransom on his head and had been chased away by a brave Knight. Upon his expulsion the city was declared safe for trading and thus the Knight is celebrated as saving the city from becoming a back water. In reality Grayson had stopped one coach and asked for any spare food. He had used the food to feed the mice of his village so his cats could have a good meal. Yet another Ealdburgh fable engineered to favour the money men of the city.

A curtain of mist assaults me as I enter the Inn. Bedraggled customers cluster around the open fire as they attempt to dispel the days weather from their clothes. My spectacles instantly fog. I remove them and retract my hood creating an arc of water behind me. Fortunately, I know how many paces to the bar from the door and negotiate my way effortlessly through blurred colours and shapes until my elbows rest upon the bar and await my regular order. Water drips from my cloak and trousers as I allow the bar to take my weight. It has been a difficult day and I am pleased to be away from it all. The weather never helps but that’s what life is like here in Ealdburgh. You learn to live with it and early on you have to find a way to barricade yourself against the hopeless task of creating a more just life for those born without even a wooden spoon. I used to visit the affluent area of the city frequently, but it made me bitter and angry as I became even more disillusioned by the waste and injustice all around me. I had also spent free time in the poorest areas of the city, the area where most of my clients live, where wattle and daub are the main building materials. There is heartfelt warmth, kindness, and generosity in Wattle Alley, but I don’t really fit there either. So not wanting to rub shoulders with the ones I blame for the injustices and unable to witness any further suffering, I choose to spend my free time in the Goldilocks region of the city. Places where the internal wounds have a chance to knit back together until they are ripped apart again the next day. Not exactly affluent, not exactly a slum, simply middle of the road acceptability. I glance at the tree branch and groan inwardly, a gimmicky middle of the road Goldilocks Inn with palatable beer where my kind are tolerated as long as we spend credits and keep to the shadows. I could leave and go to another city, but my heart knows it will encounter the same scenarios. I learned long ago I would never fit in with my social and cultural camp; neither would I be fully accepted into the community I swore to stand with. Destined to walk the path of an angry nonconformist, I sigh deeply, my head hangs, long wet hair covers my face, and my shoulders slump towards the soaked beer towels adorning the bar. The acrid smoke from the fire begins to make my eyes smart and irritate my chest. A tankard of ale and bowl of stew hove into view, liquid slopping from them as they slide to a stop in front of me. In response I flash my card for my earned credits to be transferred. Taking my supplies, I wearily traipse towards the reserved table in the small nook almost hidden from the bar. Blurred images of people obligingly move out of my way as I negotiate a route through the crowd. Water is squelching uncomfortably around my toes and is ejected from my boots with each step. Eventually I drop the supplies onto the table with a clatter, replace my glasses and throw my heavy grey cloak over the chair, a puddle has already formed. Falling wearily into the chair I start the process of forgetting another day.

“It never really leaves you.” Mumbled a desolate voice beside me. I know the voice even though my personal spectacle fog is yet to clear.

I shrug as I take my first gulp of ale.

“The pain,” the clipped toned voice continues, I saw movement of what appears to be their head toward the bar, “It never really goes. Doesn’t matter how you try to drown it; the relentless fucker returns to haunt you again every morning.” The heap of once fine clothes next to me sank further into the chair, almost spilling onto the floor. “You think you can make a real difference. Every day that hope is demolished as you see another soul left to rot by them.” The last word filled with venom. “Maybe you help the victims exist for a few more months, find another temporary job but you know it will not end well no matter how hard you try.”

My lens fog clears. Turning towards my companion I grunt an agreement and begin eating my stew. Offering the bowl towards him, he waves a dismissive hand in my direction and lowers his chin onto his chest. “Another thirty yesterday.” His voice barely a whisper now, I can hear the despair and anger in his voice. He slams his hand onto the table and locks eyes with me. “THIRTY!”

I’ve heard this countless times and empathise with his anger. Like me he will never fit into the community of his birth. He raises his laced cuff to wipe away errant strands of blonde hair from his drawn features then lowers his dark ringed eyes mumbling sullenly. “I thought I could be the change, be the bridge but they”, his thumb jerking towards the affluent region, “drink a glass of wine and with a word destroy the livelihoods of thirty people because the blue on their ceremonial lace is one shade too light. The cost of that wine would have sustained those families for a year.” his anger is so complete tears well in his eyes.

I glance at the branch, gently place my hand onto his arm. “Then let’s give the people their real history.” I am only half serious, looking for another subject to discuss. I too have had my fill this week of ‘them’.

His almond shaped brown eyes still filled with tears and confusion penetrate my soul. Despite the tears I recognise the fires of frustration raging in them. I motion toward the branch, “The pear tree; a falsehood fed to the purposely mis-educated masses in a land where myths and folklore hold power. Reclaim the actual site and campaign for it as a reason to educate, redevelop and not as an excuse to relocate those for whom the real history belongs to.” I shake my head despondently at the idea, “Is that even possible?” I know years of miseducation and prejudice fuelled by carefully choreographed words, cover ups, and selfish deeds from the money men could never be erased by retelling one fable in its true form.

His eyes brighten at the idea; a man of his social standing knew the truth, as did I. “Too long has it been hidden from the rightful heirs. Time to extract the truth from the rumour.”

I look around at the drenched drunk working people of this city, like us just trying to find a way to survive another day, “We are but two who don’t fit anywhere,” I lower my voice and hide my face, “not even here. We would be ostracised for turning on ‘our own kind’ and discredited as outsiders preying on communities for less than reputable reasons regardless of our intentions. We can’t win.” I fix my stare on him this time, “They’ve won, they always will win. We can’t speak for either side, anything we say or publish will be discredited.”

His eyes burn even brighter, “We turned our backs the minute we stepped foot on Wattle Alley, and we were ostracised when the first words came out of our mouths there. As for credit, well the only credit we have here is what we spend.” He smiles broadly; years taken off his appearance. “We have friends. People who trust us and know we have their welfare at heart.” Motioning towards the throng before us, “What’s the worst they can do? Kill us? Don’t know about you but it’d be doing me a favour,” his manicured eyebrows raised at variable angles. “Besides martyrs burn bright my friend.”

I nod in reluctant agreement; he is right we are already embroiled in a slow agonising death trying to play them at their own game. I look around, breathe in the aroma of damp clothes, smoke and ale. I know this is our last night with Goldilocks, from tomorrow powerful obnoxious Bears will beat at our door. A tankard flies passed my partners head and bounces off the wall behind us, the show has begun.