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Chainsaw

John Farquhar Young

    “I have purchased a chainsaw,” Maisie, a tall, spritely widow of less than a year, announces to a group of elderly friends at their weekly coffee-and-cake get-together.
    “A chainsaw! “they exclaim in unison. Maisie nods and is momentarily pleased by the impact of her news. She looks around the group. So tedious, she thinks, the predictable topics of this discussion: the goings-on of eccentric neighbours, medical problems, an ailing cat, new recipes, and inevitably... Maisie, who has no children and does not particularly enjoy the company of children, sighs inwardly ... the progress of grandchildren.
    “It’s the plum tree in my back garden,” she continues. “It’s rotting away and is very old. It has never produced a plum and it’s getting ugly. I’m going to cut it down.”
    “Yes...yes,” Janie, a small nervous woman, says hesitantly, frowning while scrutinising Maisie intently. “I know that you like to be self-reliant Maisie, changing light bulbs, sawing, screwing and nailing things, and so forth but...” she pauses, frowning “...don’t you think that using a chainsaw might be a little bit dangerous? You might cut something off...,” She pauses, and to Maisie’s annoyance, smiles indulgently, “...something that you might come to miss?”
    Collective speculation about the bits of her anatomy Maisie might chop off quickly gives way to a burst of hilarity.
    Old ladies! Drifting through their remaining years - so sad! Maisie thinks, trying to mask her irritation. “I do NOT intend to take risks,” she says emphatically, then shrugs. “Anyway, it can’t be very difficult, can it? “ She swings her arms in a scything motion, blithely miming the use of the saw.
    “It’s not that you COULDN’T do it, Maisie,” says Sally, who is very good at crosswords and public speaking. “But is it necessary? Might it be a good idea just to HIRE someone for this job?”
    “Could do, I suppose,” Maisie replies lightly. “I thought about doing that. But really, it’s a bit of a challenge, isn’t it?”
    “Are you trying to prove something?” she mutters as she unlocks her front door. She drifts into her kitchen and frowns as the chainsaw, still in its box, catches her eye. Her thoughts plunge to a deeper level. Am I still coming to terms with being a single person?
    She recalls her mother’s reaction to coping as a widow. “Keep cheerful and keep busy,” she would sometimes say as she shook herself free from the gentle embrace of happier memories; and then, with darting glances, looked around, seeking, as it seemed, another task to fill the moment.
    Distraction techniques! Good for some but not for me! Something within Maisie has always rebelled at the thought that she cannot face realities.
    An iron rule! Face challenges as they present themselves, not complicated challenges like servicing a car; but straightforward jobs like changing a tyre - that sort of thing. Using a chainsaw to chop down an ailing plum tree, is, she judges, 'that sort of thing’.
    Later the following morning as she potters in her garden, she finds her attention repeatedly drawn to the plum tree, to its twisted branches and the bark peeling away from the base of its trunk. “Not long now,” she murmurs, addressing the tree and thinking again about the chainsaw still in its box.
    And yet!
    The sun is shining, and her mind turns to balmy days in the hills where she and her husband walked together. She has not returned there since his death. Walk it yourself? Then after a moment another thought occurs: Feels like a challenge, doesn’t it?
    Afternoon: Maisie sits alone on a large still familiar boulder where they used to sit in silence, observing the hills, the winding valley below and the sun sitting low in the sky. She breathes slowly and evenly, opening herself to the presence of the place. Vibrant still!
    The experience engulfs her; and then, in the next instant, an image of herself, rearing large and ridiculous, imposes itself on her inner eye. Always on the lookout for challenges! she realizes with a sigh.
    The image dissolves. The spirit of the hills reasserts itself, caressing her senses.
    At home, she passes the evening slipping between moments when she relives the pointless, occasionally silly acts of self-assertion which pepper her memory of recent months; and other moments, when she accepts herself an elderly, still healthy lady, in comfortable and secure circumstances – contentedly ready to embark on the remaining years of her life.
    The following day, Maisie stands at the counter of the post office thinking again about the plum tree. I suppose you might last for a few more years, she thinks. She hands over the chainsaw still unwrapped but now adorned with a firmly attached 'return’ label, and briefly smiles as she watches the package disappear into the container marked 'Large Parcels’.

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