***Chapter 14***

***The Lightning Tree***

(Part One)

In Yorkshire, older folk still talk of the Thirties Thunderstorms, as they became known. The summers leading up to the Second World War were hot and humid and the storms that frequently broke the stifling August air were spectacular. It was a time when milk curdled, drains flooded and fires blazed in parched fields; when swarms of flying ants invaded homes and thunder and lightning clashed in a moody sky like mighty titans; a time when everyone had a tale to tell.

Ann Jones and Vera Buckley never tired of telling theirs, of how a furious fork of lightning struck on the exact spot in Loppington where they'd been gossiping only minutes before. A reporter arrived from the Ashtree Chronicle to interview them about it and sealed their fame forever. Each could still pull out a crumbling newspaper years later, often in the most unlikely places: Vera produced one, carefully preserved in a plastic wallet, to the startled midwife shortly after giving birth to her eighth child; Ann, invited to give a reading at a funeral, scandalized the congregation by holding up the dated newspaper while talking of God striking down the wicked. Villagers, thoroughly tired of hearing their story yet again, began hiding to avoid them, and it's said that once even the vicar crouched behind a gravestone, clutching his knees to his chest and keeping his head down.

Frankie Wilcox accidentally stood on the button of his father's box camera and took a breathtakingly beautiful photograph of a storm over Whistledown; Winnie Jones, who ran the sweetshop in Loppington, sold a ruined stock of melted chocolate by adding a little water and sherbet, calling the sickly concoction as Luxury Chocodrink; a cup tie between Ashtree and Kettlefield was struck by lightning just as the only goal was scored and the row about whether or not Ashtree should have been declared winners raged for many years afterwards.

At Follyfoot Farm, the merest hint of storm clouds over the River Ouse sent staff into a frenzy of activity, with Keeper of Keys barking orders to underlings as though running a military operation. Kitchen staff put cling-film-covered cold meats and jellies, and wine bottles cooling in ice buckets, all laid out in readiness for dinner, back in fridges to be served up at the very last minute; a couple of youngsters were tasked with ensuring all windows were closed and unnecessary lights switched off; lanterns and candles were prepared in case of power cuts; some of the men were sent to check on the few domestic animals still kept on the Farm and to secure buildings from fire and flood.

Jimmy, who often worked long hours as chauffeur, had just returned one evening from driving the Maddocks back from an engagement, and hearing there was a storm forecast, stayed on to help out at the Farm. That eventful day, he and Davey were busy fixing a newly-discovered hole in the henhouse made by an opportunist fox, while the fattest speckled hen, despite her terror of thunder, squawked loudly and scratched the ground, keen to make a break for it.

"Keep back, yer dozy bag o' feathers!" Davey chided affectionately, holding up the chicken wire as Jimmy worked and trying to distract the clucking hen by kicking some food towards her. "Yer a lucky bloody b****r Sally ain't around!"

"Aye, that she is," Jimmy agreed about the missing kitchen cat, large thunder-raindrops dripping down from the brim of his chauffeur's hat and, running down his face, concentrating hard on clipping together the damaged wire.

In his early days at Follyfoot it would have been him and Eddie Prendergast working together like this, but that was before Eddie's rheumatism took hold. A twinge of nostalgia for his old friend made him sigh. Six months ago, after talking it over with Eddie and letters back and forth to his only relative, a married sister living in Michigan, the Maddocks had tweaked and pulled strings with the American Embassy, and, with a regular income of a monthly pension to look forward to, Eddie had sailed off to America. As promised, Jimmy had kept his counsel of some years previously when Arthur Maddocks warned him about the looming possibility of War but the newspapers and wireless were full of it nowadays and, from the snippets Arthur told him in confidence about Parliamentary matters and Eddie's hastily arranged departure, he knew it was only a matter of time.

"Penny for 'em, mate?"

The storm had broken immediately overhead and Davey had to shout to make himself heard above the pounding rain and furious roar of thunder. He was wearing Eddie's old sou'wester hat and coat, the sleeves too small for his long arms and the coat finishing above the knees of his lanky legs, which made Jimmy smile.

"Just thinking if Beth could see what a clown you look right now!" Jimmy teased as he finished off mending the wire, not wishing to burden the younger man with talk of War when his wedding was only weeks away.

"No more'n you," Davey retorted, grinning back as he surveyed Jimmy's heavy raggedy old coat, hastily picked up off the peg behind the kitchen door to protect his chauffeur uniform and once too the property of erstwhile chauffeur Eddie, and now covered in grass, mud and chicken mash.

A sudden exceptionally loud crash of thunder made them both jump. A streak of forked lightning ripped the sky apart and bounced down off the ground, illuminating the Farm in an unearthly yellow glow, striking with brutal ferocity. It was a mercy, the Follyfoot people said later, that the lightning targeted the unoccupied area by the stables and not a soul had been hurt.

But the tree took the brunt of it.

The summer tree that only that very morning had spread its glorious blossoms in homage to a blazing sun, the thick, sturdy old tree that had watched seasons come and go, the benevolent old tree that bore the word "Booty" etched deeply into its heart, that had tenderly sheltered Davey when he slept below and shaken its branches in greeting to Beauty and Magic, had been struck down in seconds...