The Treehouse

I sat down on the dirty, creaking wooden boards; a thick layer of dust carpeted the floor. I wiped my filthy hands on previously clean, but soon caked, faded blue jeans, no longer bright but now darkened. The dim and dusty confines of the treehouse were in stark contrast to the surroundings beyond; the bright and burning sun in the mid-afternoon sky above. I was sheltered somewhat from its scorching rays but could still feel its intense power beating down on my little woodland hideaway like heavy, pulverising beams of fire.

The power was so intense and the sun so mighty that it forced tears from my pores. Beads of sweat formed at my temples and ran down my face and chin, following on the back of my neck too; soon the hair at the bottom of my head was thick and matted with sticky, hot perspiration. I rubbed the moisture away with the palms of my hands and onto my jeans. Great, now the dust and sweat congealed together on the hot denim to form a mucky, caked glob of powdery matter I could roll up into brown clumps. They looked like appetising, earthy meatballs. I reminisced about my mother’s kitchen, where I’d been the first time I tasted meatballs. Lamb ones, herbs intermingled in the meat. The sizzle and smell of beef, rosemary and basil when they all hit the oil in the frying pan, and the rich taste of the garlic and tomato sauce they were served in. Divine. These looked just as succulent, but I’m sure they weren’t. 

The heat was in stark contrast again to probably the coldest ever time I’d been here, when I was a kid. It was the Christmas of ’96. I was 13, my brother 11. It had been a white Christmas that year. Now, looking back, one of the last proper white winters. I wish I’d savoured them more. That year me and David spent a few hours of Christmas Eve up in the heavens of the beech tree. There had been a particularly heavy flurry the day before the main event, it had snowed for hours. Me and Dave sat up there in our fleeces and woollen gloves, wellies and bobble hats, watching it all unfold as Builth became engulfed in white. From atop our lofty hideout we could see dad in the lounge, reading the paper, or pretending to at least, for he was really keeping an eye on us and marvelling at the durability of his own magnificent creation. 

He had built the treehouse. He built most things for us as kids. Football goals, hockey goals, any type of goal really. Bird tables, squirrel traps, an elegant rock pool and waterfall in the garden beneath the window of his and mum’s bedroom. He could build just about anything, could dad. But 'Operation Treehouse' was his masterpiece. He’d constructed it in just three summer weeks of ’93, it was his pride and joy. And rightly so. It was a wonderous edifice. A bedazzling bastion to fine, fatherly craftsmanship. Wood-panelled with a huge, solid oak beam across the middle of the ceiling, actual glass used in the panes of windows and the door. The entry door had a window as did the entire front side of the house. There was another window at the side, a big bay one that could be pushed out and offered sweeping, panoramic views of the town. 

On that Christmas Eve he watched as the snow fell, resting on the roof of the treehouse and nestling on the surrounding branches and leaves. The snow framed it like the most picturesque Christmas card you’d ever seen. Mum had worried: “You’ll catch your deaths,” she warned, but she hadn’t tried to attempt to coax us out of there. And no way was she coming up to forcibly remove us; she was petrified and paralyzed by her fear of heights. Instead, she brought us hot chocolate and cookies after a while, when she realised we were content up there, reading our comics and playing Game Boy. She shouted up to us and left the supplies in the metal pail with the rope attached to it. We used that to winch all our snacks and tools up to us. She turned and walked back to the house. She knew the drill by now. It was glorious. 

The outpouring from my head and neck abated at last and it was slightly cooler now. Not quite as cool as that Christmas Eve. I got up off the floor to look out and onto the town, for our treehouse gazed out on much of Builth Wells, my quiet, picturesque and charming home town. You could see vast distances and many things. Memories came flooding back to me.

The furthest actual thing from the house you could see was the golf club, I think. You could see further but only trees and green, and more green. Vast, endless, green countryside, hills and more trees. I wondered if there were other boys in other treehouses out there, on the horizon, looking out at us like pirates on the high seas, trying to spot other pirate ships or vulnerable boats they could plunder. I wondered if there were other fathers toiling and sweating in the hot afternoon sun, building their sons a treehouse. There were none as fine as ours though. 

To the extreme right was Cwmderys Woods and Penderyn Farm, running adjacent to the A470 road to Rhayader and beyond. Somewhere further inwards, towards town, was North Road, where mine and Dave’s friends, Louis and Riley Tonks, had grown up. Their dad taught us in primary school too. The high school was next door to their house. Riley’s walk to school in the morning was barely a few steps, but still he was the last one of my brother’s friends to make it in, every single day. North Road led to the football club too, a spiritual place in town for me and Dave, dad too. We’d both come through the ranks there, playing for Builth at most age groups, including, ultimately, the first team. Dad had been involved as well. He’d managed Dave’s team at one point, under-13s I think, they won the league title but lost in the cup final; while he’d also coached the youth team in his early days in Builth. He’d been a referee at some point as well. 

In my adolescent years I recall sprinting up that road and hiding in the bushes of someone’s garden, along with my pal Ricky Toms, one terrifying night. We’d been spying on Emma Willis’ older sister Abbie, getting undressed in her bedroom. She wasn’t much of a looker but had massive cans. To be fair, it was pretty innocuous, nowhere near as perverted as it might sound. We were walking past the house while wondering in to town. We must have been around 18 or 19. She was a good six or seven years older. We weren’t sexual deviants, but it was dark and our attention had been drawn to the sole light on in the house and the vacant, open window. Abbie appeared, with the ladies out for anyone to see. We were transfixed. We stopped and stared, naturally. Until her father burst out of the house from nowhere and chased us off that is. Except he didn’t chase us away, he pursued us. He was pretty old but he bloody kept up with us for long enough. We roared through the school grounds and onto North Road looking to escape, past Louis and Riley’s house and arching left, racing past the swimming pool as fast as my legs would carry me, seeking out somewhere, anywhere, dark to hide. He wasn’t far behind, Mr Willis, but we managed to evade him. He came steaming past the garden we’d sought refuge in and kept going up towards the football pitch. After a few minutes we realised we were safe and collapsed in grateful laughter.

Another one sped instantly into my mind when I glanced over at the cattle market to the left of our place. Racing my BMX through there on the makeshift track we made for ourselves back in the day. The market shed and offices was a huge corrugated tin contraption, long and narrow and extending all the way down to the old scout hut, where it exited onto Market Street. It was busy and bustling on Friday’s – Market Day – with hoards of farmers descending to sell their livestock and discuss, moan more like, about the price of this and price of that. But on days when the pens were not occupied by sheep, the market was a raucously exciting race track for us kids on our bikes. On the other side of the sheds was a commodious, sloping car park. You could either race around both sides in a gargantuan ‘O’ shape or, if you wanted more of an endurance contest, spread the course out to incorporate the steeper part of the car park. That would test your stamina.

Standing here now, hunched over with my arms folded on the balcony fence bordering the treehouse, I could reflect on some happy memories. The happiest. At least, far back in time they were happy. Now, I was back here for the unhappiest of reasons. With the three of us all clasping hands; me holding my father’s left and my brother holding his right, David bowing down and sobbing into the duvet, we were preparing to say our goodbyes. 

The end was approaching. Dad was drawing his last breaths. It was sad but a blessing too, for no-one should die painfully and slowly due to some illness or another, have their life snuffed out before they’ve fully made their mark on this earth. Dad had though, to be fair. He was still young, only 70, but for a man so active, healthy, hard-working and athletic, he had so much still to live for. His grandson, David’s robust and energetic bundle of joy, Jesse. He was leaving him to grow up unaware of who his grandfather really was, how great he was. He’d still hear stories about him of course but only via tales told by his dad and uncle, it’s not the same as being directly influenced yourself by someone who has greatness within them, like dad. 

Now in dad’s dreary bedroom, with death stalking it, I thought about the treehouse and how you could hear the leaves of the great beech it sat in rustling against or above it in the dead of night, the howling wind shaking the branches this way and that, rapping its bows on the roof on particularly stormy or blustery nights that were unforgiving. Just as my father had been, the treehouse was built sturdily. It was as if the house was a wooden, lofty structural homage to him – showcased proudly high up in the tree at the top of the garden. Sheltering and stoic, it had survived scorching summers and frigid, snow-flurried winters. It had been battered by the rains and stood up to the snarling dark winds, but it had never been broken. It had barely even been damaged. Even now, two decades after construction, it was still here, and without as much as a little discolouring to the panels, a couple of patches of tarred felt missing from the roof. 

“Built to last,” as dad often liked to say about things he made, or when talking about the old days. Built to last, just like he had been. Or so I thought. And now here I was, sat in a chair next to the bed, clutching his pale, dead hand, his face gaunt and thin as the colour and all life had been extinguished. It was hard to believe this was a man who’d been so tough, so strong, so active, so diligent during his life. Reduced to this, a shell of a man in a bed. Robbed of life and my brother and I robbed of a father. It was horrible to see him lying there like that. 

I got up, went over to Dave, and touched him on his shoulder. He was still sobbing. He hadn’t looked up. Still clasping dad’s hand tightly in his, allowing it to rest on the back of his bowed head. “He’s gone Dave, come on. Let’s go downstairs and grab a beer, have a drink for dad. We’ll have to tell the family and start making arrangements,” I said. David was hesitant, he didn’t want to leave him, but I gently gathered him up and ushered him out. I didn’t want to be in that room, looking at my father in that feeble way he’d left us, which I was afraid would poison or stain my memory of him if I stayed in that lifeless room much longer.

Instead, I wanted to remember the strong times, the countless good and happy times. When I thought of my father I thought of the sunny, snowy, windy and wet days spent up in that wooden palace, way up in the beech at the top of the garden. When I think of the treehouse, that’s when I remember my father.