“I’m fuming!” said The Gower. “I can’t believe this is what it’s coming to.”

“I know.” said The Old Apple Tree, just as three more of her fruit fell to the ground on the Gower side of the fence. They joined a hundred others that together gave off a sweet rotting aroma. She was sad. She reflected on the days when children would unsteadily stand on each others shoulders trying to reach her biggest, reddest apples. Then the bell would ring and they’d scurry back to class at The Gower.

The Gower went on. “For over a hundred years, I’ve stood here, through the hottest summers and the harshest of winters, serving this community, loving the people and this is the thanks I get.”

“I know.” said the Apple Tree. She was sad. She knew that if the Council’s plan went through, not only would her oldest friend, her rock, cease to be but that her days would be numbered too. She stood on the current boundary of The Gower grounds. They had discussed it, she and The Gower, they estimated that within 2 years, when the open space above the buried air raid shelter is transformed into a car park, they’ll consider her falling fruit a hazard that is best eliminated.

No one spoke for a few days.

The voice that once travelled on the night breeze as far north as the wood at Donnington and south to the village at Priorslee, carrying sounds of children’s laughter and brass bands playing will fall silent. In it’s place will be many little voices.

“20 properties were once there was one. Mr Foggerty will be spinning in his grave.” said The Gower.

“I know.” said the Apple Tree. “God rest his soul. He wouldn’t let them be doing this, I’m sure. But I do still have hope, though.”

No one spoke for a few days.

The Gower gave a heavy sigh. The Swifts nesting in the eaves of the south wing felt it and tweeted their sympathy. “You’re right. All is not yet lost. Some of them still hang onto the vision.”