Push

It’s the oldest joke in the world for the joggers who populate the park.

Stretching one’s tendons, easing out the tension of limbs is a necessary routine before and after running, a must if one is to avoid a smooth, conditioned lope turning into a post-exercise jerky hobble. A really easy way to do this is to lean gently against a wall or a tree or a bench,  with the legs out behind, keeping the feet flat on the ground one by one, so that the stretch extends all the way from the thigh to the ankle, from the hamstring to the achilles. Ease into it, straighten, hold; then let the knee bend, shift weight onto the other leg, repeat.

I’ve made the joke when I’ve seen other people do it, and plenty of people have made the same joke watching me do it.

I had run my usual three or four kilometres, which being shorter than miles are more fulfilling distances to count. I was in my usual place, palms touching one of hundreds of large London Plane trees which ring the field. I was panting from the exertion, though my breath wasn’t heavy, and salty drops of sweat were beginning to form rivulets and run down my face and sting my eyes.

There are variations on the joke, but it’s always the same joke.

An old lady passed me by, as I extended my right leg backwards and started to

“PUSH!”

– she said.

I looked over to my left, and screwed up my face to see her properly through the sweat. With the sun behind her, and the sweat in my eyes, it was difficult to see her clearly. She was small, grey-haired, bespectacled, in a purple winter coat despite the sunshine, with a stick and a handbag – entirely unremarkable.

It was the old joke. I grimaced a smile.

“It’s slipped a bit,” she continued in a thin but determined voice, “from last time.”

Amused now, I shifted my weight and stretched back my left leg. She wasn’t at all scary, but she might be mad, I thought.

“I’m one of a team,” I said, “the others will be here later; it takes quite an effort, you know.”

“PUSH!” she repeated. “You’re a nice strong lad. You can do it!”

I started to chuckle, which made concentration difficult, but I maintained my position, and shifted to the other leg.

“There now,” she said. “Two inches,” and lifted her walking stick to indicate the base of the trunk.

I was about to make a further witticism, but instead, looked down.

To my immense surprise, a small but clearly defined gap had appeared where previously the trunk had been in snug contact with the earth. Abruptly I stood up, shocked, and did a classic double take, looking first at the old lady, then the ground, then back to the old lady, who I could now see was grinning triumphantly.

I peered down the gap into which was falling dry earth, stones, twigs and insects, but far too little of any of it to fill the hole which I had apparently caused. I felt nervous suddenly, fearing for the structural integrity of the tree, but far above me, the green plane leaves swayed in the slight breeze, with no sign of imminent collapse.

“If you keep going,” she said, “you’ll be able to get it back to where it should be. They’ve all moved, you know. Terrible really.”

I calculated that if I continued pushing in the same direction, the tree would be positioned closer to the road.

“Erm,” I said, “why should the tree be nearer the road?”

“Not the road, not the road,” she corrected, “the house.”

Opposite the tree on the other side of the road stood one of many handsome Edwardian houses, its light brickwork reflecting the morning sun, black railings creating a grand façade.

I contemplated continuing. “How much nearer?” I asked.

“Little bit,” she said.

“Couple more inches?”

“About a foot. Can you do it?”

“Well I don’t know. Is it safe?”

The woman burst into laughter, as if this was the funniest thing she had heard in twenty five years.

“Is anything safe?” she asked rhetorically; then turning to make her way, she took a few slow steps.

I was confused. I had somehow moved a tree which must weigh a couple of tons, something I had not intended to do. Would I be accused of vandalism? This was not my usual routine. I hadn’t stretched properly.

“Push!” the old lady said once more, in a voice she had clearly used on children, in her past, “it won’t hurt.”

So, I swallowed my fear, and pushed. The tree moved, making a sound of deep creaking and rustling. Some bark and leaves fell on my head, but I was otherwise fine. It didn’t require any particular effort and it took about a minute. I wondered how the roots didn’t snap, and I wondered if the strange strength I possessed would last, but it didn’t.

Another ten inches, and I stopped. The old lady was halfway up the gentle hill.

I stood back to look at the results.

Aside from being a foot nearer the house, in the direction of the road, the tree was unscathed. There was a gap that would need filling. The roots seemed to have stretched, somehow. I was slightly disconcerted, but impressed.

“Lovely,” I said to myself, and went to get my shower.

I thought about it for weeks, on and off. I never saw the old lady again. The tree remained, council workers came and filled in the gap.

I don’t make the joke any more.