ㅤㅤShe rambled on in that way, and I tried to veer the conversation back but each time she dismissed it. But how many Loubella Fitzroys could there be, let alone one who courted someone by the name of John McC? I finished up the conversation and set about re-touching the photographs I had taken, each time flicking back to the shot of Belle’s name. I waited until later in the evening, all the while Googling ‘time in Toronto’ until I felt confident that he had put my grandma to bed, and called my father. Working through the usual pleasantries, the how-are-you’s and what’s-the-weather-like, I told him about my discovery. The line went silent.

ㅤㅤ“Where is this tree?” he asked at last.

ㅤㅤI told him, or I began to, as before I could finish he interjected.

ㅤㅤ“Cut it down.”

ㅤㅤ“What? I can’t just cut down trees in a National Park, dad.”

ㅤㅤ“Just cut it down, right now.”

ㅤㅤ“What’s wrong? Did Belle visit then? It’s pretty remarkable that she-”

ㅤㅤ“They never left Toronto. Please cut it down. For me,” he urged, and I sensed the panic in his voice.

ㅤㅤI promised that I would, right away as he suggested, and hearing how troubled the topic made him I decided not to push matters. I finished the call and went to bed although I did not sleep. Thoughts of the wych elm swam in my mind, of Belle and John carving their names into the tree. Tragic young lovers, carving their names into history in the year that they would be taken from us.