He awoke when the light came and slept when the sun was lost behind the hills. There was nothing to do with his days and so he did nothing. The only activity was to watch the animals and birds around him and wander the forest of stunted, warped oaks.
Often, he wrote his thoughts and observations in a scrappy journal. This was the only thing he could consider to be an ‘activity’. The rest of his existence was the twig of his mind and body bobbing slowly along time’s river. But the writing was something which had an intensity to it. He allowed anything in his mind to come onto the page without ever thinking to censor it. There was no one else to see it, nor had he thought far enough ahead to think there might ever be such a person in the future. These moments of writing were like fugues. He would lose himself to the wearing down of a pencil and its re-sharpening as he wove words onto a cheap jumbo pad he’d found in the village co-op.
Pages later he would look up and find the light of the day had changed. Whether hidden by cloud and rain or not, the sun might have shifted far across the sky and he would flip back through the indented sheets barely remembering what he’d put there. Nor did he ever read carefully over his scrawl. It didn’t seem the words were his. They came through him like a voice. He came to think of it as a kind of calling. Though he wrote the words of the calling every day, he worked hard to ignore what they told him. All he did was marvel at the amount and strength of it and the way the activity excised him from time and reality for however long he did it.
The pages and the doing of nothing mounted up in comfortable drifts. He watched the animals. He watched the seasons. The tyres on his camper went flat.
He didn’t care.
5
Mason looked out of his kitchen window into the back garden. Soon he would begin this season’s planting.
All the produce from last year, even the over-wintering vegetables, were used up or preserved. The garden, with its many beds was a featureless patchwork of exposed earth where his fertiliser was melding with the soil and strips of variously faded and dirty carpeting he’d employed to smother down any and all weeds. He felt excitement as a rising jitter in his stomach and a vague urge to move his bowels.
Every year it was the same, a childlike eagerness to help the earth bring forth food for him to live on. He sniggered to himself at his overreaction but he felt no embarrassment. This was who he was now. Not a photographer, not a bold visual ‘genius’ who owned all of London at the winking of his camera’s shutter. He was simply a gardener. In fact, he believed himself to possess the soul of an agrarian. Even though he was no such thing now, he planned to be so in the future. Alone and remote on the land like the farmer he’d come to see as his teacher.
This period in suburbia was temporary but necessary. Before he retreated for good, he wanted to give people one last chance. He had changed and so he hoped he might see another side to everyone else, not be so deeply critical of every other human being on the planet. So far, though, his solitude here on the Meadowlands estate was almost more complete than it had been on the farmer’s land. His time of living so close beside the earth was already years behind him. He was getting stuck again, as he had in London. He had to accept that soon the moment to move on would come.
Just one more season. Just one more season of being among people, even though he chased them away from his front door and did not speak to them in the street. Just one more year of being human before he became once more a creature of the land and of the forest.
He realised, as he surveyed his garden, that he was holding his breath.
He let it go.
He knew what the problem was. He could even admit it to himself. But he couldn’t overcome it. He thought he’d been alone in London but he’d been wrong. His true solitude came during his time among the trees. It was so difficult. Life in the woods had been so tranquil and so restorative to him that it was painful to admit how much the loneliness of it hurt him.
As much as he wanted the peace, he was terrified of making the final decision to live alone again, even though it was probably the happiest he’d ever be.
It wasn’t just the loneliness, of course. The depth of solitude was the obvious thing, the thing he would have talked about if anyone ever discussed it with him as a friend. There was another issue, however. The one he’d come to suburbia to avoid. Most of the time it was noisy enough that he didn’t notice it. He missed it and feared equally. The land and the trees and all the animals he’d shared the woods with had a voice, one voice, a calling. And they talked to him as though he were their closest confidant. They talked and the land talked and they never shut up. His papers were full of their ramblings and even now, years later, he dared not look back over them to see what they’d said to him.
As though he’d created a moment of the perfect silence into which speech might come, as though he’d petitioned it, the calling came through the babble of suburbia’s white noise right in that instant:
you’re being a coward
‘I’m not finished,’ he said, placing his forehead to the chill of the window pane and staring at the expectant garden. ‘I’m not finished with people. Not yet.’
have courage, Mason Brand
only the act which requires courage is the true act
He closed his eyes tight shut for a moment.
When he opened them, the face startled him so much he jerked away from the glass with a pounding heart. Like a man caught thieving. There was no time to recover himself. He stood there, red-faced, chest thudding, not knowing where to look. Could he have looked any fucking stranger than with his head pressed on the glass like a mental patient? Anger was the only response but his ire was hesitant like his words. He wasn’t used to speaking.
‘This is private . . . ground. Land, I mean to say. It’s my land and you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Maybe I’ve got the wrong house. You’re Mr. Brand, aren’t you?’
He blinked at the girl, looked around, recovering himself, coming back to the room. This was his problem; too stuck in his head and his memories. Not present enough.
‘You shouldn’t be back here. Can’t you ring the front bell? Knock? Like . . . normal people?’
It was ridiculous. They were talking through the glass with raised voices, almost shouting. The girl - she wasn’t a girl really, more of a . . . she smiled at him.
‘Look, I’m not here to steal your veggies, Mr. Brand. I just wanted a quick chat. Could you open the door?’
The part of Mason which remembered how to behave was screaming at him to act sensibly and open the door, offer tea and biscuits or a glass of wine - was she old enough for that? Of course she was - to do something, anything, and stop acting like a bloody psycho before she walked away.
But the back door, even with its six dirty panes of glass in peeling frames, was a barrier between him and the world. The world had come into his back garden, without any sort of invitation and she stood there now, still not leaving but with her expression fading from mild amusement at what could just be shyness and eccentricity into concern about her safety with such a man. He noticed her glance from side to side, probably checking if anyone was within earshot or working out how quickly she could run -
‘I remember when you moved in here,’ she said. ‘It was my eleventh birthday. I saw your knackered old camper pull in and watched you go around the back. Thought you were a tramp or a gypsy or something. I fell off my pissing bike watching you. Only time I ever cried on my birthday.’
‘You’ll have other birthdays,’ he said, trying very hard to. . . he wasn’t sure what he was trying to do but he knew he was failing.
‘Uh, right,’ said the girl. ‘Listen, I can tell this isn’t a good moment. I’ll come back.’
She turned to leave and all kinds of panic leapt inside him, yanked him into action. He opened the door and put his head out. Already she’d reach
ed the corner of the house.
‘Wait.’
She turned back.
‘I mean . . . I’m sorry.’ Something kicked in from the past, from a thousand failed social interactions. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. What’s your name?’
‘Aggie Smithfield. I live just down -’
‘I know where,’ he said and immediately decided he sounded creepy rather than informed about the community. He followed up quickly, holding out his hand which, for once, was not soil-blackened. ‘I’m Mason.’
He watched her hesitate. Something in her eyes, some need he couldn’t decipher, made her overcome any nerves she might have had. She walked back to him, boldly enough to make him retreat a fraction. Keeping his hand out was an effort. She took it before he gave in, squeezed it with adult formality.
‘It’s good to meet you,’ she said and he believed she meant it. Not like the people in the old days. This one was too young to hate him or envy him or try to drain him.
He realised he was still holding her hand and he let go quickly. He’d come too close to blowing this simple - there was nothing simple about it - interaction too many times already.
‘I just wanted to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Only for five minutes. Could I come in?’
He didn’t move.
She gestured with her head over his garden fence, towards the landfill site.
‘I wouldn’t mind chatting out here but,’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You know . . . wind’s blowing the wrong way.’
She was right but he wouldn’t have noticed without a reminder. To him the smell of the dump was normal. More than that; it was a comfort.
‘Of course. Sorry.’
He retreated and opened the back door of his house to a stranger - to any person - for the first time since arriving six years previously.
For a time he stood there wondering what to do next. Where should they stand or should they sit down? What should he offer her or was that too forward, too much like . . . something? He saw the kitchen with new eyes now, her eyes, and realised she was looking at the state, not only of his house, but of his mind. This was what happened when you let people in.
After a few moments he laughed - pure nerves - at a total loss for how to continue.
‘What?’
‘Oh, God,’ he said, finally relaxing just a little. ‘I’m very. . .’
‘Used to your own company?’
He laughed again, exposed and suddenly not minding. Not from her. She seemed so natural about it.
‘Yes, that’s it. That’s it exactly. Would you like a mug of tea? I make it quite strong.’
‘Do you have coffee?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Tea’s fine. I’m not stopping long, honestly. I only wanted to ask you about . . .’
She was looking out to the hallway and stairs. She’d seen the photographs. How could she not notice them? They were everywhere except in the kitchen. He couldn’t stop himself this time. He pushed the door closed, severing her view. He didn’t know what to say. He went to the sink, feeling scrutinised, and put water in the kettle. As soon as he went to plug it in, he realised it was only enough for him; he went back to the tap to double the amount.
‘Actually,’ she said. ‘It was the photos I wanted to talk to you about.’
He spun.
‘What? What do you mean, the photos?’
‘Well, about all of it. You know, what you did. How you did it. I want to know about photography.’
He stood there shaking his head. He didn’t stop shaking his head. Even after he’d said:
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
The kettle ticked, slow at first and then faster. A sigh began inside it, rising and rising. The sigh became a rumble. There was a click. Mason stopped shaking his head but didn’t turn to pour out the water.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
She’ll go now, he thought. Back to her house and her family and I will not have to go through this.
‘Please. I really want to know. It’s the only thing that interests me.’
‘I can’t.’
She took a step closer to him and he wondered what that boldness signified.
‘Just tell me about one photograph and I promise you I’ll go. If you still don’t want to talk about it after that, I’ll never disturb you again.’
Before he could stop her - how could he have stopped her without touching her? - she’d pulled the kitchen door back open and walked into the downstairs hallway. Every wall was covered in framed monochrome photographs. There was no space between them. None of them were straight. He saw them with her eyes, the way he’d just seen his kitchen, terrified by her scrutiny - still quite casual at the moment but deepening, lengthening with every moment that slipped by. He had to get her out.
‘Will you do that? Just tell me about one. I’ll go then. I really will.’
What choice was there now short of pushing her out by force?
He clasped a hand over his beard, squeezed the rough hairs until they pulled the skin of his face.
‘Okay. One only. Then you go. And I don’t want you coming back here. Do you follow me? Not ever.’
‘Fine.’ She was all business now. So close to what she’d come for. A vampire, just like all the rest of them.
Now she looked closer, roved and stopped, moved on again. Drinking his moments - they were his moments even though he never talked about them that way. His moments. His partial realities. His misrepresentations, therefore, of the real world. They were dangerous, photographs, they told lies about the world.
She was on the stairs. She’d stopped.
No.
‘Okay. Tell me about this one.’
She was pointing at the farmer.
***
It was difficult to make it short but Mason did his best. He left out as much detail as possible, used terms that would elicit scant curiosity. He also lied: It was a farm he’d visited once. They’d asked him in for tea. When they saw his camera they asked if he would take a few pictures. This was the only one he’d kept. The shot was a fluke.
The girl was quiet for a while and he could see what was happening. The lack of information itself was causing her to have questions.
‘That’s all there is to it,’ he said. ‘Time for you to go. Please.’
She turned back to him. Whatever she’d come here for it was clear she hadn’t got it. She didn’t look angry. She looked sad. Defeated. She walked past him and back out to the kitchen without making eye contact. Two tea mugs stood empty on one of the surfaces, curls of steam still rising from the kettle. She reached out for the back door handle and hesitated, turning back to where he still stood in the hallway.
‘I want to be a model.’
His mind flooded with responses:
Silly bloody girl. No idea what you’d be getting yourself into. It doesn’t stop at photography no matter what your principles are. She could do it, though, she’s got the build and the grace. She’s got the blank, clean face. Whether you make it or not, that life will suck you dry like it did to me.
None of it came out. Instead he gave a kind of snort. It might have sounded like a laugh to her but that wasn’t what it was.
‘Why does everyone assume you’re going to fail before you even start? I’m not stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking. I won’t be taken advantage of.’
‘Really?’ This time he did laugh. ‘How will you avoid it?’
‘I’m a good judge of character.’
‘If that was true you wouldn’t be in this house.’
‘I can trust you, Mr. Brand. You’re a recluse but I know you’re all right.’
‘Do you? How do you know that?’ She shrugged.
‘
Listen to me,’ he said, ‘You’re too young and too inexperienced to know who you can trust and who you can’t. Do your parents know what you’re up to?’
‘It’s nothing to do with them.’
‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t tell them what you’re thinking of doing. Do you think they’ll approve?’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Then don’t be stupid.’
‘This is such bollocks.’
She was crying. The little girl had been unmasked. She governed herself quickly, wiped the few tears away.
‘Mr. Brand,’ she said. ‘I came here for your help. I know I can trust you so don’t mess me about. I need a portfolio. A really good one.’
Mason shrugged, not understanding.
‘I want you to photograph me. I know who you are. With your name all over my photos, I’ll bypass all the sharks when I get to London.’
Mason held his hand out towards the door, gesturing for her to open it.
‘You have to leave. Now.’
***
The farmer wasn’t as sick as he looked.
He came to visit Mason often. Sometimes walking down the steep, treacherous track with help of a long, warped stick. Mason would hear him coming long before he arrived. The diseased wheezing and the knock of his staff finding purchase on stones, the uneven footsteps of a limping man, the footsteps of a determined man. Stealing over the greasy stones, over the mossy stones, through air hanging wet even when it wasn’t raining, he came. He came through woods either angered by wind or resisting the unmoving light above them. He passed through the mug and cling of summer and through the nerveless hands of winter with pain in its bones. To him the world was a gateway. He need pay no fee for entry, showed no fear of departure. Bearded, ragged, staring, he walked like he was already a soul slipped from its shitty human moorings, a living man with the knowledge of the dead. And then he would be there, beside Mason and silent, watching the world with him, leading Mason’s eye to what he saw, how he saw.
Garbage Man Page 6