The Garden of Love
by Mark Keane
I was preparing breakfast, and half-listening to a radio phone-in. The presenter introduced a new topic.
“Are people inherently selfish? A recent study has shown that 72% of the public believe selfishness is a common trait. Let me know what you think.”
As I buttered my toast, an irate caller grabbed my attention.
“Take that nutter in his cottage out at the airport. Bloody curmudgeon is standing in the way of progress. They’ve had to shelve plans for the runway extension because of him.”
“I’m sure our listeners will have seen the story in the news,” the presenter interjected. “What do you think should be done?”
“Kick him out. He’s a bloody nuisance.”
I had often wondered about the cottage at the airport. I’d spotted it many times from my vantage point in the back seat of a taxi or the top deck of the airport bus. A thatched cottage, not what you’d expect at the end of a runway. A thin plume of smoke from the chimney suggested the house was inhabited. Each time it caught my fancy, and I found myself imagining who could live there.
That evening, I went on-line and read blogs and newspaper opinion pieces decrying the owner of the cottage who refused to move, forcing the airport to operate around him. No amount of incentives or threats could make him leave his home. One article, entitled Joe Won’t Go, included a photograph of the cottage and the man’s name, Joe Nolan, but no information about him.
I decided to visit this man who stood in the way of progress. More than curiosity, I was impressed and even daunted by his individuality. Standing up to such opposition and criticism required a strength of character and purity of will. Maybe there was a story in this, or something I could turn into a story. I had to meet Joe Nolan, see him in the flesh and hear what he had to say.
The taxi trip to the airport felt strange, passing billboards advertising different airlines, but having no plane to catch.
"Arrivals or departures?” the driver asked.
"Neither,” I said. “Can you take me to the cottage off the runway?”
"Why do you want to go there?”
“I want to meet the man who lives in the cottage.”
The taxi driver shook his head. “That miserable old bugger.”
We drove by warehouses, and signs for long-stay parking and passenger pick-up. Past the life-sized model of the Alcock and Brown Vickers Vimy at the airport entrance, and along a secondary road. The driver pulled up on the hard shoulder by a gap in the hawthorn hedge that ringed the perimeter of the airport.
“There’s the entrance to his majesty’s estate.”
I paid him and turned to open the door.
“Here.” He handed me a card. “There’s my number for when you’ve finished your business. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck out here.”
I watched the taxi drive away. The dirty sky threatened rain. I buttoned my coat and went through the gap. A trampled grassy track led to the cottage.
Blustery wind whipped the tail of my coat against my legs. It was late November, twilight at three o’clock. In my mind I shuffled through possible words that best described the surroundings and settled on bleak.
Fifty metres to my right, the concrete strip of runway reached into a grey distance. A flashing light rotated on the bulbous control tower. The rumble of an airplane as it took off intensified into a thumping roar. I hunched over, nerves vibrating, waiting for the crescendo to abate.
As I got closer, I could see the rundown state of the cottage; stone walls discoloured, the thatch mossy and bare in patches. I knocked on the front door, and waited, then knocked again.
The door opened a crack.
"What do you want?”
“Joe,” I said, “excuse the intrusion. I’ve just come to tell you how much I admire the stance you’re taking, standing up for your rights.”
"Are you from a newspaper?”
"No, I’m not.”
Heavy drops of rain spattered my head. A surge of wind buffeted the cottage. The door opened wider.
"You’d better come in out of the rain.”
The door led into a kitchen. Sparse light penetrated a small window, augmenting the glow from a fire burning in a tiled fireplace. The smell of fried onions hung in the air.
“Take a seat.” Joe gestured to a table piled with newspapers, plates, and cutlery.
He was bald except for wispy hair around his ears, his face lined, a dewlap sagging from his neck. He wore a misshapen jumper, torn at the elbows, and tweed trousers that were too short.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I took a taxi.”
“Right, so.” He eyed me up and down. “I’ve just made a pot of tea. Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, but don’t go to any bother.”
He went over to a dresser and reached for a cup, his movements slow and hesitant. He must have been well into his seventies.
The tea tasted weak, probably made from reused teabags. Joe sat at the table across from me.
“I hope you’re not from one of those newspapers?” He pointed to the pile on the table. “Looking for a new angle?”
"I’ve nothing to do with any newspaper. I just wanted to meet you.”
“Well, that’s a first.” He picked up a spoon and began polishing it on the sleeve of his jumper. “I’ve had my fill of journalists.”
We sat in silence. Joe continued his polishing. He showed no inclination to speak.
“I really admire what you’re doing,” I said, “sticking to your guns.”
“I don’t like being pushed around.” He put down the spoon and took up a knife that he rubbed on the knee of his trousers. “The airport offered me plenty of money. Enough to buy a house with all the latest mod cons in one of those new developments. And tickets to exotic places, all the popular holiday destinations. Hawaii. Caribbean islands. The Bahamas.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I don’t need the money. It wouldn’t do me any good. I have all I want here.”
I looked around the gloomy kitchen, taking in the cracked linoleum and mold on the walls.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not from a newspaper, come here to mock me?”
“I just want to understand.”
“Right.” Joe nodded his head slowly. “You want to understand.”
I sipped the weak tea and waited. Joe lifted himself from his chair, grunting as he straightened his back.
“Here, let me show you something.”
I followed him as he shuffled over to a small room off the kitchen that may have once served as a pantry. It contained a single chair positioned in front of a large, framed picture which covered most of one wall.
“The Garden of Love by Peter Paul Rubens,” Joe said.
He stood with one hand resting on the back of the chair and regarded the picture. I stood beside him. The print was an art gallery poster advertising an exhibition of Rubens’ work in the Prado.
“I don’t need to go to any exotic destination or holiday resort when I have this. I don’t even need a garden, some suburban patch of grass with weeds and squealing kids next door.”
“I see,” I said but I didn’t really, or only partly.
“I sit here for hours on end and look at those fat-arsed cherubs, like little Michelin Men.” He smiled and moved closer to the print. “Everything you could ever want to see is in this picture. Dutch women in their long dresses, acres of satin. Intrigue and flirtation—Rubens put it all on show. There you have Venus sitting on a big fish, squeezing her breasts, and lactating. Amazing. Those cupids encouraging all manner of licentious behaviour. Look at the angel on the left pushing that woman into the arms of the scoundrel in the broad-brimmed hat.”
He turned to face me, his old eyes glistening. “I sit here and find something new every time. The expressions on the women’s ruddy faces. Expectation. Hope. Dreaminess. Only yesterday, I spent the afternoon trying to figure out the stern look on that woman with the feather. And the fellow with the lute—I still can’t fathom what his expression means. Even the attitude of the doves and the dogs and Juno’s peacock is strange. There’s craziness in this painting. I sit and look and think of the Garden of Gethsemane, and I picture it as something similar. Jesus with his followers arranged like this, maybe Judas cozying up to Jesus like that chancer in the big hat.”
Joe closed his eyes, nodded, and sighed loudly. I kept quiet, fearing that anything I said would sound crass. We went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Joe picked up another spoon and rubbed it on his sleeve.
“A thatched cottage is unusual,” I said. “You don’t see so many of them anymore.”
“I did it myself, learned to thatch when I was sixteen. I was trained by William Cahill, a master thatcher, and a true artist—the Rubens of thatching.”
I considered suggesting that the thatch needed repair but decided against it.
“Do you think you’ll be allowed to stay?”
“There’s no reason for me to leave. The more they push, the more I’ll resist. They say I don’t want people to travel. I’m not stopping them. That’s none of my business. I have all I need here, a roof over my head and my Garden of Love.”
“Have you ever thought of visiting Madrid and seeing the original painting?”
Joe stood, took my half-finished cup of tea, and emptied it in the sink. Then, he made his way to the front door.
“Right, so.” He held open the door.
My visit was over. He stood aside to let me out. It had stopped raining.
“Goodbye, Joe,” I said. “It was good to meet you.”
He stepped outside and looked around at the bleak landscape. “People can travel all they want. I don’t care. All I know is that I’ve got all I need here.”
He shut the door. A burst of wind blew me backwards. I took shelter against the side of the cottage. Checking my pockets, I found the taxi driver’s card. I had come all this way to see a man who had no need to go anywhere.
Another airplane took off. I watched it climb, higher and higher, the noise a whistling echo.
“Are people inherently selfish? A recent study has shown that 72% of the public believe selfishness is a common trait. Let me know what you think.”
As I buttered my toast, an irate caller grabbed my attention.
“Take that nutter in his cottage out at the airport. Bloody curmudgeon is standing in the way of progress. They’ve had to shelve plans for the runway extension because of him.”
“I’m sure our listeners will have seen the story in the news,” the presenter interjected. “What do you think should be done?”
“Kick him out. He’s a bloody nuisance.”
I had often wondered about the cottage at the airport. I’d spotted it many times from my vantage point in the back seat of a taxi or the top deck of the airport bus. A thatched cottage, not what you’d expect at the end of a runway. A thin plume of smoke from the chimney suggested the house was inhabited. Each time it caught my fancy, and I found myself imagining who could live there.
That evening, I went on-line and read blogs and newspaper opinion pieces decrying the owner of the cottage who refused to move, forcing the airport to operate around him. No amount of incentives or threats could make him leave his home. One article, entitled Joe Won’t Go, included a photograph of the cottage and the man’s name, Joe Nolan, but no information about him.
I decided to visit this man who stood in the way of progress. More than curiosity, I was impressed and even daunted by his individuality. Standing up to such opposition and criticism required a strength of character and purity of will. Maybe there was a story in this, or something I could turn into a story. I had to meet Joe Nolan, see him in the flesh and hear what he had to say.
The taxi trip to the airport felt strange, passing billboards advertising different airlines, but having no plane to catch.
"Arrivals or departures?” the driver asked.
"Neither,” I said. “Can you take me to the cottage off the runway?”
"Why do you want to go there?”
“I want to meet the man who lives in the cottage.”
The taxi driver shook his head. “That miserable old bugger.”
We drove by warehouses, and signs for long-stay parking and passenger pick-up. Past the life-sized model of the Alcock and Brown Vickers Vimy at the airport entrance, and along a secondary road. The driver pulled up on the hard shoulder by a gap in the hawthorn hedge that ringed the perimeter of the airport.
“There’s the entrance to his majesty’s estate.”
I paid him and turned to open the door.
“Here.” He handed me a card. “There’s my number for when you’ve finished your business. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck out here.”
I watched the taxi drive away. The dirty sky threatened rain. I buttoned my coat and went through the gap. A trampled grassy track led to the cottage.
Blustery wind whipped the tail of my coat against my legs. It was late November, twilight at three o’clock. In my mind I shuffled through possible words that best described the surroundings and settled on bleak.
Fifty metres to my right, the concrete strip of runway reached into a grey distance. A flashing light rotated on the bulbous control tower. The rumble of an airplane as it took off intensified into a thumping roar. I hunched over, nerves vibrating, waiting for the crescendo to abate.
As I got closer, I could see the rundown state of the cottage; stone walls discoloured, the thatch mossy and bare in patches. I knocked on the front door, and waited, then knocked again.
The door opened a crack.
"What do you want?”
“Joe,” I said, “excuse the intrusion. I’ve just come to tell you how much I admire the stance you’re taking, standing up for your rights.”
"Are you from a newspaper?”
"No, I’m not.”
Heavy drops of rain spattered my head. A surge of wind buffeted the cottage. The door opened wider.
"You’d better come in out of the rain.”
The door led into a kitchen. Sparse light penetrated a small window, augmenting the glow from a fire burning in a tiled fireplace. The smell of fried onions hung in the air.
“Take a seat.” Joe gestured to a table piled with newspapers, plates, and cutlery.
He was bald except for wispy hair around his ears, his face lined, a dewlap sagging from his neck. He wore a misshapen jumper, torn at the elbows, and tweed trousers that were too short.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I took a taxi.”
“Right, so.” He eyed me up and down. “I’ve just made a pot of tea. Do you take milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, but don’t go to any bother.”
He went over to a dresser and reached for a cup, his movements slow and hesitant. He must have been well into his seventies.
The tea tasted weak, probably made from reused teabags. Joe sat at the table across from me.
“I hope you’re not from one of those newspapers?” He pointed to the pile on the table. “Looking for a new angle?”
"I’ve nothing to do with any newspaper. I just wanted to meet you.”
“Well, that’s a first.” He picked up a spoon and began polishing it on the sleeve of his jumper. “I’ve had my fill of journalists.”
We sat in silence. Joe continued his polishing. He showed no inclination to speak.
“I really admire what you’re doing,” I said, “sticking to your guns.”
“I don’t like being pushed around.” He put down the spoon and took up a knife that he rubbed on the knee of his trousers. “The airport offered me plenty of money. Enough to buy a house with all the latest mod cons in one of those new developments. And tickets to exotic places, all the popular holiday destinations. Hawaii. Caribbean islands. The Bahamas.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I don’t need the money. It wouldn’t do me any good. I have all I want here.”
I looked around the gloomy kitchen, taking in the cracked linoleum and mold on the walls.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not from a newspaper, come here to mock me?”
“I just want to understand.”
“Right.” Joe nodded his head slowly. “You want to understand.”
I sipped the weak tea and waited. Joe lifted himself from his chair, grunting as he straightened his back.
“Here, let me show you something.”
I followed him as he shuffled over to a small room off the kitchen that may have once served as a pantry. It contained a single chair positioned in front of a large, framed picture which covered most of one wall.
“The Garden of Love by Peter Paul Rubens,” Joe said.
He stood with one hand resting on the back of the chair and regarded the picture. I stood beside him. The print was an art gallery poster advertising an exhibition of Rubens’ work in the Prado.
“I don’t need to go to any exotic destination or holiday resort when I have this. I don’t even need a garden, some suburban patch of grass with weeds and squealing kids next door.”
“I see,” I said but I didn’t really, or only partly.
“I sit here for hours on end and look at those fat-arsed cherubs, like little Michelin Men.” He smiled and moved closer to the print. “Everything you could ever want to see is in this picture. Dutch women in their long dresses, acres of satin. Intrigue and flirtation—Rubens put it all on show. There you have Venus sitting on a big fish, squeezing her breasts, and lactating. Amazing. Those cupids encouraging all manner of licentious behaviour. Look at the angel on the left pushing that woman into the arms of the scoundrel in the broad-brimmed hat.”
He turned to face me, his old eyes glistening. “I sit here and find something new every time. The expressions on the women’s ruddy faces. Expectation. Hope. Dreaminess. Only yesterday, I spent the afternoon trying to figure out the stern look on that woman with the feather. And the fellow with the lute—I still can’t fathom what his expression means. Even the attitude of the doves and the dogs and Juno’s peacock is strange. There’s craziness in this painting. I sit and look and think of the Garden of Gethsemane, and I picture it as something similar. Jesus with his followers arranged like this, maybe Judas cozying up to Jesus like that chancer in the big hat.”
Joe closed his eyes, nodded, and sighed loudly. I kept quiet, fearing that anything I said would sound crass. We went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Joe picked up another spoon and rubbed it on his sleeve.
“A thatched cottage is unusual,” I said. “You don’t see so many of them anymore.”
“I did it myself, learned to thatch when I was sixteen. I was trained by William Cahill, a master thatcher, and a true artist—the Rubens of thatching.”
I considered suggesting that the thatch needed repair but decided against it.
“Do you think you’ll be allowed to stay?”
“There’s no reason for me to leave. The more they push, the more I’ll resist. They say I don’t want people to travel. I’m not stopping them. That’s none of my business. I have all I need here, a roof over my head and my Garden of Love.”
“Have you ever thought of visiting Madrid and seeing the original painting?”
Joe stood, took my half-finished cup of tea, and emptied it in the sink. Then, he made his way to the front door.
“Right, so.” He held open the door.
My visit was over. He stood aside to let me out. It had stopped raining.
“Goodbye, Joe,” I said. “It was good to meet you.”
He stepped outside and looked around at the bleak landscape. “People can travel all they want. I don’t care. All I know is that I’ve got all I need here.”
He shut the door. A burst of wind blew me backwards. I took shelter against the side of the cottage. Checking my pockets, I found the taxi driver’s card. I had come all this way to see a man who had no need to go anywhere.
Another airplane took off. I watched it climb, higher and higher, the noise a whistling echo.
Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. His recent short story fiction has appeared in Down in the Dirt, Granfalloon, Samjoko, Into the Void (Pushcart Prize nomination), the Dark Lane and What Monsters Do for Love anthologies, and Best Indie Speculative Fiction 2021. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).