A Fence That Opens If It Has To

Acrylics on cartridge paper

Mr Albert Planter has farmed the land around the village for as long as anyone can remember, and possibly longer than that. Time, like weather, appears to acknowledge him but not hurry him. He is a man of few words, most of which are delivered in a low, economical mumble that usually translates as busy or no time for nonsense. Occasionally it means no, which saves everyone time. His character is etched into his face.

He travels everywhere on his tractor. Everywhere. The post office, the village green, the supermarket in the next town. This has caused parking disputes of some intensity, though Mr Planter remains serenely unaware of them; he parks where he stops and the tractor understands.

His daughter, Sharon, works at the teashop in Mrs Nugget’s Village Hall and believes, with a sort of cheerful determination, that her father can be gently ushered into community life. She tries repeatedly. Invitations are issued and flyers are pressed into his coat pocket; suggestions are floated, but these are met with polite resistance and the occasional sigh that suggests a man being asked to rearrange the seasons.

When cornered, Mr Planter does attend events, briefly, usually while checking his watch. He once tried the village drawing class. Asked to draw something he knew and loved, he chose his tractor. There was a misunderstanding. Mr Planter left the room, tied a rope to said tractor, and began pulling with considerable effort. He did not return.

sketchbook

 

The farm itself is old-school, handed down through generations, and Mr Planter is fiercely proud of this. His great grandfather (x6) won prizes for the best bull and the best cabbage, a pairing Mr Planter considers perfectly balanced. These facts are not volunteered but will surface if pressed, like bedrock. The land matters. People, less so. 

Prize Bull. Prize Cabbage

W. Williams 1802 Oil on board

 

Sharon, however, has ideas. She would like to diversify. A small farm shop, perhaps. A café. Somewhere she could sell the piggywigs and lambsicals (her names for the livestock, chosen precisely because they irritate her father). Mr Planter does not object to her selling produce in a shop; he objects to people. A café, in his view, is simply people lingering.

Mr Planter is careful with money. Some say mean; he would say sensible. He has been known to attempt to bargain for a sofa in a department store, offering cash and a look that suggests that cash should obviously change the laws of retail. He takes Sharon out for a meal at the local pub from time to time, but only buys one meal, as it is wasteful not to share. He brings a spare knife and fork in his backpack, just in case. One never knows.

At present, Mr Planter is repairing a gate. He has been repairing this gate for three days and Sharon simply says it is “coming along nicely.” Mr Planter, when asked, nods and continues working. There was no dramatic snap or collapse, it simply reached a point where it could no longer pretend to be a gate.

He prefers the company of animals to people, but he is not unkind, and he listens. He turns up when it matters, but he just doesn’t see the point of hanging around once the job is done. The land endures for him. The tractor waits and somewhere, quietly, a gate is becoming a fence that opens if it has to.