‘Just say what it is you want, Mr Mayor.’

He leaned back again, wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, ‘I’d like to buy your land.’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ I said. ‘The land’s no good.’

‘It’s good for us,’ said the mayor. ‘It’s the right size, it’s close enough to town, and the road goes right down the middle.’

‘What road? There isn’t a road.’

‘There will be a road.’

I really didn’t know the mayor. I’d heard of him; my wife had talked about him. She’d said he was just like his father: vain, corrupt, greedy, and a skirt-­chaser. She was probably right, but I didn’t care. The way he sat there, sweating, at my kitchen table, I kind of liked him. It occurred to me that perhaps there were a few clean glasses in one of the cupboards after all, and I asked if they would like something to drink.

‘We don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ said the mayor. ‘We want to buy your land, that’s all.’

I stood up, got the glasses and a jug of water, and they drank it all. I said, ‘Ten thousand.’

They sat there, in their suits, their turkey necks chafed red by their ties, and stared at me.

‘For all of the land?’ asked the mayor.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s no good. It’s full of marshes.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said the mayor.

‘And then it’s all dry and hard, like a brick worn away by the wind.’

‘Terrible,’ said the mayor.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Ten thousand for the land.’

‘Let’s shake on it,’ said the mayor.

‘And five hundred thousand for the poultry hangar.’

‘What?’

‘Five hundred thousand for the hangar.’

‘You think you’re smart, huh?’

‘No, I think I’m pretty stupid. The only thing I ever learned was how to dig potatoes out of the ground. Nothing else. But the thing is: for some reason, you want my land. I don’t know what that reason might be, but it’s obviously good enough for you to come out here in this heat in your ties and your patent leather shoes. The land’s no good, but it belongs to me.’

‘Is there any more water?’ asked the mayor. I fetched another jug and they drank it all.

‘The water tastes a bit peculiar,’ said the mayor. I said nothing. He kept trying different approaches. He badgered me, got angry, tried being threatening, then friendly. But I said nothing. He gave up. We shook hands, and everything happened the way it did.

When I went into town, I didn’t look back. I used the money to buy myself a life residency at the Sunset Retirement Home. It was worth it, because I lived another fifteen years and more. My room was small; it had yellow wallpaper with an almost invisible pattern. It was a stiff sort of paper, and it felt good when I stroked it with my fingers. I didn’t like to go out; the town was too loud for me and the pavements too slippery. I stayed in my room, just sitting there. I liked it that the room was small. I’d spent my whole life staring into the distance. I barely thought about my previous life. I barely thought about the world outside. When I heard about the accident, I couldn’t help laughing. I felt sorry for the three who were buried under the rubble, but I’d told them the truth about the land. It’s no good.