The Final Landscape

I am eighty-seven years old, and I have lived a very simple but happy life.

My wife, Ava, passed away fifteen years ago, and as we had no children, now it’s just me and my rescue dog, Pip. I miss my wife everyday, but I’m an introvert who has always been perfectly content in his own company, so I get by okay.

After we got married, Ava and I bought a small cottage in the countryside, which I still live in now. The house itself isn’t much to write home about, but it came with our very own plot of land, surrounded by woods, which we loved.

Ava was a teacher at the local school, but her real passion was art. I loved to just watch her doing her thing - her paintbrush moving back and forth across the canvas as though it was an extension of her arm, as natural to her as breathing. Landscapes were her favourite thing to paint.

I’m feeling particularly nostalgic today, so after giving Pip his breakfast and morning walk, I head upstairs to the attic to take a little wander down memory lane. The attic is dusty and smells of mildew. I don't come up here too often. Various cardboard boxes are scattered across the floorboards in no particular order, and I root through them until I find the one I’m looking for.

Ava’s work, it reads on the side, in my own messy scrawl. She used to laugh at me calling her paintings ‘work’, saying I made her sound like a real artist. To me, she was.

I don’t believe an artist is defined by how many gallery showings they’ve had, a writer by how many stories they’ve published, a musician by how many people have heard their songs. I believe it comes from the love they have in their heart and soul for their chosen art form.

The box is heavy and crammed full of canvases covered in soft, pastel-coloured paints - depictions of rolling hills, fields full of lavender, blue-green seas lapping over sandy yellow shores. I flick through, searching for my favourite.

“There you are,” I whisper, my hands shaking slightly as I reach for the painting.

It’s a simple image of the landscape directly outside our home, if you were to stand with your back facing the front door. The wide, lush green fields merge into a scattering of tall ash trees. Ava has painted a deer which looks suspiciously like Bambi peering out from behind the bark. She’s put the most effort into the apple tree - which stands outside our cottage, right next to where I park my car - the careful shading of the blush red fruit and intricate detail of the foliage showing her artistic flair. She always loved that apple tree. The previous owner had planted it, and she was adamant that we must never cut it down.

“Think of what we can make with all these fresh apples!” She’d exclaim. “Apple crumble, apple pie, apple strudel…”

Neither of us was very good at baking, so Ava’s plans for the apples were quickly forgotten. I think we had one or two crumbles before she gave up, saying it was too much effort. But she still loved the tree, sitting under it to read or mark her pupil’s essays.

I still remember the day she painted this. I don’t remember the year, or the exact month, but she was off work, so it must have been July or August. I came back from the office that day to find her outside perched on a stool, her easel propped up in front of her, various animals milling about beside her. We had more pets in those days, both of us animal lovers - two dogs, a cat, even a handful of chickens. I’d had a rough day at work, and it was swelteringly hot, perspiration dripping down the back of my button-up shirt. Of course, what we considered hot back then, we’d now call lovely and mild. I’ve almost gotten used to the sleepless nights that stubbornly refuse to drop below thirty degrees Celsius, following the government advice of putting ice in the bed - to little relief. That day, I was in an awful mood, but when I saw my wife sitting in the sunshine, paintbrush poised in the air, feathered and furry creatures at her feet like some sort of fairytale princess, my heart filled with warmth and love. My bad mood instantly disappeared.

That’s why this painting is my favourite.

I love routine, because it keeps me sane. Every morning, I have the same breakfast - a boiled egg, toast with marmalade, and a cup of tea. I watch the same television programs each night. I brush my teeth at eight fifty-five pm, get into bed by nine, read two chapters of my book, and then go to sleep. And every Wednesday, at midnight, I throw on a coat and a backpack, and indulge in a little trespassing.

They built the landfill site around thirty years ago. It is huge, stretching as far as the eye can see, thousands of trees cut down to make room for it. A few years back, they were planning an extension, which would encroach on my plot of land. A young man in a sharp suit came to my door, offering an eye-watering sum to have me sell up and leave. I refused, and they’ve been hounding me ever since. But I won’t give in. What good is money, at my age? I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I just want to live out my final years in the home I’ve spent most of my life in - all I need is my memories, and Pip, who accompanies me on all my trespassing excursions.

The site has cameras, of course, but I know where the blind spots are. I also wear a hooded jacket and scarf, in case I do get caught on camera.

I pull the scarf up over my nose, protecting myself from both the thin layer of constant ash that hangs in the air, and the stench of the landfill. It’s organised by item type, and I steer well clear of the area which contains food waste, heading further along the site to the dumping grounds for clothes, toys, and electronics.

Last week, I had a doctor’s appointment, so I got the bus into town. Everyone around me was deeply engrossed in their phones, swiping and tapping away. I simply stared out the window, taking in the towering distribution centres, the android nannies pushing strollers, the couples walking along hand in hand, respirators covering their faces. We stopped at a traffic light, and a faded poster stuck on a lamppost caught my eye.

KEEPING EARTH HAPPY, it read in bold green lettering. IN 2072, 96% OF ALL HOUSEHOLD WASTE IN UPTON COUNTY COUNCIL WAS MADE INTO RECYCLED MATERIALS.

What bullshit, I think now, stepping over a sequinned evening dress. I wonder what the occasion was. It looks expensive, probably hand-sewn. Someone made this dress. Someone wore it while being spun around by her husband on the dancefloor at a wedding, or while applauding enthusiastically after watching a performance of La Boheme. Now it’s nothing - just another piece of material rotting away in a landfill. The woman who it belonged to probably doesn’t even remember it. But the Earth remembers - the Earth remembers every item that we forget.

This entire part of the site exists for things that were once shiny and new, losing their value as soon as they left the warehouse, quickly replaced with the next shiny and new thing, the next short-lived dopamine rush. The cycle continues over and over, year after year, for billions of people, and this landfill is one of thousands across the country.

Several former shiny and new things make their way into my bag. A gardening trowel, some pieces of scrap metal, an old vinyl of an album I loved in my youth. I reach for a plaid shirt which I think will look just fine after a hot wash, and as I do, something falls from the folds of the faded material.

I bend down, my knees creaking and groaning in protest, and inspect the object in question. It’s an art set - the kind you get kids for when they’re into crafty, creative things and they’re past the age of finger painting. My heart tugs as I realise it’s probably an unwanted birthday or Christmas present. To throw away something you bought yourself is one thing, but it always hurts a little to see a discarded gift. It’s nothing special, just a set of acrylic paints in a rainbow of colours and a handful of different sized brushes, but it’s unopened and looks relatively new. For the second time today, the image of Ava painting comes into my head, her strawberry blonde curls falling around her face, which is lit up with the joy of doing what she loved best. I slide the art set into my bag.

As I’m shrugging my backpack onto my shoulders, Pip runs up to me, his soft paws tapping along on the ground. He is holding a water bottle between his teeth.

“Drop it,” I command, trying to sound stern. He holds onto it, looking up at me earnestly, like he’s trying to tell me something.

“What is it, boy?” I ask, softening my tone. I grab onto one end of the bottle. Pip loosens his grip, and I gently pull it out of his mouth.

A small butterfly is trapped inside, its orange-brown wings batting frantically against the plastic walls of its prison.

“You poor little thing.” I glance at Pip. “Good boy.” He wags his tail in response.

I retrieve my handy penknife from my backpack and flip it open. As the blade makes contact with the plastic, the butterfly shrinks back, frightened.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure it. “I won’t hurt you. I’m getting you out of there.” I work carefully, moving the knife back and forth across the bottle’s neck. Eventually, I’ve created an opening large enough for the butterfly to squeeze through, but still it presses itself against the base, uncertain.

“Hey, you’re fine. Out you go.”

Slowly, it crawls forward and raises its wings, flicking them rapidly until it takes flight. It flies in several circles around my head before landing on Pip’s back, perching its spindly legs on his chestnut fur. Up close, I notice it has a tiny white spot on its lower left wing - a minuscule smudge that looks like a misshapen white heart. I smile. It bats its wings quickly, three times in a row, like it’s attempting Morse code. I choose to believe it’s saying thank you.

“You’re very welcome,” I say. “Enjoy your freedom. Now, Pip and I should be getting home.”

The butterfly takes its cue and flies away, dancing over the towering piles of disposable vapes and empty drinks cans until I cannot see it anymore.

On our return home, I pause before opening the front door. Concrete survey markers topped with bright orange discs line the lawn. I grip onto the one closest to me and pull it out of the ground. I repeat this for each marker until they are all gone, and then dispose of them in my recycling bin.

“Time for bed,” I tell Pip.

The next day, after digging out some blank canvases and Ava’s worn old easel, I begin to paint. Very quickly, I learn that it’s much harder than I expected, so I start researching and practicing meticulously. By day, I pore over Ava’s art books, learning about glazing, stippling, and under painting. In the evenings, I worship at the altar of Bob Ross - his calming voice drifting out of the television while I paint clear, babbling streams, snow-capped-mountains, and happy little trees. A few weeks of daily practice, and I’m happy with my progress. I begin work on one last landscape.

The painting takes months, but slowly and surely comes together - a dab of forest green here, a wash of sky blue there. Finally, on a rainy day in October, it is complete. I make myself a cup of tea (milk and two sugars) and prop the canvas up on the kitchen table, alongside my favourite painting of Ava’s. They are nearly identical, if you ignore the fact that hers is much better than mine. I’ve worked hard, but I don’t have the natural talent for art that my wife did. I’m still proud of it, despite this.

I didn’t copy Ava’s painting exactly - I did make one small change. Underneath the apple tree, is a grey-haired couple holding hands, a fluffy brown dog stood beside them. Above the tree, a butterfly hovers in the air, a tiny white splotch on its lower left wing.

The letters have been coming for some time now, thick white envelopes filled with papers screaming phrases like NECESSARY EXPANSION and IMMEDIATE EVACUATION. I have been ignoring them. I have also unplugged my phone - the daily calls were starting to irritate me.

Machines are whirring outside, and Pip begins to whine at my feet.

“It’s alright, boy,” I say, ruffling his fur. I turn up the radio, an old pop song echoing out of the speaker. It seems to settle him somewhat.

The machines are getting louder, getting closer. I look at the paintings. I pull Pip up onto my lap and hold him close. I sip my tea. As the whirring sound becomes deafening and the walls begin to crack and splinter, I close my eyes and think of Ava.