Mushroom.Man Read online

  The hills attract a varied selection of people. Apart from those whose families have lived here for generations there are people who have drifted here for a variety of reasons; looking for peace, for fulfilment, for less scrutiny from the law. There are some whose personal histories are so odd, so startling, that they have all the marks of fiction and none of reality. It’s not that I have much interest in their lives, it’s just that I live here. I meet them, I hear about them in village gossip. Some even hit the national newspapers. There are no real threads binding them together; unlike those who live and grew up here, their only common tie is the place. There are no generation-long ligaments binding them to other families; they blow in, they blow out, like leaves in an autumn wind, rootless and transitory.

  It takes time to put down roots, it’s a slow process. Until you know your environment well you can’t fit in, you can’t put down roots. With no roots you just blow away. I think that holds true for other realities as well. It’s very easy to get blown away. You need to find some kind of anchoring, a weight that stops the psychic winds from tossing you about. When Jane was here that was what she did for me. Kept my feet on the ground figuratively and literally. She was my take-off point and my landing pad. Perhaps it was a burden she never wanted. Come to think of it, I never asked her; I just took it for granted. When she left I had to do a serious reappraisal of my life. I’d lost my ballast; travelling was dangerous. It took a while to get used to it, not having her around. It was her company I missed, like the times that we sat in silence listening to the rain. Listening to it alone is simply depressing.

  I missed the smell of her in the house, her things in the bathroom, her breathing at night, her warm body in the morning. No one major thing, just lots of little ones that add up to a life shared. Little habits, routines, small things too insignificant to describe; all these left with her. I couldn’t take mushrooms, I just drank. Alcohol has no pretensions to enlightenment: drink enough and you get oblivion. When you feel like I felt, the road to oblivion looks a lot more attractive than the road to enlightenment. It’s easier for a start, and there’s no shortage of fellow-travellers in the pub willing to go down the road with you. You can drink yourself stupid in company. Those were the days when I began to meet the other hill-dwellers. When Jane was here we spent most nights at home, together. Didn’t go out much, happy enough with our own company. At least, that’s how it seemed at the time.

  The pub here is all things to all men. Shelter for people like me, a stop for Sunday drivers, a meeting point for the displaced. I sat here for nearly a year, every night, my back to the snug propping up the bar. I could see all around with my back covered. It was my place, where you’d find me, my office. I watched the people come and go and slowly built up a picture of who they were and what they did. Until then I hadn’t had much time for people. I just dealt with my life as well as I could and let them all get on with it. I felt like a biologist examining a new species. I was detached, an observer, trying to affect the patterns of transactions around me as little as I could to preserve their integrity, to stop me from contaminating them, changing them with my presence.

  Things change when you observe them. I mean the act of observation is transactional. It makes a difference to what is observed. It’s a problem. Nothing appears as it would if you weren’t observing it. How you deal with that I don’t know. Maybe when it’s people you want to observe, you should use hidden cameras. If they don’t know there’s a camera they might behave as they would if unobserved. Like people in cars at traffic lights who think no one can see them. They pick their noses, finger out ear wax, do all those little things that are usually saved for privacy. I don’t know if I learnt much about human nature, but I learnt plenty about who did what and when.

  There’s a lot of people here who for one reason or another found life in the city hard to take. There’s a man who has an estate across the hill from me who ran a big financial scam in New York. He can’t go back there, but he seems to have got most of his money out; he lives pretty well. Not far from me there’s an old man who was one of the few Englishmen in the last war to defect to the Germans. He signed up with Wafen SS from a prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. I’ve seen his mail; he still gets the magazine for retired SS officers. Years ago, before I knew this, I met him walking in the woods. We started talking and the conversation got onto the war. He told me that the English had started civilian bombing and that the holocaust was a fiction. I was prepared to believe the first bit, but it seemed to me you had to refuse to look at a whole lot of evidence to believe the second part. This conversation made a lot more sense in retrospect when I knew his history. He was here, I suppose, because he had nowhere else to go.

  I met Dutch Dave in the pub. He wasn’t Dutch but he’d lived in Amsterdam for years. He was a Scot, but I never got to find out much about his history. Dave was small, thin and wiry. He had long thinning black hair which he wore in a pony-tail, and a droopy Fu-Manchu moustache. His movements were quick and twitchy, much like his mind. He was known locally as ‘the weasel’. He’d rented a house not far from me and used to call by from time to time. He was a drug dealer; mostly hash and a bit a coke. I could only guess why he’d moved here. I liked him because he was inquisitive and bright, but he also interested me because he was so different from anyone else that I’d ever known. The world he lived in couldn’t have been further from mine, and I suppose that was its attraction. I was fascinated.

  I’ve never been very fond of coke and anyway I could never afford it. I always thought it brought out the worst in people – not individually, but socially. It was never upfront like passing a joint; always furtive, a nod and a wink, a trip to the lavatory. That was another thing, who wants a drug you take in a lavatory, using the cistern as a chopping board? I didn’t like the effect on my jaw, the way it made me talk too much. Maybe it has its uses, but I could never see it as a recreational thing. Dave used it constantly and had a permanent sniff. I asked him why he did it.

  ‘It’s like driving a Roller, man. Makes you feel good, in charge, you can deal with things.’ He took another snort. ‘It puts your thoughts in order. You can concentrate better. You can drink more.’

  I’d noticed that. Dave never got drunk. As soon as he felt the effects of the alcohol he balanced it up with a little coke. Then he’d drink more. Money was certainly not one of his problems. Maybe where to keep it was, and he had plenty to play with. I don’t know why I liked his company; we had nothing in common, really. For me drugs were a tool to get me somewhere, for him simply a way of being where he was. I never saw him without his bag of coke, so I’ve no idea what sort of personality lived behind the white powder front. Somehow society seems to have divided its drugs: television for the poor, coke for the rich.

  He came walking with me once when I was gathering psilocybins.

  ‘You get off on these?’

  ‘I use them.’

  ‘You get high?’

  ‘It changes my view.’

  ‘Yeah. You get zonked, man. Bet you do. I could sell these. You find them, I’ll sell them. Whatcha think? Eh? You’ll make money – think about it, man.’

  I did. I decided I didn’t want to do it. Dave couldn’t figure it at all. As far as he was concerned it was money lying there in the fields that you could harvest. He loved money, and couldn’t understand why it held less attraction for me. In his terms it was a natural. You got it for free, and you could sell it.

  ‘It’s like a whore, man. You got it, you sell it – you still got it. These little babies just keep coming up out of the ground. Money for jam.’

  He never really let go of that one. He’d bring it up nearly every time we met. Eventually it got boring and I told him. He was huffy for a while, but another snort had him back to his bouncy self. I tried to explain why trading in mushrooms made no sense. It was like a religion to me. You don’t trade in them.

  ‘Tell that to the TV evangelists,’ he sniffed.

  It was Dave who in
troduced me to Hartfield Stanley. He was from Seattle, was very rich, and had recently settled in a mansion with a large estate attached, a little down the river from me. After he moved in, village gossip centred on where his money came from. There were as many versions as there were people living round about. No one really knew the truth and Hartfield was in no hurry to tell.

  When he first arrived the centuries-old stability of our little community was stood on its head. He arrived full of New World fire. Within a month he had employed six new people from the village in addition to his cook and housekeeper: a driver, two gardeners, a shepherd to look after his pedigree sheep, and two farm labourers. The big house became the focus of much of our talk and a lot of our lives. He even persuaded me to work part-time, advising him on tree planting.

  Whatever his view of life in the hills was, it was very different from those around him. He embraced ideas and lifestyles with single-minded enthusiasm and played them out to the extremes. Each new craze would last about a year and then it would be replaced with something new. When a craze was in full flow he would brook no interference, no distraction. He had a whim of iron. None of these caprices took place in a vacuum; each one had to involve as many people as possible. Hartfield liked to share his crazes.

  Dave persuaded me to come and meet him one afternoon when he was in the middle of his hunting phase. He greeted us in the hall, dressed as the squire: jodhpurs, boots, pink and stock. The large entrance hall had a log fire burning and Hartfield stood with his back to it, rocking on his heels and looking immensely pleased with himself.

  ‘Join me in a stirrup cup,’ he said walking across the hall. I looked at Dave.

  ‘Stirrup cup?’ I whispered.

  ‘Shh.’

  We followed him into what he called his morning room. It was a large room with huge floor-to-ceiling paned windows, bright and airy. Heavy mahogany and leather chairs were carefully placed near the bookshelves, each with a standard lamp nearby for reading. The room smelt strongly of new carpet. He handed me a glass of cherry brandy mixed with port. While he and Dave talked of the next week’s meet I wandered over to the bookshelves, which were filled with half and full-bound books. Shelf after shelf of Norwegian titles. Hartfield saw me take one out, its pages still uncut after two hundred years.

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful? Some are over a hundred years old. Great workmanship. Look at that gold lettering. You really get the feel of a library from them, don’t you?’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I agreed, and put it back.

  ‘Dave tells me you’re into nature.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Take people for walks in the hills. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. I do that too.’

  ‘City people?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  He put his arm around my shoulders and led me back towards the drinks and Dave.

  ‘We should go and look at my new horse. Wanna see her?’

  We followed him back through the hall, through a rambling Victorian extension and out into the yard. On the far side I counted six stables, all with the half-doors open and all but one with a horse’s head looking out. He took us over to a large bay with a white flash on her nose.

  ‘This is Furze. She’s my new girl.’ He rubbed her under the chin. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

  ‘A wee stoater,’ said Dave.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A stoater. A smasher.’

  ‘More of your Scots vernacular, I suppose.’

  ‘Aye, it is, so it is.’

  Dave could switch in and out of his Scotsman guise with ease. Mostly he was indeterminate, but every now and then he became wee Davey fae Govan. Furze tried to bite Hartfield on the shoulder, so we moved away from the door. He looked at me, as though trying to gain some information from my clothes.

  ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Pity. You could ride out with us on Sunday. I’ve a spare horse now.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer.’

  ‘Come to dinner next week. Maybe I can persuade you to take up riding.’

  ‘Thanks. Maybe you can.’

  Hartfield decided it was time to get Furze tacked up and go for a hack. Dave and I left him, walking from the yard around to the front of the house. It was a large house, three stories over basement, the garden front covered in Virginia creeper. The gravelled drive, immaculately manicured, swept up to a Victorian porte cochère flanked on each side by four bays. An imposing façade, one that demanded a certain lifestyle.

  ‘What do you think of him?’ Dave asked as we came to the car.

  ‘Seems friendly.’

  ‘He’s got more money than you’ve ever dreamt of. And he doesn’t mind spending it. With a bit of luck I’ll do a bit of business with him.’ He rubbed his hands. It may have been the cold, but it looked vulgar.

  ‘Is he serious about dinner? He hardly knows me.’

  ‘That’s the whole point. He’s very keen to get to know everyone who lives around here. You included.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d have anything in common with him.’

  ‘Think of it this way,’ said Dave, ‘you’ll get a chance to see how the other half lives, and if nothing else you’ll get a great meal for free.’

  ‘Have you been for dinner before?’

  ‘Loads of times. Well, two or three times anyway.’

  I looked up at the brick and stone façade, my eye carried up to the huge chimneys topping the roof.

  ‘Is it very formal?’

  ‘God no. Bit of a piss-up really.’

  I don’t have a lot of clothes, and the ones I do are best adapted to the outdoor life. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to go to Hartfield’s dinner party, but curiosity was winning. I am sufficiently self-conscious, however, to worry about what to wear. I didn’t want to look completely out of place. I didn’t mind looking a bit eccentric, but if I was going to go at all then I’d try to fit in, at least a little.

  On the night, Dave called round to pick me up. He walked in as I was ironing a white shirt. He watched me intently.

  ‘Domesticated little bugger, aren’t you?’

  ‘Have to be.’

  ‘Hurry up.’

  I had decided to wear the white shirt with my only tie, my brown cords and an old sports jacket. I thought that the combination would say rural if nothing else. We hurried out, and soon we were going up the long drive of Hartfield’s house, gravel crunching under the tyres.

  We were met at the door by Gordon, the butler, impeccably dressed in a black suit. He showed us through the hall, blazing with lights, into the drawing room. Through high double doors was an enormous room in which a small group of people lounged on sofas and on the floor. Only Hartfield was standing, his back to the fire. He was wearing jeans and a scruffy pullover. The effect of this alien environment was a little disconcerting, but I decided to make an effort. I’m glad that I did, because some of the people I was to meet there were later to haunt me. Hartfield strode over to us.

  ‘Welcome. Glad you could come. Let me introduce you. This is White Cloud, my special friend.’

  White Cloud lay across the front of the fire. I noticed that she was also wearing jeans, a tee-shirt with the legend ‘Remember Sand Creek’ and cowboy boots. She looked up languidly.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘And this is Tony Modena, my agent.’

  Tony sat forward and held out a hand.

  ‘Glad to meet you.’

  ‘And this is Betsy. Tony’s wife.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘And Giles Montvert. Giles is French – from France.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Françoise – she’s here with Giles. And this is Elena.’

  ‘Yelena, actually. Hartfield never gets it right.’

  Yelena held my hand firmly and stared into my eyes. I stared at her odd turban. ‘Don’t be afraid. I know what you’re thinking. I can read your thoughts, fears and desires. My grandmother was the famous M
adame Blavatsky. I’ve inherited her gifts.’

  I smiled and took my hand back in time to receive a glass of champagne from Hartfield. He moved back to the fire and held up his glass.

  ‘A toast. To the new life in the hills. The Stanleys’ new venture.’

  I found a seat on a sofa next to Yelena. She was very keen on eye contact. I was still trying to take in the room and the relationships. Hartfield and White Cloud. Tony something and that woman with the tan. The Frenchman, Giles, and his wife. And Yelena. Dave was already in a tight huddle on another sofa with Tony. They looked similar – small, dark and thin. White Cloud was still prostrate, Giles had moved to the grand piano and began playing it quietly. Hartfield was still standing talking to the French girl.

  ‘He’s a composer.’

  ‘Who? Giles?’

  ‘Of course.’ Yelena smiled. ‘You can always tell when someone plays their own music. It has more soul than playing someone else’s.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you see the music? It comes across the room like clouds of colour. I can see it; look there – and taste it too. I have many gifts. You seem ill at ease.’

  ‘No, I’m just getting a feel for the room. Trying to remember everyone’s name.’

  ‘Names are not important. It’s who you really are that matters. I am Yelena, but I am also Catherine, a Tudor serving wench at the court of Henry VIII. I am also Indala, soothsayer to Cleopatra. I am many people, the sum of all their experiences. Yelena is just the label the world puts on us.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you believe?’

  ‘Believe what?’

  ‘If you have to ask, then you are still unenlightened.’