The Keeper

A Country Dream

It didn't take long for Martha and Carl to sell the flat in Shoreditch, an area that had skyrocketed in value as artists and students had made way for website companies, coffee shops, and marketing consultants. Carl offered her half of the profit that he'd made and she negotiated him down to a quarter, since she'd never paid the hefty mortgage, only the bills. It was still more money than she had ever had in her life and more than enough to start a new one. She rented a tiny storage unit to pack away a few boxes of things that she could collect once she had found somewhere to rent.

When Martha checked into her favourite Cornish bed-and-breakfast, she felt more at home than she had ever felt in London. The frenetic pace and fashion dictators were gone, replaced by people who had the time to nod in greeting, or even stop to chat. The low-level anxiety that had come from not fitting in fizzled out. It felt as though a vice in her mind was being unwound, releasing an urge to create that was impossible to suppress.

In her old life, she had forced herself to record the world around her in a sketchbook. Now it became as essential to her as breathing. A physical looseness mirrored her mental clarity. Her shoulders dropped and the aches and pains she had attributed to middle-age fell away. She walked the streets feeling giddy with the possibilities of the day.

Truro had the same chain stores as in every town's high street, but there were sweet little side streets where local shopkeepers began to recognise her from her repeated visits. As she was passing her favourite newsagent, she stopped as always to look at the noticeboard, perusing the adverts for dog walkers and gardeners and odd-job men. There were TVs, bikes and beaten-up lounge suites for sale. She skipped past the rooms to rent that dredged up bad memories of flat- and fridge-sharing. But then another card caught her eye.

It read, "Secluded barn to rent. Would suit artist/quiet person with a love of gardening. £250 pcm."

It was as if someone had written the advert for her. She called the number on the card.

It took a while for someone to pick up and a flustered woman answered. "Hello, Helen here."

"Hi, I'm calling about the barn."

"You are? Great, er, that's great!"

"I'm staying in Truro. When would be a good time for me to see it?"

"How about today? I can give you directions if you can drive over this afternoon."

"I'm afraid I don't have a car. Is it walking distance from here?"

"Not unless you want to be walking until tomorrow! But if you catch the number 29 bus, I'll pick you up at the bus stop. There should be one leaving from outside the library in about half an hour. Get off after Mevacombe, at the stop just beyond the humpback bridge. I'll park in front of the white cottage there."

* * *

Martha got on the bus and it snaked its way through the countryside. After about fifteen minutes of waiting by the white cottage, she was beginning to think she was at the wrong one, when a battered blue Citroen 2CV came haring around the bend.

Helen opened the door and apologised. "Sorry I'm late. I had to stop for some sheep. Hop in."

Martha moved a bag of jumper cables into the footwell, sat down and belted up as Helen took off at speed. Hedges scraped down both sides of the car, and Martha gripped the seat as she was thrown around the corners. Her breathing slowed when Helen turned off and drove more cautiously up the gravel track to an old farmhouse.

"This is it. This was our country dream."

"Was?"

"Yep. My ex-husband and I spent years and years talking about moving to the country. Within a couple of years of finding this place, he decided he liked the city's comforts better. He detested the mud, and the winters here can be muddy. Very muddy. Do you have a pair of Wellington boots?"