The Keeper

Martha and Robert

Stan the barman was happy to talk about Dean. "Yeah, I knew him. Top bloke. He worked here and didn't miss a shift until the accident."

The blood drained from Martha's face and she grasped the bar as she asked, "What accident?"

"Don't worry, love. He's all right now. At least he was when I last saw him." Stan brought her up to speed on the barn, Dean's fall, and his recovery. "Demelza looked after him. He stayed with her until he was back on his feet."

Martha steadied her voice, careful to hide her fear. "Was she his girlfriend?"

Stan laughed. "No – I never saw Dean with anyone, and Demelza was old enough to be his mother, just looked out for him, that's all. She would've been the one to keep in touch with him. You know how lousy we blokes are, once someone moves out of range of the pub."

"Yes, he's a hard man to find, but it sounds like Demelza is the person to ask."

"I'm sorry, dear. She passed on some years ago, around the time Sheila sold the cottage and barn. She had a massive stroke."

"I'm sorry."

Stan gathered up some bar mats, tapping them together to make a tidy pile. "The weird thing was, she looked happy. As happy as she was in life. The paramedics said she probably died in her sleep. I was the one that found her and she looked like an angel, lying on her back with her eyes closed, smiling, as if nothing was wrong. But she was stone cold." Stan saw Martha's face fall, saw her look away. "Sorry. You don't need to hear this, but we miss her. Demelza's death affected us badly, but no one more so than Dean. That's when he quit everything. The dishwashing, of course – I don't know anyone who washes dishes as a career – but also the painting. He stopped painting and helped Demelza's family with sorting out her affairs: the shop, her stuff. And then he was gone, before the new folks at Sheila's cottage even moved in."

"Would anyone else know where he went?" asked Martha.

"No, like I said, Demelza was the one for that. She was the village grapevine, the organiser who kept people connected. The village isn't the same without her and no one will take on that shop. There's no money in it these days."

"I'm sorry..."

"Stan. The name's Stan. And you are?"

"Martha."

"Martha, it's nice to meet a friend of Dean's. He was a good friend to Demelza, and I thought he might move in there, but he just vanished. I think he was heartbroken, losing his friend and his home so close together. He went off like a wounded cat. Cats go off on their own to die, don't they?"

"Do they?"

"God, I'm saying all the wrong things, aren't I? I'm sorry, Martha. I really am. Let me shout you a drink. It's good to know someone will be living in the barn. Demelza said it was a marvel."

"It is, Stan. It certainly is. I'll have a small glass of sherry. Then I'd better bike home, whilst I can still remember my way back."

* * *

Moving into the barn was a turning point for Martha. A removal company brought down her boxes from storage and she settled in immediately. She worked outside in the mornings, rescuing the overgrown garden, and painted in the afternoons. Her hands were always busy, but her mind was free to reflect on what Stan had said. She couldn't imagine Dean going off to die, despite his loss of Demelza and the barn. He had dealt with adversity before and came across as a positive person with a love of life, which must have been magnified now that he was free to live how he wanted. Sometimes she faltered. If he was alive, why did no one know where he was? Where would he have gone? What did he have to hide from now? Once again, she drove herself downward, trying to find him in her mind. She had to calm herself and let it go by centring herself in the place. The place that was full of reminders of him, making him real and alive to her. There were dents in the floor where he must have set up his easel too, working where the light from the windows was best. Many more clues to his life were scattered through the barn and garden, magnifying her happiness each time she found one. A shopping list for a trip to Truro was tucked into the kindling basket. When she removed the smothering bindweed, flowers and vegetables sprang from seed in beds he had tended. More flowers grew from bulbs he had planted under each orchard fruit tree.