The Keeper

Calling Time

At the end of the evening, Stan called time. The last lone man was gently pushed out of the door, clutching a bottle of Diamond White to his chest. The female bartender, who looked barely old enough to be in the pub, dashed off home to leave the three men around the bar to drink one for the road. Stan had grey pepper hair and a white beard that belied the fact he was only in his late 40s, all muscle and sinew and able to break up a fight or take away keys from a man who didn't want to pay the eye-watering cost of a taxi home. Gavin, the cook, made the bar stool creak as he shifted from one bum cheek to the other. He enjoyed eating his food more than the customers did, and could drink anyone under the table. Stan cut him off at two pints. Dean was happy with one, but it went down fast after a hot evening in the kitchen.

"Can I get you another?" said Stan.

"I'd better not. I'm not sure I'll find my way home after one, and two would make that a certainty."

"Where are you staying?" asked Stan, as he upended the glass on the dishwasher rack.

"I don't know the address. It's about five miles from here, down an overgrown track. There's a barn and a – "

"Sheila's cottage," said Gavin.

Stan laughed. "So she finally found some mug to take that on, eh? That place is a mess. It'll take years to sort that out."

"I've got time." Dean put on his jacket and tucked the stool under the bar.

"Well, good. Because Gavin says he can see his face in pans that used to be black. Welcome aboard. Have you got lights on that bike, or do you want a lift?"

"The bike's got lights, but dead batteries. I'll pick up some more later in the week. I'll be okay though – it's a full moon." Dean headed towards the door.

"Suit yourself. See you tomorrow."

Dean gave a mock salute, turned the lock, and was out in the crisp air. Despite the staff meal of egg and chips he had wolfed down in a lull, the pint had gone to his head somewhat. He felt he was flying on the moonlit road, and his heart soared as a barn owl guided him down the track home.

* * *

It took a couple more days in the barn to finish sorting out the stuff, mending anything he could, then taking the few things beyond rescuing to the local dump, where he picked up a log burner with plenty of life left in it. One of the pub's regulars was a gas-fitter and did the metal work Dean needed, cash-in-hand, so Dean could install it at the barn without the risk of burning it down when he lit it. When he had resurrected the neglected garden tools, he put them to use in the overgrown wilderness outside the barn. An old scythe that felt unwieldy when he lifted it out of a rusted-out oil drum came to life under his care. It was light in both hands, weighted just right to cut through the long grass with ease. He cleared around the cottage and barn and down the track. After that, he repaired and oiled the shutters, opening them up completely to let in the morning light through two massive windows that faced out over the cut grass.

His new routine was working inside in the morning, when the light was best, before moving out to the garden. There, he cut and hacked his way through to reach the entrance to the overgrown orchard.

As he brought order to the inside of the barn, he was able to rig up a hammock. It kept him off the cold floor and would do until he worked out where he was going. He slept better than he had done on the sofa bed in the 'cul-de-sad-sack', as Martha had put it. So many things – the garden, music on the radio, passages in books – made him think of her, and each thought cast light and shadow: chiaroscuro in his mind. The hard physical work was the only way he could sleep at night.