The Keeper

Not Forgetting Her

The work in the barn and garden gave Dean purpose and a satisfaction that he hadn't had from most of his teaching. Until he had met Martha. He was glad that the tasks he had now were physically tougher. He was paying for his mistakes again, though this time there was always a reward.

Dean made his way up the slope, cutting out dense thickets of thorny brambles and sawing old trees that had fallen over the hillside. When the second summer showed its warmth, he saw the bones of the orchard emerge. The remaining fruit and nut trees fanned out along stone terraces that captured the rain that fell, and powered up in the midday sun. With the blackberry gone, he saw shoots of raspberry, red and black currant, and gooseberry emerge. There had been a gardener before him who had grown a forest of food. He had uncovered the foundation that would make it easy to build again.

The design showed him where it was best to plant as he followed the contours back to the main garden, ripping out the elder and hawthorn bushes seeded by birds to find the raised beds that would grow his vegetables. He saw the structure, what had fallen into disrepair, what needed rebuilding and where the beds were missing, with no time left to be made. It was a labour of love interrupted, then neglected.

The gardener must have been sad to leave. Perhaps their life had finished before the work was done. Dean was a willing apprentice, learning from the structure of the garden, his books, and the lessons of failure. He was deciphering the garden's past and working towards the garden to be, as it was intended. It would provide an abundance for him, whoever followed, and the surrounding wildlife. He felt a pang as he realised that when he finished, the garden would be enough to provide for two, more than two. A family.

A now-dark corner had been a hazel coppice, providing shafts to make the hurdles that had protected the growing garden from the wind, before rotting beneath the overgrowth. Now each stand had grown thick and tall. Dean cut the hazel for firewood, being careful to saw the trunks as low to the ground as possible. The stools would reshoot and provide useful poles again.

The garden awoke from its years of slumber, shaken by the apprentice who became a master with the passing of the seasons. Where Dean had grubbed out the elder, hawthorn, and blackberries from the raised beds, flower seeds saw sunlight and burst forth – poppy and yarrow and flowers he didn't know the names of but would later learn. Yellow daffodils and buttercups pushed their way through the early spring green. Then the blues of phacelia and borage gave way to the pinks of godetia and red campion. Hoverflies and bumblebees zigzagged from bloom to bloom. The garden exploded with life.

It was an experience Dean was desperate to share with someone. Someone who would understand how wonderful it was. Another gardener. Thoughts of her pushed themselves to front of mind, inspiring him to create something she would be proud of. The way she had created paintings that made him proud as a teacher. As the garden became more vibrant, he ached with loneliness, wishing he could show the woman who had opened his eyes to it all. Because she would have left her girlhood behind by now. Once more he wondered how she was doing and chastised himself for the thought, knowing it was better for her that he wasn't there to derail her again. He hoped she had forgiven him, or better still, forgotten him. Forgetting him would have put her back on track.