The Keeper

Demelza and Dishwashing

As soon as he was up, Dean cleared out the barn, dragging out anything he couldn't lift and sorting it all into piles. Rotten timber and logs to stack at the edge of the garden to return to the ground. Good wood to be repurposed. Holey oil drums, corrugated iron riddled with rust and cans of chemicals, labels long gone, would have to go to the dump. Tools were old, but well-made and could be cleaned, sharpened and oiled to bring them back into service. Lunch was what he could find in the pantry: a tin of chickpeas and pasta well past their best-before dates tasted fine with a little salt, pepper, and parsley from the garden. When the edges of the barn were empty, Dean cleaned the windows with newspaper and vinegar and swept the floor before turning in for the night.

The light woke him at dawn the next morning. He had coffee and the last of the biscuits, then mopped the barn floor with hot soapy water, leaving it to dry as he went out for supplies.

The nearest village was four miles away, an easy bike ride once he fixed up the old Raleigh five-speed he had found in the barn. It had a couple of flat tyres and a rusty chain, but it was from the 1970s, made in England with pride, and would come right. For now, he walked, enjoying the solitude and the birdsong. Mevacombe was small – a pub and a church with a post office/general store on the other side of the green. Dean ambled across the grass to the shop and found the door still closed. The shop opened at 8 a.m. It was ten to eight. He read through the notices in the window – babysitters, dog walkers, logs on offer. And casual workers needed for cleaning, gardening and working in the pub. The door opened with the sound of a little bell as Dean went in, surprising himself when his voice cracked as he sang out, "Good morning!" It was the first time he had spoken to anyone in days.

"Morning," said a woman, as a statement of fact. Her back was turned to him, hands deftly sorting through newspapers. "Let me know if there's anything I can help you with."

Dean grabbed a basket and filled it with food, bike bits, candles, matches, an extension cord, and other things he could find that he would need in the next few days. He picked up a bottle of wine and put it back on the shelf as he thought about the £80 he had left in his bank account. The woman behind the counter had a face that had laughed a lot in plenty of weather. Softly curled, faded ginger hair reminded Dean of his late mother and he smiled kindly at her.

She smiled back and looked at the basket. "Are you planning on staying a while? I shouldn't say this, but you know there's a supermarket five miles up the road, just out of Truro?"

"I expect there is. I'll go there if I have to."

The woman waited for him to answer the other question.

"I'll be here a little while, yes."

"Good. My name's Demelza," said the woman, automatically pulling out a plastic bag.

"I'm Dean," he said. "It's okay, I have this." Dean packed everything into a haversack. He paid and looked at his scant change before asking, "When does the pub open?"

"It's a bit early for that, don't you think?"

Dean laughed. "I was after the job. Dishwasher."

"Oh." The woman looked at him anew. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"It's just that teenagers usually do those kinds of jobs. The money's not great – "

"I don't need much money. Just enough to get by."

"Right. Well, Stan rarely arrives until ten, but if you're serious..."

"I am."

"Turn up at 5:30 this evening and he'll take you on. Assuming you can wash dishes, of course."

"I can. Thank you." He picked up his haversack and cheery bells farewelled him from the shop.

Dean cycled to the pub just after it opened, was given a trial shift and worked fairly constantly until closing. Running plates, cutlery and glasses through the dishwasher, scrubbing pots and pans, rinsing and repeating, was a moving meditation that calmed his mind. When dinner service was in full flow, no one had time to talk, leaving Dean's hands to the dishes and his mind on the barn, working out how to fix, make, or arrange things into a liveable space. But thoughts of what he had done to Martha rose to the surface, like the fatty scum left in the sink. He couldn't kid himself that he had acted only in her best interests, or that he hadn't become overly involved. He should have stopped her before she fell. As he had fallen, too. It was unforgivable.

Dean wasn't unaware of the effect he had on teenage girls. Schoolgirls have crushes. That hadn't been far from his mind when he was reading her letters at first, replying to them with caution, not wanting to encourage anything but an application to her art. However, the letters drew him in, made him forget about the hard line between teacher and student that was his responsibility to maintain. He enjoyed their platonic connection, but he knew the risk and it was no surprise when she tried to take it further. He had not resisted enough. Like so many schoolgirls before, she had flattered him with her attention, but this time he had let it grow like a pretty weed that should have been cut down before it flowered. It would have been easier if she had been like all the other students that had come on to him before, students who had nothing but the attraction of youth and beauty. If he hadn't felt that connection beyond the physical. If she hadn't been so much easier to communicate with than his wife. His bloody wife. She had dirtied Martha's name and his, after running their world through the rough filter of hers.

He scrubbed harder.