The Keeper

Saved by a Librarian

Fine weather made it a pleasure to garden, driving his way through the towering weeds of the orchard with broad strokes of the scythe, back to the blackberry bushes that formed a circle within its walls. He attacked the long arches of thorns with loppers and secateurs, protecting himself with a denim jacket and thick leather gloves. The cooler evenings were perfect for turning the old, dry brambles into ash in the log burner. Ash he could use to sweeten the soil. Once he had made compost bays from discarded wooden pallets wired together, the green and woody garden waste went into those. Gradually he cut through the orchard, liberating apple and pear trees from bindweed and strangling vines of old man's beard. The trees looked weedy and bedraggled, even more so when he sawed off the dead branches, but within weeks they sent out fresh growth to capture the light.

On rainy days, Dean turned his attention back to the barn. He was working his way through the sound timber. If he suspected the wood was treated, he cut it to make steps in the slopes of the garden. He could repair and build benches, shelves and seating by grabbing bits and pieces from around the barn and cobbling them together. But he was running out of fasteners, and he had limited tools and big ambitions. When enough cash filled the cigar box he kept behind a tea chest of tools, he went into town.

After two months of the pub and the village shop, Truro unsettled him with its traffic and crowds of people pushing their way through the narrow streets. He ducked into the library and felt calmer as he wandered the aisles, browsing the shelves to see familiar authors and much-needed reference books. The librarian at the front desk tempered his excitement: she wanted something with his address on it before he could register. It was only then he realised he didn't even know his address. 'The old barn, four miles southeast of Mevacombe' wasn't going to cut it.

Dean put his hand on the door to leave, hesitated, and turned back to the woman. He looked at her lanyard, back up at her face and said, "Sue, I'm going to be here for some time. I need books. I need to learn from them. I need the company. Do you understand what I mean?" He stared at her, and she blinked rapidly, flushing red.

Sue was a good librarian and wanted to help, but needed to follow the rules somehow. "Do you have any ID, any proof of employment perhaps?"

Dean unfolded the pink paper of his driving licence and piled up the pay packets from the pub. Sue opened a little brown envelope and carefully extracted the paper enclosed with the cash. "The Badger, Mevacombe, Cornwall".

She looked at him and he smiled. "We'll just put that as your address. Is that okay?"

Dean's smile broadened to a wide grin. "That's just fine, Sue. Thank you."

Sue reddened again. "You're welcome. You can take out eight books at a time. Do you want to find some books whilst I sort you out a library card?"

He did. Dean left the library half an hour later with books on carpentry, self-sufficiency, and gardening, plus a couple of novels. He also left with a map of the town that Sue had annotated with the best place for coffee, the hardware store, and her favourite charity shops for secondhand bargains. After a decent espresso and an enormous pasty, Dean was ready to shop. He bought hand tools, nails, screws, nuts and bolts, and other paraphernalia he thought he might need. Sue's tips also led him to find a great secondhand waxed jacket and some Wellington boots to help him endure the worst of the weather. His book stash grew by a few more novels and the giant Reader's Digest DIY manual that could fill in the gaps in his handyman knowledge.

At the end of the afternoon, he loaded the Land Rover, dashed around the supermarket, then drove home, glad that he didn't work on Tuesday nights, luxuriating in reading a book by the fire with a tumbler of wine at his feet.