The Keeper

Starting University

Martha packed her books, tapes and toiletries in a cardboard suitcase she had got free with a shopping catalogue. Her clothes and the rest of her belongings fitted in a large red rucksack which was a going-away present from her parents. Her dad had nervously offered to drive her to London, but Martha was keen to start her independent life as soon as possible. So they drove her to the station and their faces remained bright as they waved her off from the platform, wavering only when the train moved away and she saw her dad crying and her mum turning away to wipe her eyes.

The pang of loss Martha felt was at once familiar, but different. This time, it was the bittersweet transition from the cocoon of family and friends in a small town to the unknown of the big city. There was a hard feeling in her stomach, a knot of anxiety. She did not know the city well, but she knew there were no beaches, green hills, or crystal-clear streams there.

She'd be back at Christmas, but Martha had never been away from home for more than a couple of weeks. She listened to James and Joni singing from the 70s of fire and rain and California calling. The green hills and blue sky gave way to a jumble of roads and jammed-in buildings. When she disembarked at Paddington, the noise slammed into her. Then everyone in a hurry, squeezing through gates, tumbling down steps to be swallowed by the gaping hole of the Underground. Standing near the doors of the carriage, she checked off the stations to change lines at South Kensington, then on to Leicester Square, where she was carried by the crowd through tunnels and up steps and out of an exit to the confusion of the street above. Her newly minted A to Z couldn't tell her which exit she was at, or even which way was north or south. Though the afternoon sun was out, it was hidden behind the tall buildings. Martha walked with false confidence until she found a named street that told her she needed to turn around and make her way, finally, to Soho.

* * *

It was 5 o'clock by the time Martha found the college, the admissions, and the room in halls that would be her home in term time. There were two single beds, with a couple of small drawer units in between. A wardrobe was set into one wall and there were two desks opposite. The window looked out to the building across the courtyard. She opened it to look down on the birch trees below, which had been planted optimistically then left to struggle and wither.

Martha slumped on the bed, tears bubbling from beneath. She blew her nose. The tissue was black with soot from the Underground, diesel fumes, the filth of the city. Why had she come? She should have picked a course in a smaller town. It was Dean, of course, Dean had led her here and left her stranded. Before she could give in further to homesickness and heartbreak, the door burst open.

"Oh, hi, you've arrived. I thought I might have the room to myself." A tall, slim girl dressed all in black, with short spiky jet-black hair, gave a thin laugh and looked at Martha with disappointment.

Martha forced a smile. "Yeah, sorry, I'm not used to sharing either. I'm Martha, by the way."

"Beatrice. Or Trix. But not Trixie. No one calls me Trixie. That's like a dog's name."

"Right." Martha noted Trix was wearing a studded dog collar, but chose not to mention it.

Trix went over to the wardrobe and shoved her hangers across, rearranging her shoes below. "There, that should be enough space for you." She looked Martha up and down. "I take it you aren't doing fashion?"

"No. Art."

"Good. I mean, it's good we're doing different things, right?"

Martha didn't know what she meant by that, but she knew she wouldn't be happy doing fashion. And that she certainly wouldn't have as many clothes, judging by what was hanging in the wardrobe. She noticed Trix had only left her two hangers.

"Do you know where the canteen is, Trix? I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Haven't a clue. We're going out to find some good ethnic food."

Martha could see 'we' would not include her.

Trix grabbed a long red plastic mac from the wardrobe. She hesitated at the door for a moment. "But hey, there's one of those induction folders on your desk. You might find a map in there." A swish of her mac and she was gone.

There was a map in the folder. Martha took the folder to the canteen and read it through as she ate a tuna melt and drank a glass of chocolate flavoured milk. As well as the map and lists of amenities and rules, there were three pages detailing the freshers' week activities designed to help her fit in. Only she didn't fit. She wasn't a team player keen on hockey, rowing, lacrosse or athletics. She didn't want to be stuck indoors playing squash or badminton or chess. It looked as if she would be keeping her own company, unlike everyone else she could see in the canteen who had already organised into twos, threes and more, who were already chatting and getting stuck into their college life.

She went along to the freshers' fair in case there was something for her that hadn't been described in the folder. With no luck. There were no gardening groups. No singer-songwriters-of-the-1970s appreciation groups. And country pursuits like hill walking or swimming in the sea were nowhere to be found inside the dingy hall on Charing Cross Road.

The rest of the campus was showing its age. A smell of mould lingered throughout, though the rooms were cleaned daily. Martha would keep fit taking the stairs, as the lift never seemed to work. The freshers quickly discovered that the studios were bitingly cold most of the year; one of the biggest sellers in the college shop were fingerless gloves. The lighting was terrible, and Martha began the first term by working near the windows. She retreated to the interior gloom after a window fell out of its frame and left a gash in the shoulder of a fellow student.

At least the first term's timetable had gifted Martha free Friday afternoons and Monday mornings. She used the long weekends to explore all the green spaces in the A to Z. It was cheap and easy to take the Tube out to Zone Two and walk back, trying to connect parks as she went. Her favourite was from Holland Park, through Kensington Gardens and on to Hyde, Green and Saint James's Parks. The route surprised her with the casual majesty of Buckingham Palace, the mundanity of Downing Street, or secret gardens that popped out when you least expected them. The river calmed her too. Slow in its meanderings, the eel-like Thames cut away the buildings and the traffic to open up the air above. Its underbelly was all murk: grey, muddy stones, rubbish and carcasses of countless shopping trolleys on the low tide. It was cleaner than it had been in centuries, but still filthy. A kayaker told her that falling in left your clothes with a stink that wasn't removed for several washes. It certainly wasn't a swimming river, with its mysterious submerged cargoes in the powerful tides and currents. Too cold, as they edged towards winter, in any case.