The Keeper

Martha and Amy

Martha visited Amy once that term. She liked the train journey best. Watching the countryside scroll by was soothing. Manchester was not. Amy introduced Martha to all her friends, and they went out to cheap student bars and an Indian restaurant. Amy kept checking on her, smiling across the table, squeezing her hand, asking her if she was having fun. She nodded her head. She wasn't.

Amy promised to come down and visit Martha in London, but weekends were often busy with gigs she was going to with her friends. In the run-up to Christmas she pleaded poverty, and they both looked forward to the holidays and meeting up again on familiar turf.

* * *

When Martha stepped off the train in December, it was as though she had been holding her breath for months. She couldn't get enough of the clean country air, and fought back tears when her dad dashed from the car to hug her, apologising for being held up by an escaped herd of cows.

The tatty paper chains and tinsel that festooned her parents' house filled her heart with joy in a way that the lights on Oxford Street never could. The rest of the seasonal traditions rolled into place. Her dad had waited for her return to drag down the tree from the attic so they could dress it together and argue about which decorations would make the cut. They all did, like every year she could remember. She helped her mum cook mince pies, sausage rolls and an oversized Christmas dinner. Her dad's mum took the train down from Leicester and ate like a bird at every meal, but demolished all the After Eights as always.

Martha took long walks in the short days, brushing off the cold by striding through the woods and up the hills to look out over the hills dotted with the ruins of fortifications from centuries past and the shadows of ancient burial mounds. Going to the beach was always either drama or serenity at this time of year, with few tourists to mar the walks by wild dunes or along coarse sand with its flinty, salt tang smell. But no matter how much she loved being in the countryside, she couldn't shake the hollowness. Snatches of Dean's letters came back to her with the scenery and gave her the sense of him being there, only to remind her he wasn't.

* * *

As the crowd shouted out the last seconds of the old year, Amy hugged Martha and they raised their glasses of vodka and orange to toast the new year: 1992.

"I'm sorry I've been a crap friend, Martha," slurred Amy.

"You haven't. You've got to make your new friends, haven't you?"

"Yeah, but I don't have to get rid of the old ones. And besides, they aren't like you. We'll always be friends, Martha, won't we?"

"Of course."

"Anyway, what about you? Have you found your people yet?"

"At St Hibbert's? Are you kidding? They're total weirdos. At least all the ones I've met."

"Have you met many? Maybe you should join some clubs – find some like-minded people."

"People who don't like fashion, or modern music, or shopping? I'm in the wrong place for that. I don't fit in, Amy. It's a completely different world and way of thinking. I can't imagine that anyone there would like long country walks, biking to the beach, and just hanging out in nature. It would probably terrify them. All the bugs!"

"You're being a reverse snob. And ridiculous. You'd find friends if you were a bit more open-minded. Tourists come from all over the world to visit London, and they aren't all crazy. You need to chill out and enjoy the best bits of the city. Otherwise, what's the point? You might as well quit and grow pots of petunias for stuck-up cows like Lady Pruneface for the rest of your life."

Martha gave Amy a shove, but knew she was right.