The Keeper

Adam and the Old Churchyard

The highlight of the summer term was when the swimming club had an excursion to the ponds at Hampstead Heath and Marty discovered the delights of wild swimming in the city. From there, she explored further with Camille and another keen swimmer, Frankie. Frankie was better than an urban fox at getting into places she shouldn't. She scaled fences and picked padlocks to open up dawn swims in reservoirs and old gravel pits at the limits of their travelcards. Swimming in the locks at Teddington after a night out in Richmond left them on the street at midnight, with the Tube closed and no night bus to get home. After that night-time escapade, Marty, Camille and Frankie became inseparable.

As the term came to an end, Frankie told the others about a crazy cheap flat her mate Garth had found by the railway arches near Brick Lane. It was miles away from the college, a half-hour on the Tube, but an amazing, part subterranean place whose catacombs of rooms popped out at several locations, all of them by run-down industrial buildings. Dives which were divided into squats and studios, filled with artists and musicians grinding their way into discovery or obscurity. Marty and Camille jumped at the chance to move in. Garth was rake-thin and immaculately dressed when he wasn't screen-printing. His work got them into gigs for free because of the T-shirts he made for the bands. He was tipped off about the flat by a previous occupant: a drummer in a band who split because of musical differences brought on by too many drugs.

They had to take over the lease immediately and pay rent through the summer. Frankie's parents wanted her home, but Camille was staying and urged Marty to stay too. It was a straightforward decision for Martha. Paying for a flat she didn't live in would be tough, especially if she took menial work at home. Amy was still loved up and living with Tony in Manchester. Dean was still lost to her. The west country could wait.

* * *

Marty spent the clear, warm days reading and picnicking in the nearby Allen Gardens, or swimming with Camille. It was their mission to tick off all the old lidos in London. Garth often went with them, as he was keen to get an all-over tan to show off at the baths he went to near Oxford Street. Marty and Camille didn't join him there, but went along to the occasional club night in Clapham or Brixton, on the proviso that Garth would pay his third of the taxi fare home if he scored with a guy and left them to it. Or they took the busy night buses back, revelling in the after-dark company of other clubbers. Garth didn't drink, preferring party pills and powders. Camille often joined in, either with them or with whoever she had picked up on the dance floor. Martha was afraid to lose the last shred of self that remained. She stuck to vodka and tonics, switching to tonic alone after four and always sleeping at home, despite all the offers. Camille was ruthless at night, often disappearing with her latest conquest, sometimes winking at Marty if she saw her leave. Garth looked straight enough to keep sober men away from Marty early in the evening, but later on, when inhibitions were lowered and Garth drifted away, Martha was often approached. They were never her type. Good-looking guys were the worst. She looked in their eyes for depth, and stood up in the shallows. They had no soul.

There was an exception at a gig in a basement bar in Camden. A guy at the bar with blond hair that kept falling over his face was looking at her all evening. He didn't walk over until she stared back at him. Then he ordered another beer and sauntered over.

"Hi." He waited.

"Hi." Two could play at that game.

"Are you having a good time?"

"I wasn't. This band is terrible. You?"

"Me neither. But I think the evening's going to get better."

Marty caught the eye of Garth, who was chatting to the keyboard player smoking offstage. He held up his right hand – all right? Marty held up her right hand. Left meant "rescue me".

"Friend of yours?"

"Yes, my flatmate."

"Good. I'm glad someone is looking out for you. But can we go upstairs? The smoke is doing my head in."

Martha laughed. "Sure. Yes. Mine too."

He was Adam, a trainee lawyer, but he was going to be the good kind and help people. They went out into the street that was empty but for shift workers and a couple of groups of friendly drunks.

"Where do you live?" asked Adam. "I'll walk you home."

"I don't think you want to do that. I live in Whitechapel."

"It's a lovely night and I can't think of anything I want to do more than to walk with you for as long as you'll let me."

Martha agreed, and Adam led the way. "Do you know where you're going?" she asked.

"I've got a good sense of direction. We're heading pretty much southeast and there are a lot of landmarks around here to get my bearings."

"Okay. I guess I've got my A to Z if you get lost."

"It's good to meet a woman who keeps something useful in her bag. Let's head to our first landmark: Mornington Crescent."

They walked around the beautiful curved terraced street, and Adam pointed out where two painters had lived.

"Spencer Frederick Gore and Walter Sickert were two members of the Camden Town group of post-impressionist artists and they met in Walter's place. A bit fancier than most of the places my artist friends live in."

"How do you know all this stuff? I'm studying art and I've never heard of them."

"I paid my way through university by working for the company that makes London's blue plaques."

"Really?"

"No – I happen to like those artists, being a Camden boy. But I do love buildings. I even began a degree in architecture, but it was stultifyingly boring. I blame reading The Fountainhead as an impressionable teen. Howard Roark ruined my life."

"Who?"

"Never mind. It's a terrible book, and I'd have made a terrible architect. I'm not sure I'll make a good lawyer, but at least the degree doesn't take seven years to get. Anyway, let's crack on, otherwise you'll never get home and I'll be in trouble with your friends."

They chatted like old friends about their favourite artists, and Martha began to think that she liked Adam, liked him a lot. If he kissed her, she'd kiss him back.

Then Adam pulled her to a stop by some wrought-iron gates. "Do you mind going into a churchyard at night? This is one of my favourite places of all."

Martha saw the sign and her stomach lurched with recognition: Saint Pancras Old Church. This was the place. She had forgotten about it until now. Maybe her recollection was wrong, she thought, as Adam took her hand and walked her into the churchyard, to the left of the church and around to where there was a majestic ash. Then there was no mistaking it, because the tree had grown into the gravestones circled around it. Gravestones that had been disinterred by Thomas Hardy. The place Dean had told her about in letters burned, but half remembered.

Martha panicked, let go of Adam's hand, and ran.

He called out to her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Martha! Please don't go!"

But Martha ran and ran until she was lost in the back streets and struggling to breathe. The feelings she had pushed under the surface had broken back and been magnified by the shock of his written word brought to life. She regained her breath, then walked a while until she reached a main road, flagging down a taxi to go home, descending the stairs with relief to find that Camille and Garth's bedroom doors were open and she was alone.