The Keeper

The Temptation of Dean

Dean wanted Martha to forget him, but he would never forget her. He couldn't fill the void in his paradise with plants. The joy of the garden was countered by sadness that wouldn't give way. He needed catharsis. It was years since he had painted outside the classroom. He had no canvas, no paper, but the walls of the wooden barn were bare.

He dragged out his old wooden box, flipped the catches and unfurled the leather roll of paintbrushes. Then he tipped out the tubes of paint and knew instantly by the way they fell that too much time had passed. They bounced sharply off the floor, dried solid. He checked his watch – he just had time to drive to Truro before the shops closed.

After restocking at the hardware store, Dean asked the guy at the counter for directions and made his way to the only art supplies shop in town. It was ten minutes before closing when he walked in; he saw the proprietor's face fall. Half an hour later and the man was beaming and affable, as Dean left with canvases, paper, oils, and a new line in acrylics the owner insisted he should try.

Dean put the art materials in the cab of his Land Rover and paused before locking it back up. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and wasn't working that night. With a couple of unopened pay packets in his pocket, he felt an urge to eat in company. There was a Badger and Barrel pub in the High Street, part of a chain that Dean would normally steer clear of. But it did food all day and had guest beers on tap. He went in past the signs saying no to bare feet and chests, smoking, and other evidence of poor patronage that he failed to acknowledge before seating himself at the bar. A surplus of meat-heavy leftovers at home made him crave something different. He ordered a plate of vegetarian nachos and a pint of bitter to wash it down. The serving size was enormous, but so was his appetite.

"You must've been hungry," said a woman beside him.

Dean hadn't noticed the bar fill up around him. "Yes. Very."

The woman was a few years older than him, he guessed by the lines around her eyes and the puffiness around her jaw. Not unattractive, though she had stuffed herself into a top a couple of sizes too small. He tried not to look at the plunging neckline.

"Buy me a drink?" She tapped her empty glass on the bar.

Dean nodded at the bartender, who topped it up. "That one's on me, but I have to be going."

"Keep me company, won't you? I hate to drink alone."

The bartender hadn't moved, clearly used to the routine.

"Okay. One more." He smiled wanly at the bartender, who poured Dean another pint and turned to serve his other customers.

The woman whooped as she spun around on her barstool. "My name's Linda. What's yours?"

Dean didn't know why, but he kept his name to himself. "Robert," he said. "Nice to meet you, Linda."

And Linda was away. She told him stories of Truro types and tourists that made him laugh. Tractor joyrides into sewage ponds and couples caught out when the cathedral floodlights turned on. It had been some time since Dean had relaxed in a stranger's company and Linda made it easier with each passing drink she ordered on his tab. She stopped him leaving with a pool game started, then grabbed him when he let her win by potting the black.

"You like to make a girl happy, don't you?" she said as she pulled down on his collar. Then her mouth was on his, tasting of Jack Daniel's, cigarettes and too much time alone.

He didn't want her, but biology betrayed him.

She drew back, smiled and said, "Walk me home." Instructing more than questioning.

He nodded, gave the barman the last of his money and put the few coins he got back in the tip jar.

The cool night air was the slap in the face he needed. Mercifully, Linda only lived a couple of streets away. Dean waited as she got her keys out of her bag. Once the door opened, he was down the path, out of the gate and walking fast.

"Hey! Where you going? Charming you are, just charming! Aren't you even going to take my number? Come on, Bobby boy! Come back!"

Dean's heart was beating fast. It wasn't from the walking, but from a memory of over a decade past, when he had been invited in and gone. And gone the ten years after. He wouldn't spend another second in regret. He walked, knowing he was too drunk to drive, and it paid him to walk it off. The alcohol and the feeling of being with the wrong woman. He was better off without company than with the wrong company.

As he left the brick and the concrete, he slowed his walking and looked up from the road ahead. The street lights gave way to stars and moonlight as he kept going, hugging hedges when headlights approached, getting to Mevacombe by midnight and the barn an hour or so later.

He drank down his thirst, fell into his hammock and slept through to a hangover with the relief of nothing worse.