How I Met Keith

I first met Keith in primary school, around 1961—the day he started at our school. He sat next to a boy called Adrian Mitchel, and they quickly became best friends. I sat at the desk beside them, next to a girl named Andrea McCloud, so I got to know Keith from a young age.

Adrian and Keith were both clever boys, always at the top of the class. Though they were close, they had very different personalities: Adrian was talkative and outgoing; Keith was quiet and shy. But despite his shyness, Keith would talk to you—he just took his time answering, as if he was really considering his words, like he wanted to get it just right. That thoughtful way of his made him seem laid-back and sincere.

Keith really listened when people spoke. It might have seemed unusual for a child, but it had a calming effect on the rest of us. It was his way—even as a kid, and later as an adult. People who knew him often called it a kind of gift, a rare quality. Shy as he was, Keith liked people. He was curious about everyone.

At eleven, Keith and Adrian passed the 11+ exam and went to Broxbourne Grammar School. I didn’t see him every day after that, but he never changed—still smart, quiet, shy, and kind. He would grow into a deeply moral man, something I came to appreciate much later.

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Pat: How I Met Keith Again

It was 1976—an Indian summer, a heatwave that lasted for weeks. One Saturday night, my friend Jane and I were driving back from Hertford. Around 1:30 a.m., we ran out of petrol at the Broxbourne traffic lights. Jane knew some people at the “hippie house” on Station Road. We knocked on the door, and Dave Manze answered. He invited us in for coffee.

At some point, Keith walked into the kitchen. I recognised him straight away but didn’t say anything. When Jane and I were leaving, he asked if I recognised him—as he had recognised me—but hadn’t said anything either. There was talk of a party at Station Road in a couple of weeks, and Keith asked if I’d come. I said I would.

We talked about school, our families, and the mischief we got up to as kids. Keith still loved art—passionate might be the wrong word; obsessed is probably more accurate.

He was still the same quiet, shy person he had always been.

I began to notice things about him. When he was thinking—whether about a painting, answering someone, or just staring at a blank canvas—you could see it in his face. One eyebrow would go up, the other down. He was a deep thinker by nature.

Whatever the emotion—anger, joy, frustration—when he spoke, he’d use his hands, waving them around to make his point. It was part of who he was. Maybe it even helped mask his shyness.

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Keith and His Family

Keith loved his family—all of them. He talked about them constantly. He would jot down little notes to remind himself to ask them questions, or follow up on something. Dozens of notes.

He did the same with friends. It was as if he couldn’t bear not knowing how they were—what they were feeling, what they were planning. He’d write questions on scraps of paper: “Mum?”, “Dad?”, “Bob or Mary?”, “Trish?”, “Simon?”, “Me?”

If one of them was coming to visit, he’d be ecstatic—he could hardly wait, like a child. He cared deeply about them, was proud of them, and always wished he could do more for them. He wanted to sell his paintings so he could make life a bit easier for those he loved. He didn’t care about being rich or famous—they loved him as he was: loyal, decent, gentle.

My family loved him too—especially my mum. Whenever we visited her, they would talk non-stop. My mum was blind, and Keith wanted to know everything: how it happened, how it felt, how she coped. He leaned in when he spoke to her—curious, kind, patient.

She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was beautiful. “That boy is special,” she would say. I just made cups of tea and let them talk. I was “invisible” anyway.

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Keith and His Friends

Keith was as loyal to his friends as he was to his family. He wrote letters—lots of them. Some long, some short. Some he sent, others he kept. It was like he had to write things down—his thoughts, his feelings, how much he missed people, how much he looked forward to hearing from them.

He had so much going on inside. Writing helped him express it.

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What Made Keith Sad

War made Keith sad. Any kind of conflict upset him—sometimes even made him angry. But not in a violent way. He just couldn’t stand the “stupidity” of it all.

When the Falklands War was announced, he was deeply disturbed. He listened to people talk about it casually—“It’s over there, it won’t affect us”—and it upset him. He would pace up and down, waving his arms, gripping his hair, trying to make people see: this is war. People would get hurt. People would die. Brothers, fathers, cousins, friends.

He took it seriously, and it stayed with him for days. I don’t remember him ever being so upset. He just couldn’t understand how anyone could treat war lightly.

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Keith and Art

Keith always loved to draw and paint. Even in primary school, his artwork would be displayed in classrooms and assembly halls.

Later, I came to realise just how passionate he was about it. He painted on everything—canvas, wood, paper, walls, glass, cardboard. His work filled the kitchen walls at Station Road.

He loved butterflies, and they often featured in his larger pieces.

He had a lamp beside the bed—its shade always tilted just so. I’d once given him some silk paisley handkerchiefs from a car boot sale. He loved them and draped them around the lampshade, which showed up tilted in more than one of his paintings.

When he painted, he was utterly absorbed. But he could also stare at a canvas for hours without touching it. Then he’d move on to another one.

He liked walking in Broxbourne Woods and around the church opposite Station Road—St Augustine’s, I think. Those places gave him peace and inspiration: light, colour, shade—and maybe a sense of connection. Later, I read that the name “Keith” means “forest.” It’s Gaelic, biblical, and found in the Talmud too. Just a coincidence, but a beautiful one.

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Short Stories of Keith

Keith wasn’t always serious. When he laughed, it was playful—and sometimes impossible to stop.

Once, we were walking Dave Manze’s dog, Hector, in the woods. It had recently snowed and was starting to thaw. Keith spotted a tyre swing over a stream. He had a go, with Hector running beside him, delighted. Then I had a turn. Keith suggested we ride tandem. We jumped on—the rope snapped—and we landed in the stream, soaked. Hector barked and kicked up water like he was laughing too. Keith reckoned the dog thought we did it just to entertain him. He adored that dog.

We had Hector for two weeks while Dave was away, and Keith walked him every day. Dave trusted him completely.

Keith also loved Mick, Ian McNair’s dog. Ian was a good friend, so Keith loved his dog too. Mick rode in Ian’s motorbike sidecar wearing goggles and a flying cap—like Biggles. Keith loved telling that story.

Keith liked going out for a drink now and then, but he wasn’t really a drinker. He loved music, loved to dance, and would sometimes relax with his guitar. He was never materialistic and never complained about what he lacked.

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Pat: Closing Thoughts

Keith Church was more than an artist. He was a decent, deep-thinking, honourable man who cared about his world and the people in it. He was well liked by everyone who knew him—and deeply loved by those closest to him.