The Lightkeeper's Wife (21 page)

Worst of all, the letter was still in existence. She’d been deliberating and arguing with herself for days, but she still hadn’t been able to destroy it. What was wrong with her? Did she really think she owed something to the letter bearer? And what would happen if she allowed the letter to be delivered? Unfortunately, she could foresee it all. Bonds would be severed. Faith and trust shattered. Could she bear the consequences? Not while she was alive. Giving credence to the letter would negate the purpose of her life’s journey. Jack wouldn’t be here to see it—that at least was reassuring. But did she have a right to rearrange the future by eliminating the letter? Should she display strength, deliver the letter and brave the outcome? No, it was too much at this stage. She couldn’t endure it. Her health was too diminished. It would be distressing and vexatious. She would die without peace of mind and security. And what about all the things she had fought to restore and maintain in her family? The letter would undo everything. It would break the skin of calm that she’d struggled to stretch over them all.

She needed that thing out of her life. Disposed of. And now she couldn’t find it.

Shoving the blanket aside, she levered herself off the couch and began another systematic search of the house—the third such foray in the past half hour. She had checked her suitcase and she was sure it wasn’t there. She’d shifted all the cushions, shaken out her pillowcase, flipped through the magazines, rumpled all her clothes. Perhaps she’d slipped it in among the pile of newspapers stacked by the fireplace. (When was she ever going to get around to lighting a real fire?) But no, she would definitely remember grovelling down there on the floor. And her knees wouldn’t handle it, of that she was certain.

Maybe she’d left it in the kitchen, or perhaps, dear God, she’d thrown it away. In a panic, she jerked the lid off the bin and peered inside. Just a few cans, sticky with baked beans. And a milk carton. Leon had cleared the rubbish this morning. Had he thrown out the letter accidentally? Must she go out in the cold to find it?

On the edge of tears, she scuffed into the bathroom for one last check, and there it was, sitting on the vanity beside the bathroom sink. She snatched it up. Why couldn’t she remember putting it there? Perhaps she had set it down while she was washing her hands.

She carried the envelope into the bedroom and slipped it back into the side pocket of the suitcase. Then she struggled into her nightclothes. The cold here had weakened her, and her joints were stiff. It had become a tremendous effort just to lift her arms. In a nursing home she’d have help. But they’d stick tubes in her at the end. They wouldn’t let her go with dignity. It might please Jan, but it’d be a horrible way to die. And where was Jan anyway? She thought Jan would have visited by now, hell-bent on dragging her out of here.

With the letter safely tucked away, she eased herself into bed. She’d done nothing all afternoon, and yet she was weary. Tonight, she’d get some decent rest.

Sleep came quickly, but she woke sometime after midnight with a hacking cough that raked and barked and wouldn’t stop. Only upright could she control it, so she propped herself with pillows and sat up.

It was a clear night. White light flooded the bedroom, perhaps from a full moon. She prickled alert. Jack might be near. She’d dreamed of him these past nights; whenever she tossed uncomfortably on the edge of consciousness, he seemed to place his brown fingers on her arm as if he was trying to stop her from saying something she shouldn’t.

Part of her knew he was a creation of memory, but his face was so vivid—the prominent bridge of his nose, the speckled blue of his eyes, that slightly jutting chin, the dimple beneath his lower lip, the shadow of whiskers emerging. His lips were marbled with sun cracks and the dry lick of salt. And his eyes asked questions she couldn’t hear, expecting answers she couldn’t voice.

Perhaps if she could reach out and touch him she might feel the texture of his skin, the roughness that came with weather and too much wind.

Moonlight fell in streaks across the floor, and he seemed close. She peered round the room, straining against shadows, almost sure she could see him sitting on the chair in the corner. He was so still. Maybe he didn’t want her to know he was there. For long moments she breathed heavily, waiting for him to move or speak. Such a stubborn wretch he was. He didn’t utter a word.

She called to him. His shadow was long and tall. She knew it was him. But in the dark she couldn’t make out his face.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ she asked. ‘I need to talk with you.’

She saw his shadow shift slightly. Then she wasn’t sure whether he was there at all. Were those footsteps moving through the house? Or was it just the cabin creaking?

‘Are you going outside?’ She pushed back the covers and heaved her legs around. ‘Don’t go without me. I’m coming with you.’

Coughing arrested her, doubling her over on the side of the bed. She struggled up and shuffled into the lounge room.

‘Jack. Please wait.’

There he was, his shadow by the door. She tugged her coat off the hook and pulled it on awkwardly, cursing the lack of strength in her arms. Then she stepped out into a white night, washed pale by the moon. The cold air caught in her lungs and coughing surged. While she huddled, waiting for the rattle to subside, Jack’s shadow wafted down the hill and over the dunes towards the beach. No wonder he hadn’t waited: she sounded like a dying dog.

‘Jack. I want to walk with you.’

She stumbled downhill after him, over wet grass. Cold nipped her fingers. Behind the dunes the sand was firm but it softened quickly as she proceeded. Air swirled loosely around her. Grass prickled her feet. The track began to descend.

She stopped on the cold beach and saw light rippling on the water. The long white line of a wave collapsed. She could see Jack’s shadow flitting along the base of the dunes. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was nothing more than a cloud passing over the moon. But he’d brought her here deliberately. It was a magic night. In this light on their beach, time was indefinable. Fifty years could be erased in a moment. This could be any one of those bright nights when she and Jack had embraced here.

Pulling her coat close, she trudged along the sand, searching for him. When a tendril of cloud slipped across the moon, she saw him lurking not far away. She made her way towards him, the wind tugging at her legs.

‘Jack. I’m here.’

He was gone again. So fickle. Had he really been so temperamental? Their love had been difficult to hold onto, and who could say love was forever? But they’d come through hardship and compromise to find the muted joys of a long marriage: the peace of secure companionship, dependability, quiet and unspoken understanding.

A larger, denser cloud shifted across the sky. She watched the fluid shape of its shadow spreading over the water. For five long minutes, she stood shivering in the wind waiting for the cloud to erase the moon. Sound travelled along the beach from east to west as waves folded on themselves. Then, finally, the cloud smudged out the light.

Jack came with the darkness. She felt his breath near her ear and his hand, warm in hers, drawing her on. In the close, cold dark, she shambled with him along the beach, feeling her way across the sand with icy toes.

The intimacy of being close to him set her trembling. It made her flush hot and tingly and then she was shaking with euphoria. Jack was here with her. He’d come to guide her. She felt love such as she had known when they were young. It pounded thickly in her chest. It made her pant, small feathery breaths. Her fingers tingling with it. Her head light.

Dark fingers snatched at her. Sucked away her breath. Everything curdled. Slumped.

Then there was silence.

Black night eased slowly to thumping nausea and weakness. She was sprawled on the sand like a swooning heroine, her feet and hands white in the moonlight. Her head was heavy as if she’d been struck, and her heart was knocking like an overwrought engine. She tried to work out what had happened. How long had she been lying here? Hadn’t she been walking just a short time ago with Jack?

The cloud whose darkness brought Jack to her had evaporated. Dear God, she was cold. She pushed herself up, the blood whirling in her head. Her breathing was wet and gurgly. Had she had a heart attack or had she just fainted?

Slowly she turned herself onto hands and knees. With effort she forced herself up in the wind. But it was such a long way back to the cabin. And Jack was gone.

She hoped she could make it back alone.

Leon’s voice woke her from a restless doze.

Daylight was washing through the window. She was in bed with her face pressed into the pillow. She’d slept in. The pillow was damp—she’d been drooling again. She tried to move but her body was stiff.

Leon called again.

She realised she was still wearing her coat, and her bed was full of sand. She could barely recall staggering in here last night and slotting herself under the covers. In the dark she had climbed the hill on hands and knees, dragging herself over the grass. It wouldn’t do, she had told herself, for Leon to find her dead out there.

She had no idea how long it had taken, that painfully slow journey over the dunes and up the hill. She remembered seeing the cabin at last. The coughing had punctuated her every move, slowing her when she needed to be inside and out of the wind. She remembered the cold. She remembered Jack sitting in the corner of the bedroom watching her, shadowy and silent.

Now her body felt as if it had been hit by a truck. And Leon was calling again. ‘Mrs Mason.’

She heard the cabin door opening. ‘I’m here,’ she croaked. ‘In bed.’

He came in, face puckered with concern.

‘Why are you here so early?’ she asked querulously. A cough halted her, deep and racking, and her body bent in half with the force of it.

Watching her, his face darkened. ‘I was on my way to the campground, but I had a feeling I should come here first. What happened?’

She struggled up, moisture gurgling in her throat, and spat quietly into the cup by her bed. ‘I was cold last night and I put on my coat.’

‘You’ve been out.’ His face was expressionless.

‘No. I was here in bed.’ She didn’t want him to know how desperate it had all been. How nearly she didn’t return.

He glared at her. ‘The door was ajar. And the floor is covered in sand.’

‘Has someone been here?’ she asked, feigning innocence. ‘Don’t tell me the scouts have arrived already?’

‘It’s not the weekend,’ he said. ‘And anyway, they’re not coming till the weekend after.’ He turned away.

She heard water running in the kitchen and the sound of the kettle being set on the stove. Then he was back at the door. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it. ‘There’s no point having the heater on if you’re going to leave the door open.’

‘The wind must have blown it open.’

‘There are footprints on the floor and they lead to your room. Get up and have some tea.’

She heaved herself out of bed and limped into the lounge room, leaning heavily on her stick. He pushed a cup of tea across the kitchen bench.

‘What am I supposed to tell your family?’

She should have guessed this question was coming. ‘You don’t need to tell them.’

‘I’m supposed to be watching out for you.’

She stifled a cough, unable to respond.

He watched her splutter into her hands. ‘Look at you. If I tell them you’ve been wandering at night, they’ll come and take you home.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘Highly likely.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘You’re supposed to be able to look after yourself. What about your tablets? You need a full-time carer.’

This prompted a rally. She would not go back into the hands of Jan and end up in one of those awful nursing homes. ‘Don’t tell me what I need,’ she barked. ‘I get enough of that from my family.’

He scoffed at her and started wiping the kitchen bench furiously. ‘Your family? What do they care? Where are they? Someone should be here looking after you.’

She tried to hold back tears. ‘They’re coming tomorrow. They know I don’t want them here all the time.’

He threw the cloth in the kitchen sink. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked. ‘Of course not. Look at you. You’ve lost weight since you came here. And it’s been less than a week.’