The Lightkeeper's Wife (22 page)

‘It’s the coughing.’

‘Perhaps you’d cough less if you remembered to take your tablets.’ He dragged her pill bottles into a cluster on the bench. ‘I can’t stay here and ram these down your throat, so I’m going to set them out according to the instructions. I’ll put each pill on a piece of paper with a time written beside it. Do you think you can manage to get yourself over here and swallow them four times a day?’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child.’

‘I’m trying to help you.’ He glanced at the clock and waved a bottle at her.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she mumbled. ‘Just bring them to me.’

He dumped the pills and a glass of water on the coffee table. ‘Let’s stop these little night-time walks, shall we? Before you get into more trouble. I can’t always be here to rescue you.’

Her hands began to shake and tears spilled from her eyes. He turned his back on her and leaned against the kitchen bench, looking out.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked after a while, conciliatory.

‘Yes. I think so.’

He walked around and flopped in an armchair, then rested his head against the back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘You have to take better care of yourself,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be held responsible if something happens to you. One visit a day is the best I can do.’

‘I’ll make sure I take my tablets.’

‘And you have to eat.’

‘It’s hard. I’m not hungry.’

‘Promise you’ll try.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘And it’s cold in here. I’m going to light a fire for you each morning when I come. I’ll split the wood and haul it inside for you. Can you lift the handle and shove the wood in the heater? That’s all you’ll have to do.’

The fire. He was going to light the fire. And if it was lit, she could burn the letter. ‘What if the handle gets hot?’

‘There are oven mitts hanging on the wall. Hadn’t you noticed?’

‘No.’ She felt sheepish and reprimanded, like a schoolgirl. ‘I’ve been looking out the window.’

‘And not in the mirror, obviously, or you’d know what I’m talking about.’

‘Have you seen the mirror here?’ Relief fuelled an attempt at humour. He wasn’t going to send her home yet. ‘At my age, you don’t want to see your entire body when you step into the shower.’

Leon didn’t laugh. ‘Don’t shower then.’ He found newspaper and began stuffing balls of it into the wood heater. Then he shoved in kindling and wood and lit it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going. Can you do the rest by yourself?’

The rest would be the burning of the letter. He could leave now, so she could get on with it.

He rolled up his sleeve to check the time, and her eyes were drawn to his arm. There it was. A new bruise just above his wrist. He covered it with his hand and looked away, his face studiously blank.

What was happening with Leon? Who was hurting him? ‘I think you need to talk,’ she said.

He shook his head slowly. ‘Not today.’ Then he pulled on his jacket and was gone over the dunes in seconds, the roar of his vehicle lost in the wind.

Mary sat by the window, watching clouds skating across the sky. Wasn’t there something she meant to do? She couldn’t quite remember.

16

Friday morning, I wake exhausted. I haven’t slept well since Emma’s talk. At night, every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of Antarctica, Adelie penguins, Sarah, the end of my marriage. The recollection comes with rushes of emotion. I thought I’d dealt with all that, but the seminar has released all the memories again.

I slip out for my early walk with Jess. Nature has always helped me through tough spots before and it’s no different this morning. We wander along the sand; Jess sniffs around while I allow myself to unwind with the hiss of the wavelets as they skim up the beach. It’s good to see that the world is normal, even if I am not.

After a shower and breakfast, I’ve just picked up my car keys when I hear footsteps on the verandah and a knock at the door. Jess scrabbles to take a look and her woof is a question, not an answer. I follow her to the door and open it.

A woman stands there, facing away from me, looking out towards the channel.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’

She turns and I notice that everything about her is pale: her face, her light brown hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and also the smile that stretches her lips. She’s thin and small. Plain. Probably somewhere in her thirties.

‘I’m Laura,’ she says. ‘I wanted to introduce myself. My brother and I have just moved in across the road.’ She peers at the trees down the side of my house. ‘Quiet place, isn’t it? And the trees make it dark. A bit spooky, don’t you think?’

‘The trees are good,’ I say. ‘They bring the birds.’

She glances around uncertainly. ‘I suppose so. I know nothing about birds.’ She flashes a tight smile. ‘Lots of possums, aren’t there? They were all over my roof last night. Do they eat your roses?’

‘I don’t have any roses.’ My new neighbour obviously isn’t into trees or wildlife, which means we have less than nothing in common. This might be a good thing, because then there’s little excuse for contact.

‘You’ll probably see me round a bit,’ she continues. ‘And you might see my brother too, although he won’t be out much. He’s not well. His name’s Michael. I just call him Mouse.’

She’s clearly keen to talk, but I pull my keys out of my pocket and jingle them. ‘Sorry, I’m just heading off to work.’

‘Oh.’ She seems disappointed. ‘You’re leaving.’ She looks down and notices Jess at last. ‘What’s your dog’s name?’

‘Jess.’

‘Is she friendly?’

Jess’s tail is beating slowly against the deck. This woman clearly does not know animals.

‘Yes.’

Laura bends to pat Jess on the head. ‘I didn’t grow up with dogs,’ she says. ‘But I like them.’ She strokes Jess cautiously.

‘Mouse likes dogs too. Perhaps you could bring Jess down sometime to meet him.’

I shrug. ‘Maybe.’

She smiles. ‘I’d like that. It’d give Mouse a lift.’

I wait for her to leave, but she lingers on the deck, watching the light glinting on the water. I wonder what I can say to usher her down the path. ‘Sorry, but I do have to go. I need to be on time for work.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her thin face is almost ghostly. ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’

‘I’m Tom.’

‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’ She stretches out a hand and I’m forced to shake it. It’s thin, soft and cool. Then, she turns and starts down the steps to the path. Her shape fades quickly among the bushes until she appears again crossing the road, moving like mist skimming over the ground. She’s a strange one, shy and uncertain. Damaged in some way; needy. I hope she doesn’t expect me to be neighbourly.

I scoop an apple from the fruit bowl and lock the door, unable to shake Laura from my thoughts. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about her. As I climb into the car and watch Jess drop onto the floor, I realise Laura reminds me of myself.

At lunchtime I go down to Salamanca to see if the
Aurora
is in yet from her last voyage. I should keep away from things Antarctic, but Emma’s photos are still haunting me and I feel the stirrings of craving. It’s an addiction that’s hard to break when you return from down south—the sensation of excitement and freedom you experience down there. I want to feel it again, even though it’s no good for me.

Looking for a parking spot along the waterfront, I pass the wharf, and there she is, the
Aurora
, an orange giant, docked behind the smaller
L’Astrolabe
, another Antarctic research vessel. I park along the esplanade and wander into the shadows cast by the
Aurora
.

She always seems bigger than I remember: not in the league of bulk carriers, but loomingly large and loudly orange. In a chopper over ice you can spot her from miles away. Large ropes as thick as my arms hook her to bollards along the dock, and she shifts and rises against the tyres that buffer the wharf. Her hull is marked by gouges and scuffs where she has encountered ice, and even from here I can detect that familiar stench of diesel. I think of going south again and a worm of anticipation wriggles in my stomach. Up on the helideck, two crew members are sucking on cigarettes. They see me and wave. I nod and slip quietly away, feeling strange and dislocated. I should quit dreaming, buy some lunch at Salamanca and head back to work.

As I wait at an auto-teller to withdraw some cash, Emma walks past with another girl. She’s the last person I expected to see and something in me backflips. I see her pause to look in a shop window, chatting to her friend. A man behind me waiting to access the ATM coughs impatiently, and I snatch my money and receipt and dive away.

Emma hasn’t seen me and I shove my wallet in my pocket and follow them down the street. Then I stop. What am I doing following her? Have I lost my mind? I watch the girls wandering along the pavement. There’s something about the way Emma moves—so easy and relaxed. Her shoulders ride low and the smile that curls her lips when I catch her profile is self-assured. She seems to smile easily and often. She’s someone who’s comfortable in company. She’s everything that I’m not.

The girls stop and talk outside a café. They glance my way, but don’t seem to notice me standing stupidly on the footpath. Emma probably doesn’t even remember me. She’s only met me once and it’s unlikely I impressed her. They disappear into the café and I stand for a while, wondering what to do. Should I follow them inside? Is it wrong to want to see more of Emma? I slip my hands into my pockets and try to walk nonchalantly into the café.

Inside it’s dimly lit. Most of the tables are full, but down the back there’s a small round table with just one seat. Emma and her friend are at the counter looking at a menu. I grab a newspaper from the communal magazine rack and make my way to the empty table. My heart is pumping. What if they see me and Emma recognises me? What will I do then?

I hide behind the sheets of the
Mercury
, pretending to read. A waitress comes by and I order coffee. The girls have taken a table near the door and are deep in conversation. Sunlight casts a halo around Emma’s head, but with her cropped short hair and sturdy build she doesn’t look angelic. I feel a flush of pleasure and then succumb to confusion. Why do I care? I haven’t looked at a woman in years. And now here I am, oscillating wildly between excitement and fear.

I’m still gazing at Emma over the top of the newspaper when the waitress asks where she should put my cappuccino. I reach for the cup and look at her for the first time. She’s heavily made-up with bleached blonde hair but she’s smiling at me, and I realise I don’t mind the curve of her waist where her black apron is tied. The cup shakes in my hand as I take it from her, and froth spills into the saucer.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

‘It’s my fault.’

‘No. I’ll clean it up for you.’

‘Don’t worry.’

But she’s already gone and I slide my attention from her hips to Emma’s happy laugh, which mingles with the general hum from the other tables.

The waitress returns straightaway with a cloth and wipes out my saucer. Her eyes are rimmed with black kohl and her lashes are laden with mascara. It’s impossible to tell what she really looks like underneath all that make-up. She raises her eyebrows at me and walks away, cloth in hand. Then she glances back at me with a half-smile that makes me nervous. She thinks I like her. How did that happen? I’ve never known how to act around women. I suppress an urge to escape. If I rush out, my exit will be obvious and Emma may notice. I should go back to reading, and hopefully the waitress will lose interest.

I bend my head over the paper and pretend to be absorbed, but in truth my senses are all focused on Emma. I’m listening with my whole body for the sound of her voice or the pleasant dry tone of her laugh. Even with my eyes fixed on the paper I can see her in my peripheral vision.

‘What are you reading?’ It’s the waitress again, carrying a pile of dishes past my table. ‘Must be a good article,’ she says with a wink.

Fear cascades in my chest and my resolve falters. I have to leave or the waitress will be asking me out. I imagine myself blushing and stammering, trying to politely turn down her invitation. I envisage the amusement of the other café patrons, watching my discomfort. Emma or no Emma, I have to go. I drain my coffee, shake four dollars out of my pocket and leave it on the table, slinking past Emma and her friend as I escape through the door.

At work, I struggle with vertigo. Emma is with me beneath the car, her smile stoking my courage. I can’t focus on the job. The strength of my imagination is frightening. It seems my Antarctic vault has reopened and I’m bogged in a thick sludge of memory.

On my journey south, one of the girls left her sunglasses in her cabin so she could fully experience Antarctica on her face—the wind and the searing light. She burned her retinas and lived in the shadow and pain of snow blindness for two days. When I think of Emma, a strange foolishness arrests me. I feel as reckless and as stupid as that girl on the ship, as though I could easily leave my protective layers behind and dive into something brighter than I can handle.

During the afternoon an idea starts brewing in my mind. Perhaps I should ring Emma and ask her out. But I haven’t taken anyone out since Debbie and it feels risky. What if Emma says no? Jess is onto me, of course. She’s been watching me from her rug against the garage wall, her yellow eyes steady and unblinking. She knows I’m feeling unsettled, and she’s afraid to take her eyes off me in case I disappear without her. I stop tinkering with the undercarriage of the car and go to make coffee and gather more tools. Then I’m back under the hoist again, tighening a few parts and wondering what I should do. Finally, I go into the garage office and ring the antdiv number. I ask for Emma and the operator puts me through to her office. The phone rings several times and I’m just about to hang up when she answers.