The Lightkeeper's Wife (39 page)

Looking across to the lighthouse from the depths of the forest, it seemed to Mary as if she was looking back over her life to a place she didn’t know anymore. Today could be yesterday, or it could be twenty, thirty, forty years ago. It was even possible when they arrived at the keeper’s cottage that her younger self might come out to greet them. Or that Jack might emerge from the shed with a tool in his hand. Or maybe it would be Rose with her sly smile and threatening eyes at the cottage door, offering her hand as if she was a friend. Tom might even be there—a scruffy windswept boy, running up the track from the beach.

They drove on through twisted banksias and short, spreading rough-barked eucalypts. In the lower carpark just outside the lighthouse reserve, Alex stopped the car again and they all sat for a moment, staring up the hill. The gate was open.

‘I think it’s all right to drive in,’ he said. ‘The sign says it’s okay till four thirty.’ He put the car in gear.

‘Wait here a minute,’ Jacinta said, opening her door. ‘I’ll run up and speak to the caretaker.’

She was gone for several minutes and Mary took the opportunity to lean back and close her eyes. Memory lurked beneath her eyelids. She could see herself in the keeper’s cottage right now, listening to the wind fetching up under the eaves and scuffing the windows. If she concentrated she could almost hear Jack hammering away at something in the shed. Tom whistling somewhere up on the hill. The pony snorting in the paddock.

Jacinta returned with a smile almost as wide as her face. ‘I’ve got the keys to the lighthouse,’ she cried, jingling them above her head. ‘Don’t get out. They’re going to let us drive right to the top.’

As they drove up the road, Mary saw a lady waiting for them near the cottages. She was middle-aged and dark-haired, weathered. Alex lowered the electric window and the lady reached in to shake Mary’s hand.

‘Hello, Mrs Mason. I’m Diane.’ Her smile was warm. ‘Would you like to come in for a cuppa? I’ve got the kettle on.’

Mary hesitated, shaken. This woman could have been her, forty years ago. ‘Thank you. But not just now . . . Perhaps after.’

‘I’d love to talk,’ Diane said, still holding her hand. ‘It’s a shame you haven’t come before. You’ve always been welcome.’

Mary released her hand to cover a rising cough, aware that everyone was watching her. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to come back,’ she said, smiling wearily at Diane. ‘It’s not quite the same.’

‘Well, maybe another time . . .’

Mary could see herself in the caretaker’s gentle nod and her far-reaching eyes. ‘Your family?’ she asked.

‘All gone now,’ Diane said. ‘We schooled them here by correspondence until high school. Same as you.’

‘Yes.’ Mary said, remembering. The children and the books. The gloomy daytime light in the cottage. Then the children gone. The quiet in the house. The wind eating at the walls.

‘You’ll see the light hasn’t changed,’ Diane was saying. ‘My husband Tony does the upkeep. But it’s years now since she was lit. There’s still a lot of work to do, of course. Tony maintains the site and I look after the cottage. It’s different now, with all the visitors, but we still love living here.’

Mary felt tears welling. Ridiculous. A few kind words, a sliver of memory, and here she was on the verge of crying. She squeezed Diane’s hand to thank her. Then she nodded to Alex and they drove on up the road, past the large new sheds and around the sweeping curve to the top of the hill.

At the foot of the lighthouse, Jacinta helped her out into the chill wind and they walked around the tower to the lookout. The engine room was gone now from the base of the lighthouse—only a slab of cracked concrete remained. But the view was marvellously constant. Exactly as it had been the last time she stood here. Courts Island wasn’t visible—you had to descend the rough four-wheel-drive track to see it, a feat she wasn’t capable of today. And she couldn’t see the sea stacks to the south as they were visible only on the clearest of days. But the heaving sea was miraculously eternal. Its colour might change, and its texture and the direction of its seething whitecaps. Reassuringly though, it would go on forever, rolling and rising and driving towards shore. It soothed her to think of the ocean through time: the predictability of the tides, the endless renewal of waves. When she was gone, the sea would not change, and the land would continue to lean into its thrust. It steadied her to think of this.

When she started to shiver in the wind, Jacinta took her elbow and guided her back around the tower. Alex had already unlocked the lighthouse door and was holding it open for them. They passed through into the hush of the tower, their footsteps echoing. Alex closed the door and all was quiet.

Above, the shadowy spiral staircase wound upwards. In the light chamber, the curtains would be drawn. It used to be Jack’s job each night to open the curtains and start the light; at dawn, he’d be up there to turn it off and close the curtains again. Every day, weather permitting, he’d go out on the high balcony and up onto the rim to clean the windows, rubbing off the salt smears.

She’d love to contemplate the cape from that elevated platform where the light used to wink out over the sea, but she didn’t need to go up there. The tower was already dense with memories for her. And she didn’t require the view to remember all that had taken place here; she could still see Jack’s shadow in the lantern room and hear his voice echoing and rolling around the stone walls. She drew breath to explain all this to Jacinta and Alex, but as she gazed upwards a wave of emotion collapsed over her. Then dizziness. She was whirling in slow motion, on the brink of unconsciousness.

Strong arms grasped her. Then everything darkened.

She was lying on the concrete floor. Cold and winded. Breathless. Her body was light and then heavy. Her heart was flipping. The floor was freezing against her cheek. She was struggling against blackness.

She felt hands stroking her face. Soft warm hands, Jacinta’s fingers flying like butterflies over her skin. Her granddaughter’s face slipped from light to shade, light to shade.

It was cold in the tower. So cold. She could see the bottom of the lighthouse stairs, blurry, not far from her face. She blinked upwards. The stairs spiralled above her like a lazy snail shell. And the light was blinking again. Light and shade. Light and shade. Darkness. Humming. A cough racked.

‘What happened?’ The voice was faint.

‘I don’t know. We’ll have to carry her back to the car.’

Someone was crying. The voices were far away. Tinged with humming and flashes of light. Like the tower at night. Sooner or later it would stop.

There was Jack’s voice, furry around the edges. He was looking after her. She could feel him close. His arms lifted her and crushed her face against his chest. She could smell the warm male scent of him. She could feel the protection of his arms. She felt air rustling somewhere. Fluid gurgled.

‘Her lungs are rattling.’

The voice boomed. Her head was held close. Flashes of coloured light, green, red, purest white. Jack was warm and near. She could die like this.

Then she was moving and there was bright light in her face, a rush of cold air. Jack was bending over her, folding his long straight back in two to reach her, a smile on his face to show he forgave her for everything. Those blue eyes. But now the shadows were eating him. They were mottling his face, erasing his eyes. He was nothing but mist again. Foggy.

She was aware of a roof closing over her, a seat to lean against. She was in the back of the car and Alex was frowning down at her.

‘Is there an ambulance here?’ he was saying. ‘A doctor? A hospital? Is there anything on this island?’

And then, Jacinta’s voice: ‘I don’t know. We can ask the caretaker’s wife.’

‘She should be in hospital where they can look after her.’

Mary struggled to form words. ‘No hospitals. Take me to the cabin.’

Jacinta climbed in beside her, face pale and lined with tears. ‘What was that, Nana? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes, I can hear you.’ Her vision was stabilising. The flashing had stopped. The humming dissipated.

‘What happened? Are you all right?’

‘I had a turn.’ Her voice was quavering. ‘But I’ll be fine. Take me back to Cloudy Bay.’

‘We should go to hospital,’ Jacinta suggested. ‘It’s for the best.’

‘I don’t want to die in hospital.’

Jacinta was torn. She looked to Alex.

He shrugged. ‘I think we should go to Hobart.’

‘No. Not Hobart.’ Mary clutched Jacinta anxiously. ‘I know what I want.’

Alex looked at her. ‘Well then.’ His voice was heavy. ‘I suppose we go to Cloudy Bay . . .’

He started the car and they eased slowly down the hill, stopping by the cottages while Jacinta returned the keys. Then she was back in the car, leaning forward to talk to Alex.

‘There’s no doctor on the island,’ she said quietly. ‘We’d have to drive to Hobart, or have her airlifted out. They can land a helicopter here.’

‘No hospitals,’ Mary asserted again. She was still shaking with after-reaction.

Jacinta took her hand and stroked her with gentle fingers. ‘It’s all right, Nana. We’ll take you to Cloudy Bay. I promise we’ll do what you say. Now, you rest while we drive home. Alex and I will take care of you.’

Mary sagged against her granddaughter, weak and exhausted. They drove through the gate and up the road. The thrum of the wheels on the gravel lulled her; the soothing shift and sway as they took the corners. She fought to keep her eyes open as the car crossed the heath. Then they were climbing the hill. Soon they’d be at the viewpoint—her last glimpse of the cape, her last view of the lighthouse. But fatigue washed over her and her eyelids slid down. She was riding on a tide that was carrying her elsewhere, back into memory, returning to Jack . . .

It was dark now and she couldn’t see. She was on the cape and everything was black, even the tower. Why wasn’t the light flashing? Jack had never forgotten it. The sea was roaring too. She could hear it. The cliffs must be nearer than she’d thought. Or was it rain on the roof? Another storm coming in? Storms came so quickly here, rushing across the sea from the south. If the light wasn’t stone buried in stone, it’d be blown across the cape, shattered into pieces. Such winds they had on the cape. The children would be frightened in such a storm. There was thunder, and flashes of light. Mary hoped she could get the pony in the shed before the storm came. She didn’t want to live through another storm like the last one.

And finally Rose was there. Yes. Mary had known she would come.

She was waiting in the doorway of the keeper’s cottage, claiming Mary’s territory, her face smug. Mary felt a twinge of anger. Now she was home from hospital, Rose would have to pack and be gone. She’d have to go back to the farm, back to her selfish, sedentary life.

But Rose’s face was sliding inwards, rippling like smoke. Oh, how Mary wanted to wipe that smile away—that sly, self-aware smile, slightly mocking. Rose had seen the limp, despite Mary’s struggle to hide it. Ten weeks of recovery and rehabilitation and now Mary’s homecoming was flattened. Rose’s smile was triumphant—she thought she could prolong her stay.

‘Jack’s up at the lighthouse.’ Rose’s voice warped and flexed. ‘We didn’t know when to expect you.’

We
, as if she was the mistress of the house.

Mary felt an ache at the site of the fracture. Her leg was heavy with the memory of plaster. She’d been so hopeful when they cut the cast away, but what they gave her back was not her leg. It was a shrivelled pale thing, useless without a crutch. She thought she’d be going home immediately, but it was another four weeks before they’d let her go.

‘Where are my children?’ Her voice echoed down the empty hallway. The worn lino of the keeper’s cottage. Her house.

‘Doing their lessons.’ Rose’s face contorted with derision. ‘Their schoolwork is important.’ Rose was sneering at the leg as if she could see through Mary’s trousers to the sallow skin, the itchy flaking redness, the wasted muscles. ‘You’re limping.’ Rose’s eyes were dark holes. ‘I hope you haven’t returned too soon. We haven’t time to nurse you.’

That
we
again. Mary tried to push her aside, but her hands dissolved through Rose as if she was made of air. Wind gushed. When Mary turned, Rose was gone.

She limped down the hallway. There was the sound of chairs scraping in the kitchen. Footsteps running. The children. But they were mirage-like, ghostly, running by her, through the wooden door.

And now she was in the kitchen. Condensation was wet on the windows. The kettle steaming on the stove. Mist billowing over the cape. Wind whistling under the window.

She heard the bang of the cottage door opening. Jack’s footsteps, strong and heavy down the hall. He swung into the kitchen, his arranged smile turning crooked on his face. He seemed taller than she remembered. Thinner.

He went to the window and gazed up the hill. Mary followed his eyes. There was Rose, standing beside the light tower, her coat flapping in the wind.

‘She’s welcome to have tea with us,’ Mary said.

‘She didn’t want to interrupt your homecoming.’ Jack spoke without looking at her. His voice was strangled and strange.

‘And what about you?’

He glanced at her, frosty. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Mary.’