The Lightkeeper's Wife (41 page)

At Kettering, the wind is sweeping the water into breakers and the ferry has been cancelled till further notice. I stand at the landing with Jess sheltering behind my legs, and stare out across the white-capped waste, wishing there was some other way to go to Mum. This is my time to be with her, and I’m powerless, grounded by the weather. There’s no chance the ferry will resume tonight when waves like these are churning on the channel.

I linger in the blast until the cold chills me then I go back home to ring Jan. It’s a shame I can’t concoct some adequate reason to dodge having to visit her in her lonely house. But she grasps me like a life-buoy and works on my sympathy till I agree to have dinner with her. When finally I’ve extracted myself from her gushes of remorse, I ring Leon’s mobile and leave a message to let him know the situation. Before I hang up, I provide Jan’s number so he can find me. Then I swing into the car with Jess.

When I arrive at Jan’s place, she collapses in tears on my shoulder, and I find myself stroking her as if she’s a child. I tell her she’s welcome to come to Cloudy Bay tomorrow morning, but she’s inconsolable and her dramatics tire me. We sit in the kitchen drinking tea while she unburdens her conscience. I’d like to feel sorry for her, but Jan has created her own hell. Over the past weeks, I’ve offered several times to take her down to visit Mum, but she’s always been too busy. She makes teary phone calls to Jacinta and Gary, raking over everything and blaming everybody until my mind starts to spin.

We’re halfway through a bowl of pumpkin soup when her phone rings. She answers it quickly then passes it on to me.

Even though Leon’s voice is buffeted by wind, I can detect his tension. I take the phone from the room, seeking privacy from Jan.

‘I’m down at the carpark,’ Leon says. ‘I had to leave her for a few minutes, but I thought I should ring you. She’s not too good, Tom. She was holding it together while Jacinta and Alex were here, but she’s deteriorated since they left. I’m not sure what to do.’

‘I can’t get over there,’ I tell him. ‘They’ve shut the ferry down.’

‘I’m happy to stay with her, but I’m worried. She’s not talking any more.’

Not talking? This is unexpected. A fist of panic clutches my throat. ‘Does she know you’re there?’ I ask.

‘I think so.’ He sounds hesitant. How could Mum have declined so quickly? Jacinta said she’d be okay.

‘Was she all right when you first arrived?’ I ask.

‘She was resting. But her breathing’s turned bad now, Tom. I don’t like it. She seems to be struggling.’

‘Look. I’ll be there first thing in the morning, even if I have to swim the channel.’

I hang up and turn back to the kitchen, but Jan is behind me, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, staring past her.

‘I can’t cope,’ she sobs.

I look down at her, unmoved. She wants my support but I can’t help her. I have my own fears to deal with. ‘I’m going home,’ I say.

She follows me to the front door. ‘I’m coming with you tomorrow.’

‘Be at my place early then. I’m going on the first ferry. Either that, or you’ll have to go with Jacinta and Alex.’ A moment of guilt grips, and I hesitate by the car. My sister is watching me, her face sagging with the burden of regret.

‘Wait till the second ferry,’ she says. ‘It can’t possibly make any difference. I want to shower before I come.’

I shake my head in disbelief and climb into the car. Our mother is dying and all Jan can think of is taking a shower.

The night is dark as I head south on the highway, and it’s heavy with the weight of my concern. At Kingston, I turn the car east to the beach and walk along the sand. There’s no point going home to sit in silence when my thoughts are so heavy and sad. A cloak of clouds drapes the sky and the only light is from the buildings along the foreshore. My eyes adjust to the gloom and I shed my shoes, feeling the way with my toes. Jess pads behind me—I hear her panting in the breaks between waves. Sometimes she snuffles at invisible treasures on the sand. We walk and walk, seeking an emptiness that just won’t come.

Some time after ten o’clock, I drive home, wishing I could fly over the channel to Bruny to be with Mum. When I see the shadow of Nick’s Commodore parked beneath the streetlight at the bottom of my driveway, I want to turn and drive away. I’m worn out and I want to go to sleep. Has Emma driven herself here, or has she brought Nick along? Perhaps she’s asleep in his back seat. I swing my car up the driveway past the Commodore and step out into the feeble light.

It’s quiet. Jess and I slip along the path to the front door. If we’re lucky we’ll make it inside before anyone realises we’re home. But there’s a dark shape humped on the doormat. The body is too small to be Nick, so it must be Emma. Jess trots forward to sniff and lick her.

Emma’s face is pressed against the doormat; leaning forward, I smell beer on her breath. She must be pretty drunk to sleep with her cheek on the bristles of the mat. I unlock the front door and open it. She doesn’t move. It’d be easy for me to step over her and go inside to bed. But it’s cold out here, and if she’s drunk, she won’t be thermoregulating properly. I’ll have to get her inside and find somewhere to put her. I care for this girl, but tonight I don’t want her in my bed.

I switch on a lamp in the lounge room, then grab a blanket from the hall cupboard and find a bucket in the laundry, just in case she throws up. I pour a large glass of water and set it on the floor beside the couch. Returning to Emma’s limp body I shake her gently, trying to rouse her. She moans and rolls over, her lips red and swollen, her eyes pressed shut. I kneel beside her on the mat and loop my arm around her back. Then I lift her to her feet with effort, and she staggers into the house beside me, weak and uncoordinated.

‘Do you need the bathroom?’ I ask.

‘Tom,’ she slurs, ‘is that you?’

‘Yes, and you’re not well.’

She slumps against me. ‘Where were you? I made Nick bring me down here so I could see you, but you weren’t here.’

‘I’ve been at my sister’s place.’

‘Why weren’t you here? Nick wouldn’t leave, so we went down to the pub to wait for you.’

‘And you drank too much.’

‘Yes. Can you take me to bed with you?’

‘You can have the couch. But first we’ll visit the bathroom.’

I half carry her down the hall, and she closes her eyes against the light. In the bathroom I lean her against the wall. ‘Can you manage?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says, then, ‘I need to lie down.’

I take her back down the hall again and roll her onto the couch, her head lolling onto the cushions.

‘Tom,’ she mumbles, as I turn off the lamp. ‘What about Nick?’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s in the car. Can you bring him in? He’ll freeze out there.’

‘Does it matter?’ Tonight of all nights, I don’t care about Nick. My mother is dying.

‘We had an argument. I wanted him to go, but he wouldn’t.

And you weren’t here.’ She says it again as if it’s all my fault.

‘I’ll bring him in,’ I say. ‘Then I’m going to sleep.’

Fortunately, Nick is capable of walking up the driveway unassisted, and when they’re both ensconced on couches, I switch off the lights and retreat to my bedroom. I move woodenly through the shadows and lie on my bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. On the phone this evening, Leon said Mum was having trouble breathing. I envisage her face, pale and strained, her lips tinged with blue. I imagine the wheezing sound of her respiration, the labour of each inhalation.

A frightening void has opened up in me. I picture Mum lying in that lonely Cloudy Bay bed. Perhaps she really is dying. And now I’m truly afraid. Not scared for Mum—she knows what death holds for her. I’m afraid for myself. My feelings for Emma have been my life raft these past weeks: I thought Mum’s death would be my release and Emma would be my future. But Emma’s not the solution I first imagined her to be. Nick is the unexpected factor and I can’t seem to delete him. Now he’s here, in my house.

Jess jumps onto the bed and curls up beside me. I lay my hand on her head; her soft ears are reassuring beneath my fingers. Sleep floats just beyond reach: I yearn for it, but each time I’m tilting on its downhill edge, consciousness leaps at me, making me jolt, shifting my restless legs. This will be a night of fitful dozing.

I wake early and take Jess for a walk. Normally, I’d have breakfast and enter the day through the curling steam rising from my first cup of tea. But this morning there are uninvited guests in my house, and I don’t want to listen to them snoring in the lounge room.

Outside, it’s crisp and cold, and in the east, light is just beginning to glimmer on the horizon. Jess and I head down the hill past Laura’s house. The curtains are drawn and the house is dark, so she must be still asleep. On the beach, I squat on the grey sand and stare across the channel while quiet wavelets lap at the shore. Dawn spreads slowly across the sky and soon a couple of gulls come strutting along the sand, jabbing at crab holes exposed by the tide. Jess is subdued too, picking up on my mood.

Last night at Jan’s, I agreed to wait for the nine o’clock ferry. But I want to be down at Cloudy Bay
now
, spinning along the sand in the awakening light, running across the deck, sitting down beside Mum’s bed, holding onto her hand. I pace the beach, hoping I’ll hear Nick’s Commodore start up and that they will both leave before I get back. But there’s no sound from the road and soon Laura comes wandering out of the bush. I’m standing down near the water, and I hope she’ll leave me be. But she meanders up with a hesitant smile.

‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, keeping it short.

‘You’ve been walking up and down for quite a while. I saw you from the road. Are you sure everything’s all right?’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I say dismissively. I wish she’d leave me alone, but I’m not sure how to send her away tactfully.

‘It’s not fine, is it? There’s something wrong. I can feel it.’

Her concern makes something break inside me and words gush out. ‘My mother’s ill. She’s dying of heart disease. She’s down on Bruny Island in a cabin and I’m stuck here waiting for my sister. But I don’t want to wait. I want to be there. I want to sit beside my mum even if she doesn’t know I’m there.’

Laura listens silently, her eyes full of compassion. I’m surprised by her empathy, but then perhaps I shouldn’t be—she’s been through a lot with her brother. Suddenly, her company doesn’t feel like an imposition, and I find her quiet attention almost comforting.

‘You should go straightaway,’ she says. ‘Don’t hang around. Just get on the road.’

‘What about my sister?’

She shakes her head. ‘She can make her own way down. Don’t wait. You need to be there now.’

She’s right. I do need to go. A little voice has been telling me that all night. I’m about to hurry off when I remember her trouble. ‘How’s Mouse?’

She shakes her head. ‘Not now. I’ll fill you in later. Just go.’

I hurry up the beach. She’s given me a gift—the permission to put myself first for once. Before I dive through the bush, I turn and wave to her. I’ll thank her later. I have a feeling she’ll understand.

Up at the house, Nick and Emma are in the kitchen. Nick has found himself a bowl of cereal and is pouring coffee. He knows exactly how to make himself at home. Emma is slumped at the kitchen bench with a mug and a piece of toast in front of her. She’s holding her head in her hands, and I’m not surprised she feels awful. The smell of beer is still oozing out of their pores.

She turns slowly when I come in. ‘Tom. Where have you been?’

I look around for my car keys, I can’t see them. ‘I went for a walk.’

‘There was a phone call for you. A man. Something to do with your mother.’

‘Was it Leon?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t catch his name.’

A surge of impatience washes over me.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles. ‘I’m not the best this morning.’

I pick up the phone. Then I stop and look at them. What are they doing here, sitting in my house, watching me at this time? I want them gone. I take the phone to my bedroom and shut the door to block out their voices. My hands are shaking as I dial Leon’s number.

There’s no answer and the phone clicks to messagebank: ‘
You’ve called Leon Walker from the Tasmanian Parks and Wildlife
Service. Please leave your details and I’ ll ring when I can.’

His phone must be out of range. I leave a message. Perhaps he didn’t call. Maybe it was Gary trying to contact me. Maybe everything is still all right with Mum. I ring Gary’s number and he answers with a grunt.

‘Gary. It’s Tom.’

‘What is it?’ His voice is slow, like a cat stretching.

‘Did you call me?’

‘No. I’m having breakfast. You know how it is—don’t ask me questions before I’ve had my first cup of coffee . . .’

‘You didn’t call?’

‘No. I’m still in Melbourne. We’re trying to rearrange our flights.’

Who could have called me then? Maybe it was Alex. I hang up and call Alex’s mobile, but it wasn’t him who rang either. He and Jacinta are getting ready to leave. I ask him to pick up Jan so I don’t have to wait for her.