by Gary P Moss
She tiptoed to the side of the bed, a small suitcase in one hand, a bag of grapes in the other. The man opened his eyes; she couldn’t be sure if the weak smile that greeted her was an attempt at happiness at her presence, or mild annoyance that she was about to disturb his rest.
‘So, it was definitely broken, then,’ she said.
The man stared ahead.
‘When they cut away my trousers, a bone was sticking through my skin. So yes, you could say that.’
‘I brought you some fresh clothes, for when, you know, you’re up and about again.’
His head snapped to the side, facing her.
‘It’ll be a couple of weeks, maybe more. The ankle and leg are broken; that damned wood.’
‘And having to run after him, that didn’t exactly help matters, did it?’
‘It’s hardly his fault, he’s just a little boy. He wasn’t getting any attention.’ His words were slow, considered, accusing. ‘And where is he, anyway?’
‘At the hotel with Mrs Fussy Boots; I thought the journey might be too tiring for him.’
‘Yes, well, whatever you call her, it was kind of her to look after him.’
She changed the subject, annoyed that once again, despite his predicament, despite his vulnerability, he decided to choose the high ground rather than side with her, his wife.
‘I’ll stay at the hotel till the week’s up, then perhaps we can go home together.’
The man shook his head.
‘You weren’t listening. I’ll still be here so you’ll have to go back on your own. I already phoned my sister. Her neighbour has a big old American car, plenty of room for me to stretch out. He’ll come and get me soon as I’m ready. And I’ve let work know.’
‘Looks like you don’t need me at all then,’ she huffed. ‘Neither of you.’
He patted her hand.
‘You bring me clean clothes. And grapes. Thank you.’ His eyes had misted up. His tone softened. ‘Come here, my love, give me a kiss.’
The woman leaned over, conscious of at least twenty other occupied beds sharing the same ward. She eyed the rest of the room, but no one was looking at them. She kissed him on the lips. He closed his eyes, but after a second, she pulled away, his lips dry, brittle, thin, weak. A nurse interrupted them.
‘How’s the pain?’
‘Bad,’ the man replied. He gave her a wide smile. ‘But, soldiering on, you know.’ The woman rolled her eyes. The nurse’s face was unreadable.
‘Well, soldiering on is good but we’ll give you something stronger to take the worst of the pain away. It’ll make you sleepy, but it’ll heal quicker.’ She passed him a beaker of water along with a couple of hefty-looking pills.
Soon after the nurse departed, the man’s eyelids began to droop. The woman whispered.
‘I’ll come back as soon as I can. But, with the boy, it’s difficult, you know?’
The man didn’t reply; he was fast asleep. Relief swept through her body as she left the ward without a glance behind her. She’d done her duty.
She’d been in the hospital for twenty minutes.
On the return train journey, the woman sat alone in a compartment, on a scruffy upholstered seat saggy from springs that had probably collapsed long ago. The window was grimy. Depending on the speed, as the train rattled on, the scenery alternated between blurs of greens and browns, and rolling hills and mountains. Only twice was she snapped out of her reverie: once when a sudden downpour battered the glass, almost taking her breath away, the other time when the ticket collector slid open the door. She showed him her ticket without speaking. He’d nodded, leaving her to her solitude, to thoughts of sea and spray, of clambering over wet rocks, of the imagined heavy, damp smell of Aran wool.
Damp against her bare skin.
Dark clouds covered the sky like a blanket of doom. She found a small, scruffy black-beamed pub down a side street from the tiny, dilapidated railway station. She’d been the only person to get off the train before it began its lazy journey back.
Opening the door, she caught a whiff of strong rolled tobacco and stale beer. Grizzly old men were scattered around, some seated, playing cards or stroking dogs, some leaning on the bar. They stopped and stared as she entered.
‘A whisky please. Large.’
The landlord, late fifties, she thought, moved his arms against his ample belly while polishing a glass with a dirty tea towel.
‘There might be better places for a nice young lady than this old wreck.’
‘This old wreck will do fine. Large whisky. Please.’
The man double-tapped an optic. He placed a jug of water next to the tumbler.
‘Thanks, but I won’t be needing that,’ she said, staring into his small, roving eyes.
A few swift sips later, the whisky had gone.
‘Another, please.’
‘You sure about that, lassie? That was a bad business with your man, I don’t doubt, but be careful with this stuff. Better with water.’
‘How do you know what happened?’ she asked, incredulous at the man’s knowledge; more so at his affrontery.
‘Ach, now an ambulance round here is as rare as hens’ teeth, eh lads? But those beaches, up by Devil’s Point, best to avoid them.’ A murmur of agreement briefly filled the air. ‘We don’t miss much. How is the wee man, anyway?’
‘Hardly a wee man.’ She took a glug of her drink. ‘He’ll live.’
She drained her glass, then left without another word, smiling to herself as she imagined the talk she was leaving behind. The spirit warmed her belly, loosening some of the stiffness still in her shoulders. Her smile slipped.
I must be more careful.
It was still early, barely past a late lunchtime, but it wouldn’t do to be seen wandering around too many places while someone else looked after the boy.
The sense of freedom coursed through her veins like invigorated blood. Spots of rain fell on her jacket. She lifted her hood, glad of the excuse to hide her face. She looked around her as she walked along the coastal road. A wool shop could have been either open or closed, and a hairdressing salon, its fading sign unwelcoming, held a solitary woman under a giant hairdryer. An elderly, bent man hurried along with a small terrier, shaking its straggly fur as it scurried beside him. Apart from this, there seemed to be nobody else around.
No wonder he got it cheap. Talk about low season, this is dead season.
She looked skywards, and then into the distance. The top of the lighthouse was visible, but she could see no light. The previous evening, she’d stood at the hotel room window, watching the lantern’s beam, two fast strokes and one longer stroke, repeating again and again, warming her. As she’d lain in bed, the beam had lulled her off to sleep.
It wasn’t far to the lighthouse now, more of its shape becoming clearer, taller, as she moved in its direction. She fancied a closer look before returning to the hotel, although she thought it might appear somewhat naked, unadorned, without the lighthouse keeper lurking at its base. She felt in her coat pocket for the binoculars, glad she’d left them there. From an empty shop doorway, she brought the lighthouse into sharper focus. She noticed part of the causeway; square slabs of stone provided a path suspended on thick round beams. She thought the path probably all but disappeared at high tide. She swung to her left, gauging the sea. It was retreating swiftly, as fast, it seemed, as it had come in. Moving the glasses to her right, her hands shook as she caught a flash of dirty cream. With some difficulty, she steadied her hands, taking a long, deep breath. Her heart thumped like a muffled bass drum. He wore a dark oilskin jacket, no waders this time, only jeans and boots. He was leaving the lighthouse, walking the length of the causeway.
Her view was interrupted. There were three people: two large and one smaller. Two thin noses and one a little wider. All pale faced. She recognised them from the beach, the couple who had helped her husband. She backed into the doorway, hoping they wouldn’t turn. A drizzle forced their heads down as they walked d
own some steps towards a cottage.
Mike’s cottage.
She trained the binoculars on the causeway. It was empty. Moving the glasses higher, a sliver of rock appeared to jut out from the lighthouse. She frowned. Sometimes she never even noticed its presence, as if it were hiding, teasing. As she swung her arms to the right, the woman caught sight of the back of the lighthouse keeper’s jacket.
She stuffed the binoculars back in her pocket. She checked her watch. She reckoned she was good for another hour, maybe two. She hurried along the road in the direction the lighthouse keeper had taken.
After five minutes, the woman watched as he disappeared up a side street. It looked like this was where the town ended. From there, the land curved, and from a distance it was as if it might be the edge of the world, a great drop off into oblivion. A shiver of anticipation ran through her; anticipation of what, she didn’t know. Maybe something. Maybe nothing.
The woman felt suddenly exposed, as if she were about to be caught out. And what excuse could she give? Still, she was a stranger, a tourist. That’s what tourists did, wasn’t it? Yes, they often wandered into random places, but they didn’t follow random people. But he wasn’t random, she felt she already knew him, at least on a baser, animal level.
Terraced houses clung together like a secretive extended family, locking her out. Shunning her. The incline gently tugged her calf muscles, a stretch rather than a burn. She was still reasonably fit. The fronts of the houses were less pitted the higher she climbed, stretching away from the sea and its corroding salt. An old man exited a door a few houses along. His wrinkled old tweed jacket and trousers were a poor defence against the weather. He raised his head to the sky and mumbled something. He didn’t acknowledge the woman as he passed her, his gait unsteady. He smelled of beer and tobacco. She reached the door in question. It was unlike its neighbours, sporting a round doorknob rather than a handle, and the door next to it had no handle or knob, as if it were permanently closed off. She leaned her head against the door. There was some chatter but not the sort she would have expected from a domestic house. Glasses clinked, and even the door itself smelled like a pub.
Her heart hammered as she pondered whether to try the door. If it was someone’s house, they would be enraged, might even phone the police. She took a deep breath, and with a hand clammy from nerves and wet from the rain, she turned the knob.
The door opened onto a large, extended room that looked as though it ran through two original terraced houses. A thin man in his sixties looked up from behind a corner bar, its wrapped wall of solid timber reminding the woman of a pulpit. There were no optics, just a few bottles on a low shelf.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
‘Could I have a quick drink?’ She sounded uncertain this time, as if she’d stumbled upon a secret place. She thought that perhaps it was.
‘Well, this is a private members’ club, miss, and anyway, I’m about to close.’
Her heart seemed to jump to her throat as a familiar figure appeared from a short corridor next to the bar. The Aran pullover rose and fell slightly with the man’s breathing. Her mouth was suddenly dry; she needed a drink more than ever. The lighthouse keeper’s wry smile unnerved her.
‘Ach, give her a drink, I’ll be having another anyway.’ The lighthouse keeper placed a note on the bar top. He turned to the landlord. ‘And take one for yourself, eh?’
The man nodded.
‘Pale ale, stout, or whisky, miss?’
‘Whisky.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you.’ She rummaged in her bag.
‘No need, he’s paying, apparently.’
The woman hardly dared to look at the lighthouse keeper. When she did, she saw that he was a little older than she first thought; late thirties, she supposed. The landlord disappeared into the back. The woman scanned the room. Just the two of them.
‘Cheers!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘I’ll sit down, if you don’t mind. That hill!’
‘Aye, well you get used to it, if you want more than your bog-standard whisky, that is.’ He gestured to a couple of seats by the front window. Net curtains, whether by natural colour or tobacco, hung brown and stiff, offering a somewhat restricted view out but no view in. He sat opposite the woman, her back to the window, a round table between them. She stared into her drink, nervous but ecstatic.
‘So’, he said. ‘What brings you all the way up here?’
‘I’m on holiday, just for a week.’
The lighthouse keeper grinned.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
Despite the urge to remain calm, nonplussed, the woman felt a hot rush to her cheeks. She knew they’d coloured.
‘Well, I, er…’
He raised an eyebrow, but his curling mouth showed evidence of humour. She knew she’d been caught out, but it was obvious he wasn’t mad at her. He was laughing at her.
‘Well, actually, yes I saw you from a way off and wanted to ask about the lighthouse, and you kept going, and going, and before I knew it, I ended up here.’
He tilted his head to the side, maintaining eye contact. She shivered inside, his intense gaze unsettling, electrifying.
‘How did you know I was from the lighthouse?’
‘I saw you, yesterday, from the rocks. You were leaning against the rail.’ She took a quick glug of her drink, the instant burn and warmth settling her nerves.
‘And the ambulance; anything to do with you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, well, the man I was with, on holiday with, he had an accident. He tripped on some old wood. Rusty nails, you know. He broke his leg. And his ankle.’ She paused a moment, watched his eyes to try to find any hint of scepticism within them.
The man nodded but continued to stare into her eyes without a hint of anything but genuine interest. No, it’s more than that, she thought. It’s desire. It might have been a while, but she knew that look. She’d missed it; it had been far too long. The warmth in her belly continued down. Her heart thumped, the imagined beat reaching her eardrums, muting everything, as if she were underwater.
The landlord broke her trance.
‘I’m heading up, Mike. If you don’t mind.’
The lighthouse keeper drained his drink, indicating that the woman should do the same.
They walked down the hill in silence. The only sounds were gulls screeching in the distance. An old Ford drove past at the bottom; the woman thought the driver might have been the unsteady old man from the pub, but she couldn’t be sure. She sensed the lighthouse keeper’s bulk, smelled the tobacco on his jacket, the salty tang from his sweater. The air was already wet. The rain started up again. She lifted her hood. She sneaked glances as fine water droplets fell from his beard. Watched him sweep rainwater back through his hair, his fingers slick, long, strong. She wanted to grab him.
The heat down below was unbearable, almost painful. They reached the bottom road. The causeway was now in sight, the lighthouse rearing high, solid, powerful, like a magical hideaway in plain sight. A keeper of secrets, the woman thought. The man went to cross the road, but the woman, without thinking, grabbed his wrist. Her look implored him to extend an invitation. Her eyes, watery with exhilaration and rain, begged him to ask her, to lead her, to pull her if need be. He grinned, then stared over the road, towards the incoming tide.
‘I’d invite you in for a tour, but as you can see, tide’s not fully out yet. I’m used to getting a soaking, but you?’
She stared hard, gripping his wrist tighter. With his other hand, he prised away her fingers. Her hands trembled.
‘It’s okay. How long before I avoid a soaking? It won’t be that long, will it?’
‘Six, seven hours round here,’ he said. ‘Likes to take its time.’
She lifted her wrist high, struggling to focus on her wet watch face. Water ran up her sleeve, but she ignored it. Her frown threatened to crumple her face as she realised the lateness of the hour.
He laughed, a loud guffaw that startled her.
‘I�
�m joking. I don’t know; half an hour, maybe?’
The woman took a risk, but she needed to know how far she could push this … situation.
‘So, did you see the drama with the ambulance, then?’
So, you didn’t see me with a small boy and a buggy?
‘No. I didn’t see anything; just caught the top of it, the blue light.’
The woman heard a shout from across the road. It was the woman from the beach, the one who had helped her husband. The heat within the woman fell away, leaving frustration, resentment, anger.
The lighthouse keeper crossed the road, turning halfway across.
‘Anyway, bye, nice meeting you,’ he called out, raising an arm. He’d broken the spell. And now the woman from the beach ran over, ensuring the spell could not be recast, not today.
‘How’s your husband?’ she asked, her eyes following the lighthouse keeper as he strode across the causeway.
The woman had regained her composure. The late afternoon had grown dark, as if a sullen blanket had arrived to force out the light that earlier had surrounded her. A light that had filled her. The wind’s ferocity caused the woman to pull her hood tight around her face, in part to stop the salt stinging her skin, in part to hide any lingering evidence of her crushing disappointment.
Her smile was devoid of warmth. She thought that the beach woman’s mouth, lips naturally pursed but otherwise normal, began to grow as each word flowed from her mouth. It changed its shape, like a pothole according to the weather.
‘He’s feeling much better, well on the mend. He’ll be home in a week or so.’
The woman followed the beach woman’s eyes to the lighthouse door as it closed silently, any noise swept away by wind and tide. The beach woman’s lips were tight again, as if she didn’t trust anything civilized to come out of her mouth.
‘It’s shocking weather for you to be out, isn’t it?’ said the woman, her eyes now focused on the beach woman’s mouth, willing it to morph into some grotesque shape.
The question pulled the beach woman’s eyes from the lighthouse. The two women now stared at each other, as if daring each other to make the first move, either accusatory, or defensive.
