by Cole Moreton
‘I’ve seen them. What good can you do really? If they want to jump . . .’
‘They will. Yeah. Hard to stop someone who really wants to. So many are not sure though: they’re trying to get up the nerve or they want to be stopped or they’re lost to themselves through grief or anxiety or medication, whatever it is. So we try to have a word. You know: “You don’t have to do this, mate. Somebody cares.” If they say anything in response – even if it’s just to tell us to get lost – there’s a chance they’ll come away. Have a cup of tea back at our hut. Then maybe make a call, get someone who loves them to come and collect them. Or the police.’ It’s been a tough day. The Chief feels like talking. Something about this guy makes him think it’s okay. ‘Some poor souls come here again and again because they’ve got nobody else to talk to. It’s so sad. Nothing gets funded. Nobody wants to know. So they end up here, with us.
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That’s okay. We’re called Guardians because we’re here for everyone, as long as we can meet the need.’
He leaves a silence, hoping for the question. It comes.
‘How many?’
‘Hundreds come here, every year. The number is going up all the time, but until now the number of people actually going over has stayed the same, at about thirty or so a year. We must have been doing something right. There’s a line I use to churches and so on: we stand in between life and death and insist that life is better, however much it hurts. And it does, let me tell you. For them, of course, and their families. For us, too. But the last couple of months, there have been more than anyone expected get-ting through; it’s heart-breaking. And baffling. We lost one this morning . . .’
The Chief is glad to get this off his chest, but he isn’t just ram-bling, he’s also got a plan: share a bit, watch for a flicker in the eyes to suggest he might know about the death already, or is excited by the thought. Anything that might implicate him.
‘My colleague Magda was on patrol. She was in pieces. It’s harder on the ladies, but she is remarkable. I told her, “It’s not your fault. You were doing what is right.” She went home after that, but I couldn’t keep away. I’m in charge, you see? This is my place. There is nowhere else I can go. I mean, nowhere else I should be. The Lord sent me here, He will keep me safe.’
The Keeper’s silence is taken for approval. It encourages the Chief to go on, still watching for a reaction. ‘I miss the force, I’ve got to be honest with you. Camaraderie. Mates. The kids have all grown up too and gone away, they’re doing well for themselves. I tried retirement but it wasn’t really for me. Shirley, my better half, said I didn’t know what to do with myself all day. She was busy with the church and the golf, so I offered my services to the Lord in prayer. He saw fit to answer in this way. Long hours, low pay but good work. I have been running the show for a year now; it’s going okay.’
The Keeper’s calm, unfazed gaze invites him again to carry on. He’s not to know that this is instinct kicking in, a legacy from the
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Keeper’s past: the habit of keeping quiet and looking sympathetic, nodding to show he’s interested, letting the story unfold.
‘I reorganized the whole thing, of course. The two pastors who started the patrols were sincere, willing men of prayer, but we needed organization. Proper training. It’s not for everybody. We have torches, but when the moon goes behind the clouds and you stum-ble, then you think you’re a goner.’
‘I know. I live here.’
‘Yeah. Course. Okay. Well, discipline and training help and the Lord gives me courage. There are times when I have to break the rules. Grab ’em and pull ’em back. It’s dangerous but the Lord protects me. As long as I am doing His work He will protect me and no harm will come to me.’
The Keeper looks away, disturbed now. Not going along with it any more. He runs a hand through his hair, glances back at the Chief again and mutters irritably: ‘No.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Sorry. I’m not having it. God, I really don’t want to do this.’ The Keeper stands up, stretching his legs and arms, looking the Chief right in the eyes. Staring, almost. ‘That’s not how it works, is it? Do you really believe what you’re saying?’
‘Yes, I—’
‘And it’s not just you – the same protection goes for everyone?’
‘If they love the Lord and they’re doing His work, then yes . . .’
‘You’re sure?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’
‘It’s easy to hurl abuse—’
‘I lost someone. She had a faith. So strong. Put yours to shame. It didn’t save her.’ The Keeper is aware of his legs jud-dering; he could lose it now, not having talked to anybody about this in a long time. ‘Right. So. This is bullshit.’ Keep it all in, he tells himself. Keep it all in. ‘Will He save you now, if I push you over?’
‘You threatening me?’ The Guardian struggles to his feet, but when he gets there meets only a smile.
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‘No need. You’re a danger to yourself. God help you. I’m going home.’
‘I can’t let you walk away. I am in charge here!’
The Keeper puts his earphones back in, pulls up his hood and turns on the music, not Satie now but Curtis Mayfield again. Move on up. He slips easily past the Chief and runs up the hill towards the tower, his lighthouse, his sanctuary. Running for home.
For half a mile he runs, fast. The tower appears over the hill and grows larger in his sight, but when he is almost there, almost home, his eyes are drawn to a white shape, away to the right. It’s a man, a little man, sitting right on the edge where the lighthouse wall ends, where the ground is dusty with loose scraps of chalk and flint, and he is afraid to go. Very afraid. There’s a white number six on the red England shirt hanging from the little man’s bony shoulders. The back of his neck is glistening below the buzz cut. Long white pedal-pusher shorts flap around the knees. His feet are actually over the edge. Bloody hell. He’s kicking off a sandal by the heel, flipping it from his stubby feet with their blackened toes. Watching the sandal turn and fall. His lips move. He is trying to count the seconds until the splash. It’s too far to hear that and there are too many ledges that might snag it on the way down. Now the other sandal is going the same way. Why stop to talk to him? Why care? There is a faint shush from the waves below. The little man twists around.
‘What’s your problem, mate?’
Bloody good question.
‘Come on, what is it? “Why are you standing there? What are you gonna do, kill yourself?” Ha!’ The laughter is hollow. ‘“Why would you want to do that, eh? You’ve got so much to live for, aintcha?” Listen, pal, you think I wanna top myself, just ’cos I’m having a nice sit down?’
That’s weird, he’s turned it all round. I’m supposed to say that to you, thinks the Keeper. What can he say in response? ‘Er . . . the sandals?’
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‘I like bare feet. They was broken anyway. Bugger off, will ya?’ The little man laughs, wheezily, until a cough comes up. ‘I’m bird watching.’
Without binoculars or a camera? Sure. No problem. Really. But if he does go over, right here, outside the lighthouse, there will be trouble. Better to say something. What did the Guardian say? ‘If we can just talk to people, let them know someone cares, it breaks the spell.’ Okay, so say anything. Hang on. Classic England shirt. Number six. Who is that? Bobby Moore. West Ham United. ‘You a Hammer?’
‘Very good, Columbo. I know what you are. Chelsea. You’ll like my name then. Frank. Fat Frank.’
‘Right.’
‘After the player, Frank Lampard? You know? They called him Fat Frank when he was a lad, when he had puppy fat. It was a joke, really. He was never fat. I was enormous, me. Ma-hoosive. Ha ha ha! Then I lost it all. Misery diet, best diet there is. Ha-ha ha ha!’
‘Not my team.’
‘Let me guess then. Three guesses. How much?
’ ‘What?’
‘Let’s have a bet. How much? My life?’ Is he serious?
‘You win, I won’t do it,’ says skinny little Fat Frank. ‘I win, you watch.’
This is getting out of hand. The lighthouse keeper sits down on the wall. He has no choice, his legs have gone. This is bizarre, surreal, dangerous. Still, Frank is talking; that must be good.
‘United?’
The wind has dropped, it is very still, or they could not hear each other.
‘No, hang on. Too obvious. You sound like London, that’s all. That would make you a Man U fan, wouldn’t it? Ha-ha-ha! Not Spurs, you’re not one of them. A Gooner wouldn’t live up here. QPR?’
Rí grew up not far from that ground in Notting Hill, the hungry child of artists, caught between suburbia and bohemia – she was Maria then. But that was her, not him. ‘East . . .’
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‘Ah. Gotcha. Orient. Leyton Orient. Poor sod. So, deal’s a deal, you watch me.’ Frank shifts his bony hips and pulls up his legs as if to start a roll. He’s going to do it . . .
‘Mervyn Day. Billy Jennings. Tommy Taylor,’ says the lighthouse keeper quickly for something to say, reciting the names of men who wore the white and red of the Orient when he was a boy. Former West Ham players, all of them. ‘My grandad’s fault. He played for them, so he said. I don’t know. Never seen the evidence. He took me to my first game.’
‘Bleedin’ curse. Still, you gotta stick with it,’ says Frank lightly, as if they are in the pub together after a heavy defeat. ‘I like the Orient.’
‘Come and talk about it. Over here.’
Astonishingly, Frank stands up. He steps away from the edge, to a slightly safer place. This is going well. It’s going to be all right.
‘Tell you what,’ says Frank, ‘it don’t half make you feel alive, thinking you’re gonna die.’
‘We’re all going to do that. Not today though, eh?’
‘I’m wrong in me head,’ says Frank without prompting, looking up at the sky. ‘I get things wrong. I know, I sound all right now. It comes and goes, but it’s getting worse. My daughter, Sophie, she ain’t told her boy. Billy. I love that little monster. Love him. He’s a bit tiny, poor bastard, but he can play. I wanted to tell him what was wrong with me, but she says he’ll be scared. Won’t let me do it. We had a row, now she won’t let me see him at all. I’m sca-red shitless, mate.’ He taps his head and rubs it, as if trying to fix something in there. ‘I don’t wanna forget his name. Don’t wanna see him and not know him.’
‘I’m sorry—’
‘So I thought, you know what? Go quietly. Just do it. Spare them both seeing that. Spare myself. Get out the way. Somewhere nice. It’s nice here, ain’t it? Beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ says the Keeper with some effort, reaching for the other man’s small, cold arm. ‘Billy needs you, Frank. Keep trying. Go home.’
‘Yeah.’
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And so it ought to end, with Frank walking away from the edge, but it doesn’t.
‘Come away!’ It’s the bloody Guardian again, shouting out, doing his best to run. ‘You’re putting yourself in danger. Back off!’
‘He means you,’ says Frank, and he’s right.
‘I told you, I can’t let you do this. Get away from that man.’ Frank looks across like a child who has just got his best mate
into trouble in the playground. ‘Listen, cheers, yeah?’ ‘Yeah.’
‘You need to leave,’ says the Chief, breathless.
‘I told you. I live here.’
‘Please, for your own sake, just back off. Leave it to us.’ He’s annoyed now. The Chief’s dark glasses have slipped down his nose. ‘This is stressful enough. I told you that. We know what we’re doing. Let us do it.’
‘Whatever you say, sir,’ says the Keeper, letting the last word trail with irony. He wants to get away anyway, get inside his tower and lock the door. Be alone. ‘Take care, Frank. Go home, yeah? Go home.’
‘I will, yeah. Cheers.’
The Keeper turns and jogs away, then runs up the hill, but at the door of the lighthouse a great sadness comes over him. He turns back to see Frank and notices a second Guardian arriving down below. A woman. That’s good, she will understand. Okay, maybe all will be well. Frank will go home. Maybe for once there will be a happy ending.
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Sixteen
‘Fudge?’
Frank looks into the white paper bag. ‘Ta.’
‘Shall we sit?’ They both do, riding side-saddle to the slope of the land. The edge is still close. Frank watches the runner at the top of the hill, near the lighthouse.
‘I’m going,’ he says. ‘Better be off.’
‘Of course,’ says the Guardian, a woman whose name Frank didn’t catch. ‘My colleague will go on foot. I have the car, I can take you. Sit, first. Rest. How did you get here?’
‘Taxi.’ Frank rubs a hand on his shorts and sits down carefully, cross-legged.
‘Who knows you are here?’
Nobody, says his eyes, searching the horizon. It’s warm enough, the wind has dropped. The fudge is good.
‘More?’
‘Yeah. Why not?’ The dry, dusty, nervous laugh doesn’t feel like his. He’s so tired. ‘Mind if I lie down a bit? While we’re ’ere . . .’
‘Be comfortable.’
So Frank lies on his back again, hands out and palms down this time, like Billy doing a snow angel. Scraps of rain-dark cloud move fast above him, threatening change.
‘You can talk, I am listening.’
So he starts to talk about Billy, the clever little sod, and Sophie, and all that, but his heart ain’t in it. He’s had enough today. ‘My mind wanders.’ The wind picks up and blows sweet nothings in his ear. This place is noisy, for somewhere quiet. The kerfuffle, a couple of birds, the flap of a corner of the fluorescent yellow coat his listener has spread for them to sit upon. The waxy white paper of the empty fudge bag crackles as it is rolled up.
‘Are you afraid? That’s okay. It is a scary world.’
‘Yeah. You got a fag? No, course not. I forget things . . .’
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This little world they share is interrupted by the rip of a sports car, going far too fast. Silver convertible, bottom waggling over the bumps on the long road. What are they called, those? He can’t remember.
‘My name is Frank. I know that. I am not fat.’ He can’t be both-ered to explain. The words swell in his mouth, crowding out his tongue. ‘I . . . they tell me . . .’
Another long silence.
‘You forget things?’
‘Bit by bit. Getting worse, I know what’s coming. I’ve seen ’em, sitting there dribbling. In the home. Don’t even know their kids’ names. Don’t even recognize ’em. My old man was like it . . . you know?’
The clouds are bunching up. Plotting in the sky over to the east, above Beachy Head. He should have gone straight there, instead of walking, but it was so beautiful. Such a lovely place. Find a quiet place, he thought. Get it over with.
‘You are a strong man,’ says the Guardian. Frank won’t return the gaze at first, then he has no choice. ‘Protecting Billy, and Sophie. Yes. I see. You are strong, Frank, you were stronger before. Young, fit. A handsome man.’
His mousy face pinches in pleasure. Yeah. He was a player. ‘You are clever, quick. Billy loves you, he looks up to you. Sophie
is your daughter, you are her father. Daughters admire strong fathers. You have been a good father and grandfather. Billy will remember you, playing football in the park?’
Frank’s eyes glisten.
‘Yes,’ says the Guardian, slowly. ‘Football. Good times. Not this other person you will become. Sometimes it is the brave thing.’
‘You telling me to do this?’
‘No. I can’t do that. God sent me because He wants the best for you. God is good. God does not want us to suffer. My mother suffered, Frank. I prayed a
nd prayed and one day her suffering stopped. I will pray for you. I can take you home if you like, Frank. They will be worried. Scared. Angry, maybe.’
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‘You’re not bloody joking,’ says Frank, face flushing suddenly at the thought. ‘Sophie will do one. Lock me in or something. Make my life a misery. She’ll say it has started. They’re gonna put me away like him. I can’t take it! I’m not some child. Sitting there, gone. Screw that!’
