The Light Keeper (ARC)

by Cole Moreton

  ‘Hello, Granny,’ she said softly, not expecting an answer. Granny had not spoken since her fall, months before. She bent and kissed her grandmother on the forehead. ‘Rest, eh?’

  Granny breathed. A little sigh, every time. One more hill to climb, then down the other side. Rolling home. There was a hymn-book on her bedside table. The words stamped on the black leather cover had lost their gilt. Sarah opened the book, releasing the scent of childhood Sunday mornings. ‘Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me,’ Sarah sang softly in that hospital room, surprising herself. Almost not singing, then singing a little louder, then singing to her grand-mother. ‘I once was lost but now am found. Was blind, but now I see . . .’ She sang with gathering strength, songs she had not sung for years. Sarah slipped her fingers between the cool, bony fingers of her grandmother and imagined that she began to sing

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  too. She imagined a groan becoming a wheezy, wordless har-mony, and she found to her astonishment that this was not just imagination. She felt those fingers squeeze her own and heard a sound.

  ‘O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder . . .’

  Softly, Granny was singing with her. When Sarah faltered, Granny caught the melody. Sarah sang now with purpose and vigour, as if she could drag her grandmother up and out of the bed with the power of the song. But her throat tightened and she stopped. There was quiet. Birdsong. The radiator gurgling. A buzz of applause from a television in a distant room.

  Then Granny, so quietly, began a song on her own. ‘O Love, that wilt not let me go . . .’ First line. Page three hundred and fifty-two. Sarah joined her, tentatively. ‘I trace the rainbow through the rain.’

  They sang together for ten minutes, an hour, she didn’t know. Granny sat up a little, she smiled a lot, and when they ran out of tunes she fell back on the pillows again and hummed notes that tripped and slurred and sounded like hymns even though they were only the faintest of breezes passing through the Aeolian harp of her chest. She got fainter and fainter, until she seemed to have sung herself to sleep.

  ‘Thank you, love.’

  She had spoken, for the first time in months. Sarah couldn’t believe it, but Granny smiled as though it was perfectly natural. There were even more remarkable things to come.

  ‘I could drink a little soup.’

  Granny got stronger in the following hours and days and weeks. She swung her legs out of bed and was wheeled into the garden and walked a few steps herself, out in the sun. The nurses said she laughed a lot but was difficult. ‘Do come forward,’ she told them, as though back in the Scottish Presbyterian revival meetings of her youth, throwing her arms wide. ‘There’s plenty of room at the front here!’ She didn’t know where she was sometimes; but she was happy.

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  In lucid moments, she gave orders about her forthcoming ninetieth birthday to Sarah’s father. This was important, there were things she had wanted to say but not been able. ‘I want you to sing, dear. In the park. Sing with the birds. Have a drink, too. To your health, not mine. That would be a little pointless, wouldn’t it? Ha! I’ll probably be stuck in here; don’t look at me like that, I’m not an old fool.’ She reached out and held her son then. It was that way round, for the first time in years. ‘You must have champagne. There is so much to celebrate, it has been such a lovely life.’

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  Twenty Three

  They were to gather at the Lido Café beside the Serpentine for Granny’s birthday breakfast, with Bucks Fizz but no Granny. They would ring her and sing down the phone. The morning was fresh, with the hope of serious heat later. Sarah got there early, to walk for a while by the water, which was still. Three swans: a mother and her daughters, one of them white and one of them brown.

  ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, is this the way to the palace?’

  Ma’am?’ Sarah Jones looked at Jack for the first time then, in the park, with the swans on the lake and footballs flying through the air and airliners overhead and the breeze blowing up and the shouts of children and a woman in bright blue lycra cycling past, and she saw a weird, spindly creature, wearing too much black. Skinny jeans. Bird’s nest hair. Ugh.

  ‘Hello?’

  He was swaying. Standing there with his mouth open. Spaced out. Sarah turned back quickly and walked off. That brought him to life, like a jolt of electricity: ‘Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, Ma’am, please forgive this intrusion, I only ask for a moment of your time; you see I am a little lost, lacking in direction, I need someone to help me get my bearings. Show me the way, so to speak. Would you be so kind? Ma’am?’

  He was following her, two steps behind, leaning in, bending round to look into her face. A torrent of words suddenly, hands hacking the air, his eyes wild, his fingers clicking a rhythm to match the rat-a-tat rattle of his language.

  ‘I am looking for the palace, that is the truth, the palace, yes, but I see I have found a princess . . . would that be an imposition to say?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, stopping and looking at him. ‘Yes, it would. And very, very cheesy.’

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  ‘Then forgive me again. Yes. Forgive me. I am a poor boy washed up upon your shores, a stranger in a land far from my own.’

  ‘You’re American.’

  ‘This I am. Ma’am. At your service.’

  She smiled, but shook her head. ‘Which palace?’

  ‘Your city is charming. You yourself are charming—’

  ‘You said. We have many.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  Already, there was something that both of them knew, but it kept slipping away from him as his eyes lost focus, before they snapped back on her again. He stopped walking, and she stopped to match him without thinking about it, and they stood there on the path by a litter bin and a patch of grass, at a crossroads.

  ‘Could you tell me, would you mind . . .’

  ‘Probably.’ Her arms were crossed, her head tilted to one side, a turquoise teardrop set in silver hung from the ear he stared at as if he wanted to kiss her just there.

  ‘Can you tell me, what . . . I mean . . . what are we talking about?’

  ‘Palaces,’ she said.

  ‘Ah. I knew that.’

  ‘Then why ask?’

  ‘About palaces. There are many. Locating them, you see, this is the issue. My issue. I am meeting friends later. At the palace.’

  ‘You need to tell me which one.’

  ‘Soccer. Not soccer,’ he said as if to himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am not a fan of that sport, although of course I do see why others are, please don’t be offended if you are one of them, but I am not in a particular hurry to see Crystal Palace. The main attraction there burned down a long time ago, I believe. I don’t have a passion for the Duchess of Cambridge either, unlike some of my fellow countrymen, so Kensington Palace does not particu-larly interest me. I’m looking for an upgrade on that.’

  ‘You know your palaces.’

  He laughed. ‘So it would seem.’

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  ‘You were having me on.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Pulling my leg.’

  ‘Yes. In a way. So, Bucking-ham Palace. But which way?’

  ‘That way,’ she said quickly, pointing to the right-hand path, the one that would lead to Hyde Park Corner, Constitution Hill and ultimately the palace. ‘It’s quite far.’

  ‘I’m obliged,’ he said.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’m delighted.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’m enthralled,’ he said.

  ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Utterly. Entranced. Beguiled. Enchanted.’ ‘Right.’

  ‘Bowled over. Knocked for six. Gobsmacked. Is that right?’ ‘I don’t know. What are you saying?’

  ‘You’re . . . let me get this right . . . a bit dishy.’

  Sarah laughed and turned away, stepping onto the forbidden gr
ass.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Jack. ‘Is that wrong?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, yes. Where did you get it from?’

  ‘A gentleman I met in the pub. A senior. What I mean to say, Ma’am, and I hope you will forgive again the intrusion here, is that I am transfixed at your beauty, mesmerized by your grace, seduced by your presence, even though we have just met I feel—’

  ‘Does this usually work?’

  He looked hurt. ‘What?’

  ‘This . . . crap.’

  ‘Nicely put.’

  ‘Thank you. Does it?’

  ‘No,’ said Jack quietly, sounding confused. ‘No, I mean I don’t know. I don’t usually . . . look, forget it, okay? Forget it. I’m outta here. Mistake. My mistake.’

  ‘Don’t be angry,’ she said, as he strode away, and she found her-self calling after him. ‘What’s your name?’ He kept walking, but

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  she put a hand on his shoulder and the boy stopped suddenly as if arrested. Or electrified. ‘My name is Sarah.’

  They kissed for the first time a few hours later, in the half-light under the branches of a tree near the Italian Gardens. He had walked beside her and talked too much at her and tried to make her laugh, then he had made her laugh – at his accent, just like in the movies – and then he had waited while she went into the café to see her family. Two hours he had waited on that bench. More. He thought she would never come, but he could think of nothing better to do than to wait for her, just in case. She was startled to see him still there, this startling boy with the motor-mouth and the daring eyes, but she also saw that he was calmer now. If he had been on something earlier, the effects of it had gone. And then they were alone again and walking, for such a long time, who knew where, to the palace first, because he was a tourist after all – and she wanted to be sure that he actually was calm, not dangerous but as cute as he seemed and that the glimmer of something was real – then they went back through the darkened park, around in circles and she was stopping and kissing him, to both their astonishment.

  ‘Sarah!’

  Jack said her name like a man seeing a marvel for the first time. For a second they were in symmetry: each touching the other’s face with their right hands, then the left hands joined. Their bod-ies moved closer. They kissed again. Sarah closed her eyes and the spirit moved across the face of the waters. Let there be light. From then on, as if it had always been meant, Jack and Sarah were together.

  ‘I thought you looked a bit of an idiot,’ she said as they walked hand in hand on the way to the station that night.

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’

  ‘No. Well. I thought you must have something to hide. Nobody wears that much black except a priest. Do you? Tell me.’

  ‘Do I what?’

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  ‘Have something to hide.’

  He stopped and bent low like an Elizabethan courtier, sweeping away all objections with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing. Not from you.’

  And at that moment – for that moment – it was true.

  ‘What do you dream of doing?’ His voice was close, quiet; she felt his breath on the back of her neck. Sarah was lying on her side on the dog Tutu’s old tartan rug, a month after they met. They were under another tree: this time a solitary, wind-bent cedar on Haven Brow, the first of the Seven Sisters. Seven hills in a row by the sea but cut in half all the way, making for a rollercoaster ride of a walk across the tops, with a sheer drop always to one side. From the beach at the Gap they had looked ahead and seen them there like seven women shoulder to shoulder, shawled in green with veils of white, looking out for a lost ship. Jack lay behind Sarah on the grass at the summit with his groin close to her back-side and she was trying to ignore what she could feel going on back there.

  ‘Who says I dream of anything?’

  ‘Come on. We all do. What is that thing of which you dream?’ he declaimed like a ham Shakespearean. ‘What manner of dream is this?’

  ‘What are you on?’ She felt a tingle of warmth on her neck again and regretted the question quickly. He was clean now, as far as she knew. Not using anything. Promises had been made. Jack shifted his weight up onto his elbow, and she wondered if he was offended. It was so hard to tell. What did he expect of her? Relax, she told herself; but he never seemed to do that and the knot in her stomach would not loosen when he was around. ‘What about you? What do you dream of?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said, and he eased back down, his arm still under her head. ‘Peace, justice, freedom and equality! Don’t think I’m shallow or anything – although of course you know by now that I am – but I do believe there are things wrong – really wrong – and I want to change them.’

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  When he spoke like this, there seemed to be a much bigger audience in his head. She already knew better than to say so.

  ‘So this dream I have, it’s like Live Aid, you know? There’s this vast crowd and they’re all singing along to my song. Hands in the air, living it, loving it. It’s about love and hope and pride and dig-nity, and anything seems possible because we all have those things in us. We’re all human, we all have such enormous potential.’ She let him talk. ‘You think it’s corny, don’t you? Cheesy, you’d say. My dad says music can change the world, because it can change people.’

  Jack had not mentioned his father before. She was intrigued. ‘Is he a musician?’

  ‘They changed the world that day.’

  ‘Live Aid? Seriously? What band? Why have you not told me about him before?’

  ‘Things are different when I tell people.’ ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘They were there, in Philadelphia. Low on the bill. They really believed all this stuff and lived it too: no big deals, they shared their money, shared a house, singing about things that mattered. Then Live Aid happened. He rocked. I mean, really rocked. All those people in the stadium. Like in my dream. Only I don’t screw it up like he did. I use that energy to make things better. He let it get to his heart, thought they were loving him. Not themselves. He went solo after that. Got blasted. The usual. Can we change the subject?’

  The clouds shifted. She felt herself closing up. He would tell her more, in time. She was afraid of something, but what? It would not come to the surface. Jack leaned forward and nuzzled her face, lifting her chin with his cheek, and he kissed her. Then he said: ‘“It is easier to love and be loved by lots of people badly than by one person properly.” That’s what he says. I hope to do better.’

  The wind picked up and the air was gritty. Something got in her eye and she said, without thinking: ‘Do you want children?’

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  ‘Now? Oh yeah. Definitely. Let’s get started.’ But he saw that she was serious. ‘I don’t think about it. I suppose I just assume I will, yeah. You?’

  ‘I always thought so. I have this feeling though . . .’ ‘What?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said, rubbing her eye as the wind faded. She wanted to go home. ‘Another time.’

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  Twenty Four

  The sun was shining and Jack was smiling, but he wouldn’t say why. They walked across the wobbly bridge under a wide blue sky and all the way along the South Bank from the Tate Modern to Gabriel’s Wharf and beyond, chatting about this and that and nothing and everything, laughing and teasing each other as they had done for many months now; and becoming aware, as they walked, of the warmth on their skin, the slow rhythm of the water beside them and the promise there was in everything. Jack was smiling because he knew that he had done the right thing. They paused for a while to look at the books under the bridge by the National Film Theatre, trying to pick out the most inappro-priate purchase they could find for each other. She chose a book called The Art of Silence for a man who would never stop tapping his fingers, which irritated her, but she tossed it aside because she was in love and it did not matter – the relentless tapping, never stopping – because he did not realize he w
as doing it, until she told him to please just give it a rest for a moment and let her think while she was marking school books or watching The West Wing. It was easier to understand the accents now she and Jack lived together and she heard an American talking all the time. He said the same thing in reverse about Doctor Who: ‘Why do all the aliens in the universe sound like they come from London or Cardiff?’