The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  She turned away from the sea, pleased with herself, done with her display of independence for the day. And there, just as she’d hoped, was Leon’s four-wheel drive coming down the beach, not fifty metres away. A white Toyota. She could see his frown behind the steering wheel—his eyebrows one angry line. He pulled up and leaped out.

  ‘Are you sure you should be walking in this weather?’ he asked, his voice shredded by a gust of billowing air.

  ‘I wanted to feel the wind,’ she called back defiantly.

  ‘No need to come this far to feel it.’ He jammed his hands in his pockets.

  ‘And isn’t it a fine day,’ she hollered, choking down an impulse to cough. ‘A fine Cloudy Bay day.’

  His eyebrows rose, as if questioning her sanity. Perhaps it was lunacy to suggest it was a fine day. But this was Bruny Island, and all was just as it should be. He ought to know that.

  ‘Do you live nearby?’ she asked, leaning on her stick, trying to divert him with friendly conversation.

  ‘No,’ he said. He kicked at the desiccated carcase of a mutton bird, partly hidden among withered clumps of seaweed, half covered by sand. She heard the fragile skull crack beneath his heavy boot.

  ‘So, you come over each day on the ferry from Kettering?’

  ‘Of course not. I live over at Adventure Bay.’

  He was being difficult. Adventure Bay was on the east side of South Bruny, perhaps thirty minutes drive away. A string of famous explorers had landed there: Cook, Bligh, Furneaux, D’Entrecasteaux, Baudin, Flinders. It had been a place of shelter— a suitable location for taking on water and wood, and for neutral meetings with the natives. The indigenous people of Bruny Island had amicably accepted the intruders—the explorers who came and then left; the whalers who stayed until all the southern right whales were gone; and then the settlers, who did not leave. But settlement was disastrous for the Aborigines. Some of their women were abused by whalers and sealers, and disease took most of the others, leaving a small group who were removed to Flinders Island. Adventure Bay was quiet these days, in spite of its sad history.

  ‘Ah. Adventure Bay. A peaceful little place,’ she said. ‘Are you a peaceful soul, Leon?’ His glare told her she’d overstepped the mark. He was standing astride, hands still firmly in his pockets. ‘How was the campground?’ She tried another tack. ‘Anyone camping?’

  ‘No-one,’ he said. ‘People don’t like being out when it’s windy like this.’ He emphasised people to indicate her diversion from the ordinary.

  ‘I like it,’ she said, accepting the face-off.

  He frowned again. ‘But if you don’t look after that cough . . .’

  She couldn’t be sure, but it almost sounded like a threat. And now the cough was bubbling up again, betraying her. She jerked her cane out of the sand and planted it, ready for her next step. ‘I’d best be heading back,’ she said. ‘Do enjoy the wind.’

  She’d struggled several paces across the sand when the hacking began. It’d be hard work getting back to the cabin, but she was too proud to ask for help. She turned away, trying to swallow the cough, almost gagging.

  ‘Just wait, Mrs Mason,’ Leon called, his voice condescending and impatient, as if he were speaking to a child. ‘I’m not usually a taxi service, but I’ll give you a lift today. You need it.’

  She moved to wave him away, but he gave her no space to protest, grasping her elbow strongly and heaving her into the car. A stiff silence settled between them as he drove back to the cabin, bouncing mercilessly over the dunes. He was clearly impatient with her antics and wanted to be done with her for the day.

  At the cabin, he swung open the passenger door and shepherded her out. Then he helped her into the cabin and sat her on the couch. ‘Remember, I have a job to do. My brief is only to check on you.’

  She felt humbled and reprimanded. He slammed the front door to punctuate his resentment, then threw himself back into the four-wheel drive and roared away.

  8

  Leon gripped the steering wheel hard as he hammered along the sand. He couldn’t believe he’d been lumped with this chore. Who was this crazy old dame he had to check on every day?

  ‘Mrs Mary Mason.’ He said it aloud in a whining derogatory tone. She was not part of his job description; that’s what he’d said to his boss when the idea had first been raised. But his boss had waved Leon’s protests away, saying it’d be a simple task and worth every cent of the extra money. Yeah, right. He’d imagined it’d be a quick drop-in, a wave through the door and a distant cheerio. But he could tell already this old woman expected more from him than that. She wanted company. She wanted attention. Her very greeting today spelled needy, in capital letters. He had enough stuff going down at home without having to take this on too.

  He slung the car up the ramp from the beach and made a circle around the empty carpark at Whalebone Point. Should he bother with the toilets today? Or could he just leave them till tomorrow, given that he’d have to pass this place every day from now on, for who knew how many weeks? What a waste of time. And where had this old duck come from, anyway? His boss said she’d paid plenty to enlist some support. It was just to put her family at ease, apparently. Nothing too demanding. Leon snorted. What a pain in the arse. And she expected him to be polite and have cups of tea. To have conversations. That wasn’t part of the deal as he’d understood it.

  He slammed out of the car and marched into the restrooms. Some idiot had pulled on one of the toilet rolls and there was a trail of paper all over the floor. Once he’d cleaned it up, there wasn’t much else to do. He ought to head back and confront the home scene. Not much to look forward to there either.

  He’d been in this job a while now: three, maybe four years. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected—stocking toilet rolls, clearing rubbish and counting money out of National Park permit envelopes . . . if the tight-arse buggers decided to pay. Most visitors slunk by the pay stations, pretending they hadn’t seen them. Nobody would know, of course, because there were no manned booths; it was an honesty system.

  When he’d done the ranger training in Hobart, he’d imagined himself in one of the big parks—Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair, or doing track maintenance in the Eastern or Western Arthurs. That would have been his prize posting—being paid to go bush, and maybe even manning one of the huts on the overnight walks. But once things had deteriorated at home, he hadn’t had a choice. With his sister gone up to Devonport years ago, he’d been the only one who could step in, like a United Nations peacekeeping force.

  He hadn’t been particularly keen to get back to Adventure Bay. It was too damned quiet. Tourists might think it was pretty; the beaches were nice and there was a spectacular boat tour you could take out along the south-east coast of Bruny. But the place was a backwater, just the musty old museum and a few monuments and a coffee shop. If he hadn’t left Bruny for a spell to complete his course in Hobart, he’d have gone mad . . . although perhaps that was an exaggeration. He did love Bruny. And the coastline was in his blood.

  But what was he going to do about this Mrs Mason? He cursed himself for agreeing to a cup of tea tomorrow. And what was he supposed to do, sit there and have a nice chat with her? What would he say, anyway? How was it back in the time of the ark? When are you booked in for your next blue rinse? But that was a bit harsh. He didn’t really know anything about her.

  He swung the car up the mountain road and fanged around the curves. This was the benefit of knowing the roads so well; he could drive this route almost in his sleep. Not that he’d boast about that to his mother. Christ! Still living at home at his age. What an embarrassment. If only there was a resolution in sight—then he could apply for a job somewhere else. He’d tried to hint to his mother that she should seriously consider moving out, but he already knew she wouldn’t do it. The old man was a bastard. God knows why she stayed.

  Up on the mountain, he pulled over for some fresh air, stomping up the Mount Mangana trail. The track was always wet underfoot and
he found the smell of the damp bush soothing. It reminded him of compost, of the forest recycling itself. He liked that about nature, the cycle of things. It was a pity none of the big old trees were left. He’d have to get back over to mainland Tasmania for forests like that—where the trees had diameters larger than the distance around his four-wheel drive. Well, not his four-wheel drive. The Parks vehicle.

  He often came here when things weren’t good at home. It was only about a twenty-minute drive from Adventure Bay. Few people came through on weekdays, especially at this time of year, and he could yell satisfyingly at the trees and the sky without worrying about disturbing anyone. Yelling was good for releasing tension, he’d discovered. And it was best done alone.

  He figured he’d be doing a bit of yelling about Mary Mason up here over the next few weeks. Then he snorted. Truly, the old dame didn’t look too good. And that cough of hers was a shocker. It made him think of a death rattle. Maybe she wouldn’t be around too long anyway. The thought made him feel guilty; he shouldn’t wish her dead. And besides, guess who’d be the lucky sucker to find her if she did cark it? Living on Bruny, he’d sometimes imagined he might come across a body washed ashore—the coast was so remote around here. But this was different. Every time he went into that cabin at Cloudy Bay he’d be wondering if Mrs Mason was dead.

  Well, the first hurdle was this cup of tea tomorrow. He’d hoped wearing his uniform today might discourage her, remind her of his numerous other responsibilities. But then again, he was being paid to check on her. And there was no such thing as a free lunch.

  He climbed back into the car and drove down off the mountain to see what mess might be waiting for him at home.

  9

  Morning had always been Mary’s favourite time of day. It was when she was freshest and most positive, and somehow everything seemed cleanest. In this corner of the world, it was also generally the part of the day before the wind came up and the rain closed in. This morning was surprisingly clear. The sea was calm—barely a ripple—and the odd wavelet collapsed noisily in the stillness. Across the bay, the features of the cliffs were emerging—brown and grey and deeply lined with shadows—and the sea reflected silver.

  She was standing by the window watching fairy wrens bopping and twittering on the lawn. And she was thinking of her favourite son, Tom.

  On peaceful days like this, he used to say the ocean was resting. That it was waiting for the weather to change, preparing to receive a battering when the wind returned. It couldn’t always be quiet, he said, or the cape would become complacent and forget what it was there for; to be torn by wind and weather. He was right, of course. Periods of calm had a purpose. They were times for storing energy. And energy was essential to fuel a soul to deal with life’s challenges.

  Sometimes Tom seemed wise, but he did worry her. All that awkwardness and that sad inability to move on with life. Forty-two and on his own. She hadn’t envisaged it that way. She hoped there was someone out there for him, some nice girl who’d understand and nurture him. She’d been relieved when he married Debbie, despite the girl’s imperfections. At least he’d been happy, his face beaming with a quiet steady warmth. For a while he’d lost the faraway look that had followed him from childhood: the legacy of the cape. But then, after Antarctica, the distant look had returned and it had never quite left him. Jess filled a few gaps, but a dog, however attentive, could never fill the void created by lack of human company. Tom needed another wife, and soon. While the chance of children was still within reach. He’d be good with children. She shuffled to the couch and eased herself down, tugging the blanket around her stiff legs.

  Weather like this made her think of the cape. This time of the year, it was often overcast—all those grey days; heavy southern skies thick with low cloud weeping moisture. Then there had been miraculous days when the sky was polished clean and the clouds were like puffs of vapour on a mirror. The lighthouse reflected so much white it hurt your eyes, and the sea was a vast smooth sheet, achingly blue, with occasional whitecaps nipping its surface.

  If you climbed the hill to gaze south to where the sky fell into the deep arch of the horizon, sometimes you’d see the southern sea stacks glimmering—Pedra Branca and Eddystone Rock, the last pillars of land before the sea stretched beyond imagination to the distant land of ice. On days like that, you could feel pleasure so acute it erased pain and transcended troubles. You could stand for suspended lengths of time when you were supposed to be hanging out washing, gazing instead around the yellow arc of Lighthouse Bay, or watching sea eagles lifting high over the cape on the breeze.

  A cough rattled somewhere deep in her chest. She should take her medication. There was fluid in her lungs and the doctor would say she must increase her dose of diuretics. She twisted to peer at the clock. Nearly ten. The ranger might come soon. What was his name? She ought to remember. It was important.

  Leon—yes, she was sure that was it. It was annoying the way names slipped from her these days. She had little patience for these memory blanks; they caused her to stumble mid-thought.

  She limped to the bench and set out two cups, popped tea bags in them and tipped Arrowroot biscuits onto a plate. Everything must be ready when he came. Her offering looked pitiful, but it was the best she could do. She swallowed her tablets and sat down to wait. Finally she heard the car, then footsteps on the deck, and Leon’s knock shook the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she called.

  She stood up as the door opened, almost losing her balance, and grasped the edge of the couch. He frowned from the doorway as a coughing fit struck her, doubling her over. She’d meant to greet him enthusiastically, but now she was breathless. He moved forward and helped her back onto the lounge. From the skew of his mouth, she could see he was irritated.

  ‘What are you doing, Mrs Mason? Next time, don’t stand.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to run away again.’

  He glanced at her with shuttered eyes, barely concealing his impatience. ‘I have a job to do.’

  ‘You resent looking in on me?’

  He maintained a sullen silence.

  ‘I have a cup of tea ready for you,’ she said, struggling up once more. ‘Yesterday you said you’d stay. The water’s just boiled.’

  He sank onto the couch with a resigned sigh, pushing the rug aside.

  ‘Do you like your job, Leon?’ she asked as she lit the stove.

  He ran his hands through his hair, head bowed. ‘What I like about it is not talking to people.’

  This was not good. ‘Well, I need some things today,’ she said, cajoling. ‘And it’s hard for me to ask without talking, isn’t it?’ There was nothing she needed, but it was an excuse to keep him here. ‘How’s life at Adventure Bay?’

  He grunted. ‘Same as usual.’

  ‘Anything changed?’

  ‘Not much. New café owner, selling the same crap coffee.’

  ‘You like coffee? I only have tea.’

  ‘I like working,’ he said. ‘Not sitting around.’ He scuffed his feet, stared at the floor and then out the window. Looked everywhere, except at her.

  ‘Why do you live in Adventure Bay if you hate it?’

  ‘I didn’t say I hated it.’

  ‘Well, it’s not very common, is it? Young men like yourself living on the island?’

  ‘I live with my folks.’

  She raised both eyebrows at him. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘A quarter your age.’ He was being insolent now, payback for having to talk to her, she could see.

  ‘Nowhere else to go?’ She should have bitten her tongue. Young people could be self-focused and oversensitive. He might stand up and walk out.

  At first, he didn’t respond. When he eventually spoke, he seemed quiet and subdued. ‘You wouldn’t understand. Sometimes it can be hard to leave. And I don’t want to live across the channel anyway. I’ve been here most of my life.’

  ‘But there aren’t many opportunities here, are there?’

 
He glared at her. ‘No. This is it. I check toilets. I check on old women. I get paid.’

  She ignored the jab. ‘Perhaps you could get a Parks job elsewhere.’

  ‘You’re not hearing me. I want to stay on Bruny.’

  His face clouded with something she couldn’t interpret. He was afraid of leaving the island, she was sure of it. But why, she was unable to fathom. Most young people were keen to leave home—unless it suited them to stay. She’d heard that children these days were like boomerangs, coming home to sponge whenever life became difficult. Parents were constantly bailing them out, providing financial assistance. It hadn’t been like that when her children were young. She poured hot water into the cups and jiggled the bags. ‘Do you have milk, Leon? Sugar?’

  ‘Just black.’

  Appropriate, she thought. His gingery eyebrows were still furrowed with dark thoughts. He seemed burdened with life. Trying not to spill the tea, she placed his cup and the plate of biscuits on the coffee table and then went to fetch her own cup. Leon didn’t move to assist her. She sat down in the armchair and tried to resume conversation.

  ‘Did you have a nice walk up on the Head the other day?’

  He grunted and stuffed a biscuit into his mouth. ‘I didn’t go up there, remember? I had to scrape you off the beach.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go there more often. It’s a salve for the soul. When it’s windy, you feel like you could fly.’

  His eyes flicked away.

  ‘I suppose it’s still the same up there,’ she continued, trying to draw him out. ‘Those columns of black rock have been there longer than any of us. And they’ll still be there when we’re all gone. I find that reassuring, don’t you?’

  He looked bored, but there was the slightest tinge of curiosity in his voice as he said, ‘When did you first come here?’

  ‘More than fifty years ago. With my husband, Jack, and his family.’

  She thought of Jack’s long legs, pressing through the scrub, the square set of his shoulders, his profile gazing out to sea. He’d been an unfolding mystery to her then, as she learned his body and his mind. After they left the farm, he’d become a question she’d never quite found the answer to. Yet she’d made the best of it, as people of her era had been brought up to do.