The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  It had been easy to lose herself in daily activities. She’d used them as a prop to carry her through. Built routine around her like a fortress. The tasks became the purpose, and everything else became obscured beneath the rigid pattern of life: a structured string of days adding up to a year, and then more years when the passing of seasons and the growth of the children marked the passage of time. Somehow, she and Jack had disengaged until they arrived at a grim place that was neither love nor hatred. They existed in an empty place which, over the years, she came to know as indifference. Left alone there, she was forced to depend on secrets and fantasy to feed her soul—a dangerous place for a woman to go.

  Though she didn’t like to remember those times (and she still wasn’t ready to think about them now), she had always blamed the storm, her accident, and all that followed for the near-demise of her relationship with Jack. And, because of that, within the deepest recesses of her being, she had long blamed the lighthouse itself. It had been their making, their breaking, and their making again. The life–death–life cycle of everything. But it had been the fault of neither, really. She and Jack had been already crumbling. The other factors were simply catalysts. They had made choices which led them to a place where there were, perhaps, no choices. They’d created a situation where the actions that came after became the only possibility. And the events that unfolded were consequence, not causality.

  The awful truth was that the aftermath to those events became the path which would eventually lead to that letter hidden in her suitcase in the cabin at Cloudy Bay.

  10

  It’s the day of my visit to check on Mum. As I eat breakfast, Jess skulks around my feet under the table. Occasionally, she peeks out at me with tragic eyes which switch to hopeful when she sees the toast in my hand. She’s disappointed I haven’t taken her for a walk. Usually, we head out early to the beach and watch the sunrise creeping across the water. At this time of year, the mornings are often stunning and the sea is like liquid glass. When it’s clear, smoke haze hangs over the mountains from the forestry burns and the sun is a blazing ball of orange. But this morning a walk is not an option, despite Jess’s pleading eyes. She’ll have plenty of time to run at Cloudy Bay, even though she doesn’t know it yet.

  As the car slips down the driveway, I notice a removal van outside one of the houses across the road. I see the dark shape of a man at the window of the house. I wonder who’s moving in and what they’ll be like, whether they will expect anything neighbourly of me. I’m not good at change and it’s enough to start a churring in my stomach.

  It’s not far from Coningham to Kettering and I’m still brooding on the prospect of new neighbours when we arrive at the wharf. We don’t have to wait long before boarding, and there’s hardly anyone heading out to the island at this time of day, so loading is quick. When we push out from the terminal, I’m the only one standing at the bow.

  As the ferry hums across the channel, I meditate on emptiness. The morning is quiet and sleepy, and a few cormorants beat across the water, flying low. I stand in the cold wind watching North Bruny inch closer, immersing myself in the grinding throb of the engines, feeling the rhythm of the lapping waves, doing anything to avoid thinking about Mum. But the restless workings of my mind won’t be suppressed. I missed the opportunity to say goodbye when Dad died and I’ve been determined to be here when Mum’s turn comes. Now the time is approaching, I can’t think of anything to say.

  Since Dad’s death I’ve visited Mum every week. Usually I stop in after work for dinner and mostly we have something simple: sausages and mash, or chops and vegies. Sometimes I buy a nice steak for her. She can’t afford much on her pension, so I often tuck something extra in her fridge: a small roast for the weekend, some chocolates, maybe a few rashers of bacon.

  We sit and watch the news together and we don’t talk much. There’s simple comfort to be had in quiet company; she likes to know I’m okay, and I’m reassured each time to see her relatively well. At her age there are always health complications, but the medication has kept her stable for a while. Jacinta has me worried, though. If she’s concerned about Mum then maybe her heart condition is worsening. Perhaps Jan is right and I should be bringing oxygen bottles with me. You can hire them from hospitals, I think. After I see Mum, I might look into that . . . or would she see it as unwanted intervention?

  I wish Jan could work out a smoother way to interact with Mum. I know it bothers Mum that they can’t get on. And it’s a shame she and Gary don’t visit more often. Since Mum’s mobility has declined she doesn’t get out much. It must be an empty life, sitting in that musty old house, listening to the radio or watching TV. Sometimes I leave Jess with her for the day. They’re quite good friends and I know it can be uplifting for Mum just to have Jess around.

  I try to think of sensitive ways to discuss Mum’s heart disease. She’s a shrewd old lady and she’ll have her defence strategies worked out. I guess all I can do is express my concern and the rest is up to her. It’s a pity, though; she might benefit from a proper medical assessment. And a doctor could have some suggestions to make her more comfortable.

  I don’t blame her for wanting to get away. With Jan lurking around talking nursing homes, I’d orchestrate an escape too. And her choice of Bruny Island shouldn’t be a surprise to any of us. We all know how she loves the place. But it’s typical of Jan to rant about it. She refuses to go there on principle, saying the island stole her youth. God knows why she has to be so dramatic. I’m not surprised her husband left her. And how did she produce someone as incredibly likeable as Jacinta? It’s a mystery.

  Off the ferry, I head east and then south over the island, driving through memories of my childhood. I’ll be visiting Mum at Cloudy Bay today, but it’s at Cape Bruny that I remember her best. Working at the kitchen sink with the smell of baking bread thick in the air. Gazing through the smeary window towards the light tower on the hill. Scattering pencils across the table for lessons. Serving dinner in the steamy kitchen. Digging in the vegetable garden.

  She was always so affectionate with me when I was small. Always so generous with her hugs and reassurances. Perhaps she knew I needed it—I’ve never been a particularly confident person. I suppose she was my first friend; after all, there were no other kids around. That wasn’t a bad thing; I learned to be self-reliant and independent. But I guess I was closer to her than most children are to their parents.

  Dad was more of an enigma to me, though he did make an effort. We went fishing sometimes and he taught me how to play cards. But during the day he was rarely in the cottage, so then it was Mum and me. We did lessons, played board games, cooked, knitted, wandered around watching birds on the cape.

  I remember what an upheaval it was when the school holidays came and Jan and Gary returned home. They were so big and noisy and they frightened me. It was never long before the arguments with Jan started, and then Gary would take to the shed with Dad to dodge the fray. My brother had an affable way about him and he could draw Dad out. I was less capable of this, and Dad was no artist at conversation, so when it was just him and me, the quiet always settled. I was never sure how to lift it. Hearing Gary and Dad joshing and bantering in the workshop always made me feel sad and inadequate.

  We were an ordinary family, I suppose. Some good and some bad. Some happy and some sad. Isn’t that the way it is for everyone? We did live in a strange place, and I guess it infused my soul. But even though I’m a little different, I have the same needs as other people. I need love and company and hope, work and leisure. Mum has always been there for me, the silent and invisible force behind my recovery. She never had to do much: just knowing she was there helped. But soon things will change and I’ll be on my own. Then it will be all down to me.

  At Cloudy Bay, I ease the Subaru down the track onto the sand. The tide is out and the sea stretches south into the distance. Jess scrambles onto my lap, panting in my face, so I swing the door open and she leaps out, running low and flat, kelpie-styl
e, towards a group of gulls. I yell at her from the driver’s seat and she dashes in a large arc and loops back to me, tongue flapping. When I tell her off, she yaps at the sky, head thrown back. The gulls rise, chortling, and fly out over the water following the wind up the beach. Jess yaps again. She’s telling me the gulls have gone anyway and I ought to have let her chase them.

  ‘It’s a National Park,’ I remind her. ‘You know the rules. You shouldn’t even be out of the car.’ I bang the door shut. ‘Go on! Run to the end of the beach.’

  She tears up the sand, looking back periodically to make sure I’m following her in my vehicle.

  Towards the end of the beach, I turn up over the softer sand onto the track I know leads to the cabin. As I step out, Jess lollops up to meet me. Everything is quiet. Even the roar of the sea is dull here behind the dunes. I pause, hoping Mum has heard the car and will come to the door. She doesn’t appear, and I remind myself that she’s growing deaf, that she’s slow and I ought to save her the trouble. The truth is, I’m scared to go inside in case she’s dead. The quiet is making me nervous and Jess is waiting for me to do something. I step onto the porch and rap the door with my knuckles. There’s no answer. I open the door and call out. ‘Mum. It’s me. Tom.’

  Inside it’s warmer. I notice the gas heater along the wall with its red windows alight. Mum has it on low—forever frugal. It doesn’t seem quite warm enough for her old bones. I know she gets cold just sitting. The smell of propane gas reminds me of Antarctica. We always had to open the vents as soon as we entered a hut to make sure the gas could escape so no-one would asphyxiate.

  Mum’s asleep on the couch with a rug tucked around her. Her breathing’s moist and noisy. For a minute I watch, unsure what to do. Perhaps I should sit outside and wait till she wakes, or go for a walk on the beach. Perhaps I shouldn’t be here at all. Watching her feels like an intrusion. She’d hate me seeing her like this, with her legs slung wide, her arms askew and her head lolling crookedly.

  She stirs and coughs a little.

  ‘Mum,’ I say loudly, trying to fill the room. ‘Mum. I’ve come to visit.’

  She jolts and jiggles and her lips smack loosely, then she sucks in a drag of air and coughs it up again. Her eyes flutter open. ‘Jack? . . . Oh, it’s you Tom.’ She startles and looks around wildly as if she’s seeking something. Her hands scrabble around the couch and scrape beneath her blanket. What’s she looking for?

  ‘Can I help?’ I ask.

  ‘Did you see it?’ she gasps. ‘Was there a letter here? An envelope?’

  ‘No, nothing. I’ve just walked in. Is there something you want me to post for you?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. It’s fine.’ She waves me away, then slumps and wheezes and digs around for a handkerchief. ‘Sorry. There’s not much dignity in it.’

  I stand by uselessly while she coughs some more. I don’t know what to do for her.

  ‘It’ll pass,’ she croaks. ‘I’m having a bad day. It’s always worse when I wake up.’ Her face is horribly pale. She reaches out an arm. ‘Here. Help me get up so I can hug you.’

  ‘You can hug me sitting down.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘No. But it’ll do.’ I sit beside her so she can grasp me with her weak arms. It feels more like a clutch of desperation than a hug.

  She sits back and looks deeply into me. ‘You’re a good man, Tom. You have a good heart.’

  More like a lonely heart. I pat her hand then withdraw. It seems such a condescending thing to do.

  ‘Could you put the kettle on?’ she asks. ‘It boiled a little while ago, so it won’t take long to heat up. I could use a cup of tea.’

  I go to the kitchen. The kettle is still warm, but it isn’t hot. It’s longer than she thinks since it last boiled. She watches me from the couch.

  ‘You called for Dad when you woke,’ I say.

  ‘Did I? Perhaps I’m going mad.’ She coughs again. ‘Damn these lungs . . . I can’t breathe to speak. Tom, bring me my tablets, would you? They’re on the bench.’

  I find her pills and give them to her, wondering if Jan might be right about Mum forgetting her medication.

  ‘Glass of water,’ she puffs.

  I grab a glass on the sink and fill it for her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She’s so grateful for so little. I feel useless. When I bring her the cup of tea, she waves me into the armchair opposite her. After a few sips, small flushes of red appear on her cheeks. It’s better than ghostly white.

  ‘So, how’s Jan taking it?’ she asks.

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Has she booked the funeral?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Then she must have a bed reserved in a nursing home with my name written in black ink on the card at the foot of the bed. How’s Jacinta?’

  ‘She’s okay.’

  ‘Taking a battering from Jan, I imagine.’

  ‘The usual.’

  ‘I really didn’t want to saddle her with this, but there was no other way. Jan won’t be very happy.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Alex backing Jacinta?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. What about Gary?’

  ‘Surprisingly supportive.’

  ‘Wonders never cease.’ Mum rubs at her chest and clears her throat.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me to bring you down?’ I ask.

  She glances at me. ‘I considered it. But you’ve got enough to deal with. And Jacinta’s young and resilient.’

  ‘I’m not dealing with anything, Mum. All that Antarctic stuff was years ago.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re still carrying it. I keep wondering when you’re going to meet a nice girl.’

  ‘Not at the garage. They’re few and far between in the workshop.’

  Mum laughs. Perhaps she’s thinking about the girlie posters some of the blokes have pinned up in the tearoom.

  We sit in silence for a while. It’s not quite a comfortable silence. I’ve never been good at conversation; Mum usually carries it along for me. But it’s obvious that she hasn’t the energy today. I dig around for something worthwhile or amusing to say, but I can’t think of anything. Out the window, I notice the white tips of surf way out over the dunes. Mum follows my gaze.

  ‘Not a bad spot, is it?’ she says. ‘It’d be a good day to climb the Head . . . The wind and the view.’

  ‘You love it up there, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s one of my favourite places. A special place with your father.’

  ‘How long since you’ve climbed it?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Too many years. Once your father became arthritic, he couldn’t handle the track.’

  ‘You didn’t go up alone?’

  ‘There weren’t many opportunities. When we moved back to Hobart again, we were too busy.’

  She watches me keenly, but I can only occasionally meet her eye. I want to shift the conversation to other things, like her illness and what might happen next. But I’m not sure how to ask her about death. I’m not sure how to ask if she’s ready.

  ‘Why don’t you go for a walk up there later and tell me what you see?’ she says, her face soft. ‘You can bring it home to me. Then I can remember everything through your eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, I might.’

  ‘You should. I want you to have a nice time here.’

  ‘What about you, Mum?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘How are you going here?’

  ‘I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.’ For a moment she looks fragile, as if something in her might break. Then she musters a firmer look and leans back to inspect me as only a mother can. ‘How’s work?’ she asks. It’s safer territory.

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘You took a day off?’

  ‘They’ll survive.’

  She looks around the room, searching for something. ‘Where’s Jess?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Bring her in so I can give her a pat.’


  I open the door and Jess trots straight to Mum, pushing her head up under Mum’s withered hand. She’ll sit there for as long as Mum will stroke her velvety ears. She stares up at Mum with eyes that are subservient and patient. Mum bends her head towards Jess and whispers meaningless nothings to her. Stuff women reserve for babies and dogs.

  ‘So you like it here by yourself?’ I ask, finding a strand of conversation at last.

  ‘It’s a little lonely,’ she admits.

  ‘What about the ranger?’

  She shrugs. ‘He’s a bit sullen. Wouldn’t even stop for a cup of tea the first day. But I’m working on him.’ She pauses. ‘Don’t tell Jan I said he’s sullen. She’ll be on the phone to Parks in seconds, trying to organise a nurse.’ She laughs, privately amused.

  ‘Any jobs you want done?’ I ask. ‘Want some wood chopped or anything?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve been using the gas heater.’

  ‘Are you eating?’ I go back to the kitchen and tip a few biscuits onto a plate, then carry it over to her. She chooses a biscuit and nibbles it.

  ‘When I remember.’

  ‘Jan would say that’s not good enough.’

  ‘Just as well Jan isn’t here, then.’

  ‘What about your medication? Are you taking it?’

  ‘Same as the meals. When I remember.’

  ‘Jan’s worried.’

  ‘Tell her not to be. I remember often enough. And it’s only been a few days. Ask me again in a fortnight.’

  She’s being deliberately provocative, and I’m just about done with the questioning. At least I’ll be able to report back, even if the answers aren’t quite as Jan would desire. ‘How long do you think you’ll be here?’ I ask.

  Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘As long as it takes.’

  I nod and look away, gripped by a dull, dry-mouthed sensation. It’s as I thought, she’ll be here till the end. Now’s my opportunity to pursue the issue. I should do it; I should ask her all the things I listed in my mind last night. All those questions that I’ve reserved till now—when it’s appropriate to talk about life and death. But it’s too difficult, and I start to come up with excuses: there will be a better moment when I can ask more easily; she’s not really that ill. The coughing’s abated; perhaps it was as she said, just bad on waking.