The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  ‘Are you going outside?’ She pushed back the covers and heaved her legs around. ‘Don’t go without me. I’m coming with you.’

  Coughing arrested her, doubling her over on the side of the bed. She struggled up and shuffled into the lounge room.

  ‘Jack. Please wait.’

  There he was, his shadow by the door. She tugged her coat off the hook and pulled it on awkwardly, cursing the lack of strength in her arms. Then she stepped out into a white night, washed pale by the moon. The cold air caught in her lungs and coughing surged. While she huddled, waiting for the rattle to subside, Jack’s shadow wafted down the hill and over the dunes towards the beach. No wonder he hadn’t waited: she sounded like a dying dog.

  ‘Jack. I want to walk with you.’

  She stumbled downhill after him, over wet grass. Cold nipped her fingers. Behind the dunes the sand was firm but it softened quickly as she proceeded. Air swirled loosely around her. Grass prickled her feet. The track began to descend.

  She stopped on the cold beach and saw light rippling on the water. The long white line of a wave collapsed. She could see Jack’s shadow flitting along the base of the dunes. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was nothing more than a cloud passing over the moon. But he’d brought her here deliberately. It was a magic night. In this light on their beach, time was indefinable. Fifty years could be erased in a moment. This could be any one of those bright nights when she and Jack had embraced here.

  Pulling her coat close, she trudged along the sand, searching for him. When a tendril of cloud slipped across the moon, she saw him lurking not far away. She made her way towards him, the wind tugging at her legs.

  ‘Jack. I’m here.’

  He was gone again. So fickle. Had he really been so temperamental? Their love had been difficult to hold onto, and who could say love was forever? But they’d come through hardship and compromise to find the muted joys of a long marriage: the peace of secure companionship, dependability, quiet and unspoken understanding.

  A larger, denser cloud shifted across the sky. She watched the fluid shape of its shadow spreading over the water. For five long minutes, she stood shivering in the wind waiting for the cloud to erase the moon. Sound travelled along the beach from east to west as waves folded on themselves. Then, finally, the cloud smudged out the light.

  Jack came with the darkness. She felt his breath near her ear and his hand, warm in hers, drawing her on. In the close, cold dark, she shambled with him along the beach, feeling her way across the sand with icy toes.

  The intimacy of being close to him set her trembling. It made her flush hot and tingly and then she was shaking with euphoria. Jack was here with her. He’d come to guide her. She felt love such as she had known when they were young. It pounded thickly in her chest. It made her pant, small feathery breaths. Her fingers tingling with it. Her head light.

  Dark fingers snatched at her. Sucked away her breath. Everything curdled. Slumped.

  Then there was silence.

  Black night eased slowly to thumping nausea and weakness. She was sprawled on the sand like a swooning heroine, her feet and hands white in the moonlight. Her head was heavy as if she’d been struck, and her heart was knocking like an overwrought engine. She tried to work out what had happened. How long had she been lying here? Hadn’t she been walking just a short time ago with Jack?

  The cloud whose darkness brought Jack to her had evaporated. Dear God, she was cold. She pushed herself up, the blood whirling in her head. Her breathing was wet and gurgly. Had she had a heart attack or had she just fainted?

  Slowly she turned herself onto hands and knees. With effort she forced herself up in the wind. But it was such a long way back to the cabin. And Jack was gone.

  She hoped she could make it back alone.

  Leon’s voice woke her from a restless doze.

  Daylight was washing through the window. She was in bed with her face pressed into the pillow. She’d slept in. The pillow was damp—she’d been drooling again. She tried to move but her body was stiff.

  Leon called again.

  She realised she was still wearing her coat, and her bed was full of sand. She could barely recall staggering in here last night and slotting herself under the covers. In the dark she had climbed the hill on hands and knees, dragging herself over the grass. It wouldn’t do, she had told herself, for Leon to find her dead out there.

  She had no idea how long it had taken, that painfully slow journey over the dunes and up the hill. She remembered seeing the cabin at last. The coughing had punctuated her every move, slowing her when she needed to be inside and out of the wind. She remembered the cold. She remembered Jack sitting in the corner of the bedroom watching her, shadowy and silent.

  Now her body felt as if it had been hit by a truck. And Leon was calling again. ‘Mrs Mason.’

  She heard the cabin door opening. ‘I’m here,’ she croaked. ‘In bed.’

  He came in, face puckered with concern.

  ‘Why are you here so early?’ she asked querulously. A cough halted her, deep and racking, and her body bent in half with the force of it.

  Watching her, his face darkened. ‘I was on my way to the campground, but I had a feeling I should come here first. What happened?’

  She struggled up, moisture gurgling in her throat, and spat quietly into the cup by her bed. ‘I was cold last night and I put on my coat.’

  ‘You’ve been out.’ His face was expressionless.

  ‘No. I was here in bed.’ She didn’t want him to know how desperate it had all been. How nearly she didn’t return.

  He glared at her. ‘The door was ajar. And the floor is covered in sand.’

  ‘Has someone been here?’ she asked, feigning innocence. ‘Don’t tell me the scouts have arrived already?’

  ‘It’s not the weekend,’ he said. ‘And anyway, they’re not coming till the weekend after.’ He turned away.

  She heard water running in the kitchen and the sound of the kettle being set on the stove. Then he was back at the door. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it. ‘There’s no point having the heater on if you’re going to leave the door open.’

  ‘The wind must have blown it open.’

  ‘There are footprints on the floor and they lead to your room. Get up and have some tea.’

  She heaved herself out of bed and limped into the lounge room, leaning heavily on her stick. He pushed a cup of tea across the kitchen bench.

  ‘What am I supposed to tell your family?’

  She should have guessed this question was coming. ‘You don’t need to tell them.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be watching out for you.’

  She stifled a cough, unable to respond.

  He watched her splutter into her hands. ‘Look at you. If I tell them you’ve been wandering at night, they’ll come and take you home.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘Highly likely.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘You’re supposed to be able to look after yourself. What about your tablets? You need a full-time carer.’

  This prompted a rally. She would not go back into the hands of Jan and end up in one of those awful nursing homes. ‘Don’t tell me what I need,’ she barked. ‘I get enough of that from my family.’

  He scoffed at her and started wiping the kitchen bench furiously. ‘Your family? What do they care? Where are they? Someone should be here looking after you.’

  She tried to hold back tears. ‘They’re coming tomorrow. They know I don’t want them here all the time.’

  He threw the cloth in the kitchen sink. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked. ‘Of course not. Look at you. You’ve lost weight since you came here. And it’s been less than a week.’

  ‘It’s the coughing.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d cough less if you remembered to take your tablets.’ He dragged her pill bottles into a cluster on the bench. ‘I can’t stay here and ram these down your throat, so I’m going to set them out according to
the instructions. I’ll put each pill on a piece of paper with a time written beside it. Do you think you can manage to get yourself over here and swallow them four times a day?’

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not a child.’

  ‘I’m trying to help you.’ He glanced at the clock and waved a bottle at her.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she mumbled. ‘Just bring them to me.’

  He dumped the pills and a glass of water on the coffee table. ‘Let’s stop these little night-time walks, shall we? Before you get into more trouble. I can’t always be here to rescue you.’

  Her hands began to shake and tears spilled from her eyes. He turned his back on her and leaned against the kitchen bench, looking out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked after a while, conciliatory.

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  He walked around and flopped in an armchair, then rested his head against the back, staring up at the ceiling. ‘You have to take better care of yourself,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be held responsible if something happens to you. One visit a day is the best I can do.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I take my tablets.’

  ‘And you have to eat.’

  ‘It’s hard. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Promise you’ll try.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘And it’s cold in here. I’m going to light a fire for you each morning when I come. I’ll split the wood and haul it inside for you. Can you lift the handle and shove the wood in the heater? That’s all you’ll have to do.’

  The fire. He was going to light the fire. And if it was lit, she could burn the letter. ‘What if the handle gets hot?’

  ‘There are oven mitts hanging on the wall. Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘No.’ She felt sheepish and reprimanded, like a schoolgirl. ‘I’ve been looking out the window.’

  ‘And not in the mirror, obviously, or you’d know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Have you seen the mirror here?’ Relief fuelled an attempt at humour. He wasn’t going to send her home yet. ‘At my age, you don’t want to see your entire body when you step into the shower.’

  Leon didn’t laugh. ‘Don’t shower then.’ He found newspaper and began stuffing balls of it into the wood heater. Then he shoved in kindling and wood and lit it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going. Can you do the rest by yourself?’

  The rest would be the burning of the letter. He could leave now, so she could get on with it.

  He rolled up his sleeve to check the time, and her eyes were drawn to his arm. There it was. A new bruise just above his wrist. He covered it with his hand and looked away, his face studiously blank.

  What was happening with Leon? Who was hurting him? ‘I think you need to talk,’ she said.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Not today.’ Then he pulled on his jacket and was gone over the dunes in seconds, the roar of his vehicle lost in the wind.

  Mary sat by the window, watching clouds skating across the sky. Wasn’t there something she meant to do? She couldn’t quite remember.

  16

  Friday morning, I wake exhausted. I haven’t slept well since Emma’s talk. At night, every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of Antarctica, Adelie penguins, Sarah, the end of my marriage. The recollection comes with rushes of emotion. I thought I’d dealt with all that, but the seminar has released all the memories again.

  I slip out for my early walk with Jess. Nature has always helped me through tough spots before and it’s no different this morning. We wander along the sand; Jess sniffs around while I allow myself to unwind with the hiss of the wavelets as they skim up the beach. It’s good to see that the world is normal, even if I am not.

  After a shower and breakfast, I’ve just picked up my car keys when I hear footsteps on the verandah and a knock at the door. Jess scrabbles to take a look and her woof is a question, not an answer. I follow her to the door and open it.

  A woman stands there, facing away from me, looking out towards the channel.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She turns and I notice that everything about her is pale: her face, her light brown hair, her cheeks, her eyes, and also the smile that stretches her lips. She’s thin and small. Plain. Probably somewhere in her thirties.

  ‘I’m Laura,’ she says. ‘I wanted to introduce myself. My brother and I have just moved in across the road.’ She peers at the trees down the side of my house. ‘Quiet place, isn’t it? And the trees make it dark. A bit spooky, don’t you think?’

  ‘The trees are good,’ I say. ‘They bring the birds.’

  She glances around uncertainly. ‘I suppose so. I know nothing about birds.’ She flashes a tight smile. ‘Lots of possums, aren’t there? They were all over my roof last night. Do they eat your roses?’

  ‘I don’t have any roses.’ My new neighbour obviously isn’t into trees or wildlife, which means we have less than nothing in common. This might be a good thing, because then there’s little excuse for contact.

  ‘You’ll probably see me round a bit,’ she continues. ‘And you might see my brother too, although he won’t be out much. He’s not well. His name’s Michael. I just call him Mouse.’

  She’s clearly keen to talk, but I pull my keys out of my pocket and jingle them. ‘Sorry, I’m just heading off to work.’

  ‘Oh.’ She seems disappointed. ‘You’re leaving.’ She looks down and notices Jess at last. ‘What’s your dog’s name?’

  ‘Jess.’

  ‘Is she friendly?’

  Jess’s tail is beating slowly against the deck. This woman clearly does not know animals.

  ‘Yes.’

  Laura bends to pat Jess on the head. ‘I didn’t grow up with dogs,’ she says. ‘But I like them.’ She strokes Jess cautiously.

  ‘Mouse likes dogs too. Perhaps you could bring Jess down sometime to meet him.’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe.’

  She smiles. ‘I’d like that. It’d give Mouse a lift.’

  I wait for her to leave, but she lingers on the deck, watching the light glinting on the water. I wonder what I can say to usher her down the path. ‘Sorry, but I do have to go. I need to be on time for work.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her thin face is almost ghostly. ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’

  ‘I’m Tom.’

  ‘Well, it was nice meeting you.’ She stretches out a hand and I’m forced to shake it. It’s thin, soft and cool. Then, she turns and starts down the steps to the path. Her shape fades quickly among the bushes until she appears again crossing the road, moving like mist skimming over the ground. She’s a strange one, shy and uncertain. Damaged in some way; needy. I hope she doesn’t expect me to be neighbourly.

  I scoop an apple from the fruit bowl and lock the door, unable to shake Laura from my thoughts. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about her. As I climb into the car and watch Jess drop onto the floor, I realise Laura reminds me of myself.

  At lunchtime I go down to Salamanca to see if the Aurora is in yet from her last voyage. I should keep away from things Antarctic, but Emma’s photos are still haunting me and I feel the stirrings of craving. It’s an addiction that’s hard to break when you return from down south—the sensation of excitement and freedom you experience down there. I want to feel it again, even though it’s no good for me.

  Looking for a parking spot along the waterfront, I pass the wharf, and there she is, the Aurora, an orange giant, docked behind the smaller L’Astrolabe, another Antarctic research vessel. I park along the esplanade and wander into the shadows cast by the Aurora.

  She always seems bigger than I remember: not in the league of bulk carriers, but loomingly large and loudly orange. In a chopper over ice you can spot her from miles away. Large ropes as thick as my arms hook her to bollards along the dock, and she shifts and rises against the tyres that buffer the wharf. Her hull is marked by gouges and scuffs where she has encountered ice, and even from here I
can detect that familiar stench of diesel. I think of going south again and a worm of anticipation wriggles in my stomach. Up on the helideck, two crew members are sucking on cigarettes. They see me and wave. I nod and slip quietly away, feeling strange and dislocated. I should quit dreaming, buy some lunch at Salamanca and head back to work.

  As I wait at an auto-teller to withdraw some cash, Emma walks past with another girl. She’s the last person I expected to see and something in me backflips. I see her pause to look in a shop window, chatting to her friend. A man behind me waiting to access the ATM coughs impatiently, and I snatch my money and receipt and dive away.

  Emma hasn’t seen me and I shove my wallet in my pocket and follow them down the street. Then I stop. What am I doing following her? Have I lost my mind? I watch the girls wandering along the pavement. There’s something about the way Emma moves—so easy and relaxed. Her shoulders ride low and the smile that curls her lips when I catch her profile is self-assured. She seems to smile easily and often. She’s someone who’s comfortable in company. She’s everything that I’m not.

  The girls stop and talk outside a café. They glance my way, but don’t seem to notice me standing stupidly on the footpath. Emma probably doesn’t even remember me. She’s only met me once and it’s unlikely I impressed her. They disappear into the café and I stand for a while, wondering what to do. Should I follow them inside? Is it wrong to want to see more of Emma? I slip my hands into my pockets and try to walk nonchalantly into the café.

  Inside it’s dimly lit. Most of the tables are full, but down the back there’s a small round table with just one seat. Emma and her friend are at the counter looking at a menu. I grab a newspaper from the communal magazine rack and make my way to the empty table. My heart is pumping. What if they see me and Emma recognises me? What will I do then?

  I hide behind the sheets of the Mercury, pretending to read. A waitress comes by and I order coffee. The girls have taken a table near the door and are deep in conversation. Sunlight casts a halo around Emma’s head, but with her cropped short hair and sturdy build she doesn’t look angelic. I feel a flush of pleasure and then succumb to confusion. Why do I care? I haven’t looked at a woman in years. And now here I am, oscillating wildly between excitement and fear.