The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  She waited a few minutes for him to divulge his news, but then gave in to her curiosity. ‘What has happened to you?’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t want to get your hopes up,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve met someone.’ The admission rendered him breathless.

  ‘Wonderful. Your feet haven’t touched the ground since you walked in.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His joy was tempered by agitation. Happiness tinged with terror. It seemed to Mary that he was having trouble giving in to the thrill of this new relationship, but at the same time he was incapable of holding back.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’ she asked.

  ‘At the antdiv. She gave a seminar. She’s a penguin biologist— just returned.’

  His face clouded slightly and Mary thought she detected a shadow of doubt. When Tom had come off the ship from Antarctica all those years ago, he’d been like a little boy lost.

  His face was blank when he saw her waiting on the wharf. Mary knew she wasn’t the person he was hoping to see, but Debbie had refused to come. And everything was made worse by Jack’s recent passing. Poor Jack had slipped away just days before the ship docked, unable to hold on until Tom’s return.

  Mary remembered the phone call she made to the ship; the anxious surprise in Tom’s voice when he was summoned to the bridge to receive her call.

  Mum. What is it?

  I’m sorry, Tom, to call you like this. I’m sorry for what I have to tell you . . . But your father died this morning . . . he was so ill . . . he couldn’t manage any longer . . .

  What a thing to have to tell your son over the telephone. What unspeakable pain not to be able to put your arms around him, not to be able to hold him when he needed you most. After the phone call she had rung Debbie to see if she would meet Tom at the wharf. But Debbie was convinced Tom would see it the wrong way. She said he’d take it as a signal that she was there for him.

  As he came ashore, Mary watched him searching the crowd. Just in case. Holding onto the possibility that Debbie might surface from the sea of waiting faces. He had staggered off the boat like a drunk. It wasn’t just the ground that was unsteady for him; his life was adrift.

  Initially, Mary had thought it was the loss of his wife and father that shut Tom down, but as time went on she realised it was more than that. Tom’s retreat into himself had also been due to the challenges of re-entering normal life after more than a year of Antarctic simplicity. The explosion of return superimposed on loss and grief had almost destroyed him. Somehow, he had continued to carry out the actions of life, but he had disengaged from it, as if it were all happening to someone else. For years now, he’d been moving around the periphery of things, always measuring the edges of life, rather than its volume. But now, in one blow, this new woman had flattened his fences.

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Mary said.

  ‘Her name’s Emma.’ His mouth softened when he said the girl’s name, and seeing him this way made her tingle with pleasure. ‘And she’s strong, Mum.’

  Strength was good. ‘What else?’

  ‘She’s confident. Not at all pretentious.’

  ‘I like her already. She sounds lovely.’

  He looked at her nervously. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to tell you, but I’m kind of hoping I might go south with her. To work with penguins.’

  The thought of Tom going south again alarmed her. Did he think he’d be immune from hurt this time? But his eyes were bright and excited. What else could she do but encourage him?

  As he told her more about Emma, Mary realised how her own death would release him. He wouldn’t have to stay in Hobart waiting for her to call. That’s what he’d been doing these past years, and it had taken her all this time to work it out. It was devastating to be suddenly aware of the limitations her existence had placed on her son.

  She watched him in the kitchen, filling the kettle and lighting the stove. There were more questions she wanted to ask. But she held back for several minutes, observing him while he gazed out the window, the trace of a smile playing on his lips.

  ‘When does Emma go south again?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘In four months.’

  ‘Is that long enough?’

  ‘Long enough for what?’

  ‘To know if she’s right for you.’

  ‘I already know.’

  ‘But does she?’

  He shrugged, a frown darkening his face. ‘She’s whirling. She’s only been back a few weeks.’

  Mary smiled. ‘You’re whirling too.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’

  He sat down, hesitating, clearly fighting with himself over something he wanted to say. ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ he managed finally. ‘To go south?’

  Their eyes connected across space, and Mary saw hope in his face. Freedom would come after her death. And perhaps, with this woman, he would have the courage to grasp that freedom. She nodded. ‘I’m pleased for you. I want you to be happy.’

  ‘I think I’m safe this time, Mum,’ he said.

  But she knew he was wrong. Nobody was ever safe.

  The early years in Hobart with Jack just after she’d fallen pregnant with Jan had been difficult times. She and Jack were unhappy, both missing Bruny, both struggling to adjust to their new urban life. While Jack exhausted himself working long days in the factory, she was confined by morning sickness. When apple season came and the house filled with the aroma of stewing fruit again, the rich smells made her ill. Nauseous and miserable, her life seemed unbearably heavy.

  Despite Mary’s gloominess, her mother was delighted to have the young couple in the house. To celebrate their marriage and the pregnancy, her mother wanted to buy material to make new bed sheets for them. It seemed an indulgence to Mary, but her mother insisted, so they went to the haberdashery store to select the fabric. Mary was still in the early stages of pregnancy and had not begun to show, so an outing was socially acceptable.

  They must have spent twenty minutes in the shop while her mother pondered over fabric, rubbing samples between her fingers to make sure the quality was right. In the musty store, Mary’s morning sickness had surged, and she went outside into the wet Hobart morning to get some air.

  Sheltered beneath the shop awning, she stared down the street at the grey bodies hurrying up the pavement with heads bowed to dodge the raindrops. Some were shielded by umbrellas, while others stooped beneath dark coats or held newspapers over their heads. Far down the street, she noticed a man coming towards her. He was tall and slim, walking fast. She watched his progress up the footpath until he lifted a hand to brush wet hair from his face and the gesture turned her heart to stone. It was Adam. She knew his walk, even though she hadn’t seen him for years. And then he saw her too.

  Just then her mother swept out of the shop, hooked elbows with her and swung her up the street in the other direction. Her mother moved with such speed that Mary wondered if she had seen Adam walking up the hill. After all those years of careful planning, her parents wouldn’t want to risk her seeing him again, despite the fact she was now safely married.

  When they arrived back at the house, she was feeling weak. The rapid march uphill in the cold air had taxed her. Her mother sat her in a chair by the fire, gave her a cup of tea and insisted she take a nap. Mary complied so she wouldn’t arouse her mother’s suspicion, but she lay on the bed in a flutter, wondering how she could escape to find Adam.

  After what she deemed to be an acceptable amount of time for a rest, Mary emerged from her room. She forced herself to remain calm, ironing clothes, drinking tea and chatting with her mother for more than an hour. By then, the rain had stopped and the day had subsided to a dull grey. Mary finally persuaded her mother that she was well enough to go for a walk. Moving slowly and striving to suppress the panic in her chest, she collected her coat, hat and scarf and stepped out into the chill afternoon. />
  Just as she’d known he’d be, Adam was in the park, sitting on a bench, wet and bedraggled. He looked up as she walked to meet him, his eyes haunted and sad, and her throat clenched. After all these years, she still connected with him. She remembered the shape of his jaw and the line of his cheek, but his face was harder and somehow less hopeful than the boy she’d first met. Tiny broken veins tracked across his reddened cheeks, and his posture sagged with a heaviness that had not been there before.

  Automatically, they headed to the top corner of the park, erasing the years in twenty seconds. They walked side by side, and between them there yawned an ocean of unshared life. Mary longed to reach for his hand, but she restrained herself. She had a ring on her finger now and a baby growing inside her. Time had altered her circumstances and there was no going back.

  At the top of the park they sat down together. Mary was tense and straight-backed. She couldn’t speak. And Adam was bent forward, defeated. Silence stretched over the short distance and the long years between them. When he spoke at last, his voice was dense with emotion.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Mary,’ he said. ‘What is it? Five years?’

  ‘Yes. Something like that.’ Nervous butterflies quivered in her throat.

  ‘I’ve been here looking for you every year. Every apple season, I kept hoping I’d find you.’

  ‘You’re still picking fruit?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s my life. I’m still on the road.’

  She looked at him, unsure, waiting to see what he would say next.

  ‘We were going to settle down together, remember? We were going to have a cottage. Our own orchard. Our own apple farm. What happened to that?’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘They’re lost dreams, Mary. I’ve had trouble coming to terms with that. Where have you been?’

  ‘My parents sent me to Bruny Island. To my uncle’s farm. They wanted me away from here. They knew I loved you.’

  His shoulders slumped further. ‘I wasn’t good enough. I know that. Your father laughed at me when I told him I was a fruit picker. I said I’d look after you, but he wouldn’t hear me out. It was over in five minutes. We could have made it work, you and I. We still can.’

  ‘I’m sorry about my father. He’s a hard man with strong opinions. I’m sorry he hurt you.’ Without thinking, Mary reached for his knee, feeling the warmth of him through his damp trousers, surprised at the way her body ignited when she touched him.

  His face softened, his eyes deepening as he looked at her. ‘Do you remember the times we shared in this park?’ he said. ‘Our hopes? Our plans for the future?’

  Unexpected tears tripped in her eyes. He took her hands in his and desire rushed through her. She was still the girl who loved him, the girl who had taken her first kiss from his lips.

  He was bent over her hands, rubbing her fingers. Then he became very still. He’d seen the ring. Her wedding ring. His breathing became ragged and he held her hands tight so she couldn’t pull away.

  ‘How late am I?’ he asked, his voice tight and hoarse.

  ‘I’ve been married for a year.’

  He couldn’t look at her then and she knew he was ashamed of his own tears. ‘I wrote letters to you,’ he said. ‘Here they are. I went back to my lodgings to fetch them for you.’ From inside his jacket he pulled a small bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘Take them. They’re yours. Maybe you’ll read them sometime.’

  He handed her the parcel and she slipped it into her coat pocket. Then he stood up to go, his face wretched. Tortured, she reached for his hand, and he sat down again, folding her hands into his. Even after all these years he still owned her, still knew her, and his touch still made her flush with excitement.

  Eager now, reading something in her eyes, he moved close, bending to kiss her. She drew back, trying to protest, thinking of Jack. But he pulled her to him, all the heat of his body pressed against her. And he kissed her till she was ragged and lost. Beneath his lips, she came alive. Jack had never stirred her in this way. He hadn’t learned her body the way Adam had learned it in the few days they had known each other.

  For a moment, she almost forgot. But as Adam paused to look at her, his face alive with want, she wrenched away. She straightened her coat and stood up, digging for strength. ‘Adam, I’m having a baby.’

  He paled and his face twisted, and then he extended his hand to her, desperation etched in his features. ‘Come with me,’ he said urgently. ‘We can make this happen.’

  But she backed away. ‘I still care for you,’ she said. ‘I can’t deny it. But I’m no longer the girl you knew. I love you, but we can’t have what we want. I’m married to another man. To Jack.’ She had to give him a name. ‘I wish I could roll back the clock. But I can’t. I’m married and I’m having a baby. That’s the way it is. I can’t be your wife.’

  She walked away and left him there. She was agonised. Was she in love with him? Or was she in love with past dreams and a fanciful notion of what might have been? And what did she really know of him from those ten days in the park? Would he have stood by her when she bore the child of another man? Or would she have been left with nothing? No, she couldn’t go with him. It was all too uncertain.

  In the kitchen, she threw the bundle of letters into the fire. What was there to be gained from reading them? She was already shredded by remorse; she didn’t need more anguish. All that was left was to focus on Jack. She must work with dutiful humility to improve their marriage. Since they’d been in Hobart, she’d let things stagnate. Immersed in morning sickness and despondence, she’d allowed their love to subside. Now she must revitalise it. Her fervour was guilt-driven. She had kissed another man. For a wild moment, she had even considered leaving. But she had chosen Jack and she had to make it work.

  First, they must find a rental home—there was no chance of happiness in her parents’ house. And then she had to learn to live with her guilt and deceit. She could tell no-one of her encounter with Adam.

  She and Jack laboured on in Hobart until the lighthouse job came up at Cape Bruny. It was a beacon of hope. The island represented her bond with Jack. They needed to go back there to find each other again. And paradoxically, it was in that place of hope that she discovered the unreliability of hope.

  At the light station, she’d made the mistake of allowing fantasies to pervade her marriage. When Jack had withdrawn, she sustained herself with daydreams of Adam. She indulged in idealised visions of a picker’s life—the excitement of being on the road, going places, meeting people. She imagined the peaceful orchard cottage they would share. In her loneliness, she let Adam slip between her and Jack, causing damage, deep and wide. She clung to him long after she ought to have let him go. And there had been a cost. In the end, it had rendered her vulnerable.

  And now here she sat, listening to her son Tom, and he was telling her that this time he was safe in love. What could she say to warn him? It had taken her years to understand that love was not safety. To comprehend the impact of her secret passion for Adam. Yes, she might have had a different life with Adam, possibly a relationship with more intensity and less distance. But then again, perhaps not. Love was more than desire. And Adam had not navigated life’s storms with her as Jack had. He hadn’t been with her in the wretched fog of parental tiredness. He hadn’t weathered the tedium of ordinary days, financial pressures, the anxiety of decisions, the concerns about their children’s future. That was the sum of a marriage—tenacity, the strength to bear the mundane, and the accumulation of shared history.

  20

  I’m at home stirring up a bolognese sauce when the phone rings. When I hear Emma’s voice my pulse lurches and I fumble the spoon.

  ‘Two things,’ she says. ‘First, can you take Friday off? I want to take you rock climbing at Freycinet.’

  I’ve already taken today off to visit Mum, but perhaps if I put in a couple of big days at work, I’ll be able to catch up.

 
‘Second thing,’ Emma continues. ‘I spoke to my boss about taking you south, and he wants to know if you can come for an interview at three o’clock tomorrow.’

  More time off. Just as well Bill appreciates me. ‘Where should I meet you?’ I ask.

  ‘Just go to the front desk and have them call me.’

  She’s about to hang up.

  ‘Emma.’ I try to hold her on the phone. I want to hang onto the sound of her voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you.’

  Her laugh is like music. ‘You’ll just have to wait.’

  My dieso mate, Bazza, says Emma’s boss Fredricksen is a typical boffin—aloof, a bit elitist and always dreaming up crazy, impractical ideas. He never lets his hair down or mixes it with the tradies.

  We’re having a cup of coffee in the workshop before the interview. I point out that not all boffins are like that, but Bazza won’t back down. Emma’s boss is one of the old school, he says; hasn’t been south for years and does all his research from behind a desk. Bazza reckons he’s never seen such a disorganised office. From the mess of the place it’s a wonder he can get anything done. It’s a regular fire trap. There must be data from twenty years hidden away somewhere in there. Years of field observations piling up. And for what? Bazza says he’s heard that hardly any of it gets written up. The science is just about us having a presence in Antarctica. Us meaning Australia. That’s why we tradies are so important, according to Bazza. Without us, the scientists couldn’t survive down there. They depend on us.

  I interrupt Bazza’s rant to tell him I’m having an interview with Fredricksen at three o’clock; I try to gauge the look on his face. He says he wouldn’t work for Fredricksen in a hundred years. If Fredricksen’s office caught fire, he wouldn’t piss on it to put it out.

  ‘I’d be working with Emma,’ I say, and watch Bazza’s eyebrows rise.