The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  ‘Was it all right—the talk?’

  ‘It was fantastic. Everyone loved it . . . until you collapsed.’ He contemplated her solemnly. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

  She clutched at his hand, frightened now. This could mean the end of everything. He might send her back. ‘Please don’t let them put me in a home.’

  ‘You need more help than I can give you. And what’s your family going to think when I tell them?’

  ‘Don’t tell them.’

  He stared at her, his expression strained. ‘I think they should know. Your daughter called me the other week. What’s her name? Jan.’

  Mary became sullen. ‘Yes. But she shouldn’t have rung you. She has no right. It’s my death we’re talking about here, not hers.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Leon said.

  Silence fell between them. Mary had entered forbidden territory—discussion of her death. She slid into another coughing fit and Leon’s eyebrows rose in accusation. He stood up. ‘I’ll make you another cup of tea.’

  She listened to him banging around in the kitchen and soon he returned with a mug. The cabin was warm now, with both heaters pumping. Leon had rolled up his sleeves. ‘If I can’t tell your family, then I’ll have to move in,’ he declared. As he placed the cup on her bedside table, she saw new bruises on his forearm. They were dark red, turning green.

  ‘Perhaps that’d be best for both of us,’ she said, nodding pointedly at his arm.

  He glanced down at the bruises and covered them slowly with the palm of his hand. Then he took his hand away.

  ‘They’re not pretty, are they?’ he said. He sat down and gazed blindly out the window. Mary waited.

  ‘What do you do . . .’ he said slowly, ‘when you’re desperate to escape, but someone needs you so badly you know you can’t go?’ His jaw locked square and a muscle twitched high in his cheek.

  ‘Perhaps you can find a way to help them help themselves.’

  ‘And if they’re powerless?’ His voice was dense with pain. ‘Alcohol makes him violent and my mother can’t leave him. She’s like a beaten dog. Comes back again and again, hoping for a pat. I have to be there to protect her when he comes home.’

  Mary watched him carefully, beginning to comprehend. He stayed to take the blows for his mother. And his mother probably stayed out of a misplaced sense of duty. Mary understood that. She felt tears rising. Leon was a brave young man. A lesser man would have left long ago. It was no wonder he resented her presence at the cabin: she was yet another burden. She reached to touch his hand and he allowed her to do it, even though his face was screwed tight with anger and his hands were bunched in fists.

  ‘I can’t leave,’ he said.

  ‘He’s your father?’

  He nodded bitterly. ‘I wish he wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes. But you’re not like him. You’re strong. It takes strength to stay.’

  He looked at her now, tears in his eyes. ‘It should be him dying,’ he said. ‘Not someone good like you.’

  Mary managed a feeble smile. ‘I’ve fooled you then, haven’t I? I’m not good at all.’

  He turned away to wipe his eyes. ‘It could be in me—his weakness. It could be genetic.’

  ‘You’re not weak, Leon.’

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  ‘I do know that.’

  ‘But you’re biased,’ he said, smiling faintly at last. ‘You like me.’

  ‘I didn’t at first,’ she admits.

  ‘I didn’t make it easy for you.’

  She grasped his arm, squeezing to make sure she had his full attention. ‘You’ll leave one day, you know.’

  He stared at her without hope. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes. Something will change and you’ll be able to go.’

  His face became stony. ‘If he puts her in hospital, she might leave him. But if he hurts her, I’ll kill him.’

  ‘You don’t need violence, Leon. That’s his game.’

  He paused for a while, struggling with something in himself. Then he patted her hand where it rested on his arm. ‘It’s all right. I won’t kill him. If that was in me, I’d have done it months ago.’

  They sat quietly together for a long time, watching the shadows slipping on the walls. Now that the unsayable had been said, there was a strangely uplifting peace between them.

  23

  We drive home from Freycinet on a Saturday afternoon full of sun and blue skies and with a warm glow that started at the campfire and extended into everything we’ve done since. This morning, before our departure, we walked to Wineglass Bay. It felt like a dream—Emma’s hand in mine, a rare wedge-tailed eagle circling above, and pademelons waiting for us on the white sands of the bay.

  Now, in the car, the kilometres melt by. I’m bathed in happiness and I want this to last forever, but we arrive in Hobart all too soon. Emma invites me to stay the night and I agree willingly, unable to tear myself away. We unload her things, then I race to collect Jess and drive quickly back to Emma’s. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m terrified things might change in the short time I’m away, afraid that she’ll stop wanting me. But when I walk through the bungalow door Emma is still smiling, and the choking sensation in my throat gradually subsides.

  I lie beside her through the night, drunk with love.

  In the morning, we’re dressed and having breakfast when the door is shoved open and a figure fills the doorway. I recognise him immediately: the man from Emma’s lab at the antdiv. He’s wearing tight black fleece trousers and a maroon top, both emphasising his bulky muscles. He leans against the door, hands in his pockets, and stares at us for several long seconds. His face is flat and his eyes are small and set too far apart. I can tell he has recently returned from down south—he has that faraway look, the tightness of not belonging. The same look I saw in Emma when I first met her.

  ‘Emma,’ he says, eyes flashing with outrage. ‘What’s happening?’

  Her face is arranged in an appeasing smile. ‘Nothing, Nick. We’re having breakfast. That’s all.’

  He looks me up and down then swings back to Emma. ‘I was expecting you up at the house last night for dinner,’ he says. ‘I thought we had an arrangement.’

  Emma stands up. ‘I didn’t say I was coming to dinner.’

  He steps into the room and I clear the dishes into the kitchen, keeping an eye on the door.

  ‘You always come to Saturday dinner,’ he says. ‘I was waiting for you.’

  ‘We were at Freycinet till late.’ Emma is flushed and defensive.

  I wonder if the shoes and harness I used belong to this man. He certainly has the leg-size to match. I slip along the wall to roll up Jess’s blanket. She’s at my heels with a growl rumbling in her chest. The room feels small with three people and a dog in it.

  ‘Who is this guy, anyway?’ Nick asks condescendingly. ‘He comes with a dog, does he? Like Barbie comes with a handbag.’ He stares at me and I tuck Jess’s blanket under my arm.

  ‘Stop it, Nick.’ Emma is looking at me uneasily. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll retaliate.

  ‘I didn’t know you were making new friends, Emma.’ Nick moves closer to her. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’ The atmosphere in the tiny room is uncomfortable. He places his hand on Emma’s arm and glares at me. ‘Isn’t it time for you to go?’

  I hesitate, glancing at Emma, wondering what to do.

  ‘The dog wants to leave,’ Nick says.

  Jess has slunk across the room and is standing by the door with her lips curled. Her eyes and ears are flat. She doesn’t like Nick, and she’s not the only one. I follow her to the door.

  ‘Tom,’ Emma says.

  There’s not enough room in here for all of us but I’m not sure whether she wants me to stay or go. I seek her face for a signal. I know it’s weak to run out, but I can’t bear confrontation. And although Nick is belligerent, he doesn’t seem aggressive. Emma will be safe if I remove myself.

  ‘
Perhaps I’d better leave,’ I mumble. Jess is at my heels.

  ‘Let him go,’ Nick growls.

  ‘Tom,’ Emma calls again.

  I look back. Emma’s face is troubled. She wants me to stay, but she has business with Nick that needs to be resolved. I can’t help her with that. Nick is still glaring at me, his face as dark as thunder. My legs continue to march along the path, taking me away.

  ‘Tom,’ Emma says. ‘You don’t have to go.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘It’s fine. I’ll leave you to it.’

  I remember a time during my stay in Antarctica when a small group of us explored an ice crevasse on the plateau, just for fun. I was a reluctant member of the party, not quite convinced I would enjoy dangling above an abyss, but the others persuaded me to come. We rattled out early from station in a Hägglunds, juddering north over the uneven frozen fjords then up a steep snowy slope onto the ice field. It was a clear day of raw blue skies and brilliant white ice, and when the battering engines of the Hägg were finally quiet, a silence spread around us as infinite as the view.

  We slathered on sunscreen, drank hot soup and ate chocolate biscuits, gazing out over the glossy plateau and the long stretch of sea ice below. The Vestfolds creased away to the south, and north of us only a few black islands broke up the featureless white.

  With crampons strapped to our feet and harnesses fastened around our freezer suits, we crunched in single file over the ice behind Andy, the field training officer. It was his job to oversee all dangerous field activities and to train people for situations that might arise during their stay in Antarctica. We trudged over the plateau until a suitable crevasse was found. Then we dumped our gear in piles and stripped off layers of clothing.

  A few metres back from the edge of the crevasse, Andy drilled several screws into hard ice. Methodically, he rigged anchors, ropes and a caving ladder so we could lower ourselves into the slot one at a time. When the first person disappeared over the lip of the crevasse, his helmet slipping from sight as he sank within the ice, the sweat chilled on my skin. Around me, the others jiggled happily, seemingly heedless of the risk. Andy stood on belay, solid as a fortress, checking the rope tension. He was chatting and joking, but I could see by the tightness in his body that at least he knew this was a dangerous game.

  I waited till last, hoping we’d run out of time and I’d miss out, but the others pushed me forward. Andy watched me tie in to the rope and then snapped an extra line to my harness for security. Then he nodded at me to lower away. I backed up to the crevasse one crunching step at a time.

  When I reached the edge, Andy barked instructions. But I stood there, upright, holding my breath, unable to lean back into space. He talked me through it with calm authority. I forced myself to lean backwards, and my feet scratched at the edge of the crevasse as I let out the rope one jerky frightened inch at a time.

  Snow dust scattered as I descended. I lowered until I was three or four metres down, spinning slowly on the rope. The caving ladder was dangling beside me and I reached to grasp it. Below, a dark crack yawned. There was quiet, a dense stifling quiet. Just the noisy huffs of my breathing. Showers of fine snow crystals danced down on me from where the ropes sawed at the crevasse edge above.

  Around me was another world. A world of layered meringues and ice puffs, cascading over each other like tiered wedding cakes. Powder-blue ice castles with fluffy turrets were mounded on top of each other. As my breathing eased, I could feel my heart knocking in my ears. The quiet pressed in. The walls. That sliver of light above. The deep blue crack of sky. The shaft of light fragmenting and glinting off a universe of tiny ice crystals.

  Time stopped. Welded to the magical beauty was the possibility of a suffocating death. It was at once exhilarating and terrifying.

  As I flee Emma’s bungalow now, I remember the crevasse and how I felt that day. I’m still wrapped in Emma’s magic, but Nick is the unexpected slump of my snow bridge. He’s an outcome I hadn’t anticipated, and everything within me is tumbling into darkness—a place I’ve always feared, where rescue is uncertain.

  I should have known Emma had a boyfriend.

  I haul open the car door and watch Jess leap up. Then I’m in, dragging the seatbelt across. I have to leave before Emma comes out. In case he follows her: Nick. That hard face of his, flat with anger. I turn the car uphill, misjudge the clutch, grinding a gear change; something a mechanic never does. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving. I barely notice Jess whimpering on the floor.

  The car turns itself onto the Mount Wellington road and rides up damp curves past driveways that plunge down to houses tucked deep in wet forest. We climb through Jacksons Bend, then Fern Tree, and on through the tight turns that lead to the summit. The roadside rocks are patched with white lichens. I notice rocks etched with the names of vandals. In breaks between trees, I see the hazy light of autumn hanging over the valleys and the city below. The silver skeletons of dead trees reach up from the green blanket of forest.

  As I drive, my hands are tight on the wheel. I think of Nick touching Emma. I think of him running his hands over her body. It makes me shake with disbelief.

  The road rises from wet forest into moody grey skies strewn with fast clouds. We’re in the zone of small stunted trees and rumbled boulder fields. The low alpine heath is razed by cold winds. I pull up at the summit beneath the white spire of the telecommunications tower. There’s no-one else around.

  For a long time, I sit. I notice my hands trembling on the steering wheel. From the back of the car, I scrounge a coat. Up here, it’s several degrees colder and the air has the feel of snow. I let Jess out, even though dogs aren’t allowed. She clings to my calves, tail between her legs, the cold flattening her ears.

  The summit is an explosion of rock and I’m as disordered and chaotic as the scenery around me. It’s fitting for me to be here. I feel the wind flushing straight through my head. The air’s so cold, it is without scent. It’s possible to imagine that Antarctica exists.

  I follow the boardwalk around to the lookout and stand at the edge, watching the clouds scudding across the sky. Far below, the metal arch of the Tasman Bridge reaches across the Derwent River as it meanders its way north. The blanket of suburbs is studded with the green dots of trees. Wind buffets up the cliff face. It’s hard to believe that yesterday I walked to Wineglass Bay with Emma. Hard to believe that we watched a wedge-tailed eagle in the sky. Hard to believe that yesterday I felt as high and triumphant as that eagle.

  I stand in the updraft until the wind freezes me to numbness. Back inside the car, I fondle Jess’s ears with cold stiff hands. Her yellow eyes gaze into me. She understands better than any human could.

  I turn the key and start driving. I have to do something. I have to go somewhere so that I stop thinking about Nick, so that I stop imagining him with Emma.

  We drive down the mountain, swinging into the curves, and then over the Tasman Bridge and out of town, to Cambridge, and then north to Richmond.

  24

  Richmond is a tourist town famous for a stone bridge built by convicts. It has quaint historic sandstone buildings and a main street lined with antique shops, cafés, galleries and a pub smothered with cast-iron lace. Gary and his wife, Judy, have a bed and breakfast on the edge of town. It’s a life that suits Judy: greeting guests with her superficially friendly smile, and preparing breakfast trays. Fancy bed coverings. Payments and insincere goodbyes. Gary just goes along for the ride.

  He looks surprised when he opens the front door and sees me with Jess at my heels. ‘What are you doing here? Mum isn’t dead, is she?’

  ‘No. Just thought I’d drop in.’

  ‘Nobody drops in to Richmond.’

  I shrug.

  He looks back over his shoulder into the house. ‘We can’t go inside. Judy’s vacuuming.’

  ‘Let’s sit over there.’ I point to Gary’s ridiculous rotunda.

  ‘Okay.’

  We wander over the lawn past
the rose garden, still blooming even in May. The seats in the rotunda are wet with dew.

  ‘I’ll get a towel,’ Gary says, and ambles back to the house.

  Jess is trotting around the lawn sniffing at things. She hunches to relieve herself and I go to the car to get a plastic bag. There’ll be no making friends with Judy if Jess leaves a deposit on the lawn.

  Gary returns and wipes the seats with an old towel. ‘I should have asked if you wanted a cuppa,’ he says.

  Gary and I have never really been comfortable in each other’s company. Gary went to boarding school just after I was born and only came home for holidays. He and Jan were like strangers invading the house: Gary spent most of his time helping Dad or reading, while Jan clashed with Mum in the kitchen. Usually I took to the hills, keeping my distance till they left again and I could slot safely back into my usual routine. I remember the sad look on Mum’s face whenever I grabbed my coat and slipped out the door. But I had no qualms leaving the warm kitchen for the cold winds of the cape. The kitchen was too crowded for me.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,’ I say.

  ‘How do you have it?’

  ‘Just black.’

  ‘God!’ Gary snorts. ‘Fancy having to ask my own brother how he has his tea.’ He glances at me almost guiltily. ‘Means we don’t have enough cuppas together, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t like to get in the way.’

  He laughs. ‘You’re always in the way trying to get out of the way. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind you coming over more often.’ He looks towards the house. ‘It’s Judy that’s the problem. She’s difficult. All women are difficult. I reckon you’ve got the right idea not having one.’

  I say nothing and Gary grunts. ‘I’ll just get that cuppa,’ he says.

  I watch him walking across the lawn. When he was younger he used to walk like Dad, loping with long, forward-leaning strides. Now he’s put on so much weight he takes short steps with his body tipped back to balance his weight.

  It’s cold in the shade of the rotunda. In summer, Gary spends hours on the ride-on mower to keep the lawn looking like a bowling green. Judy would have it green now, if the weather wasn’t against her. Having a showpiece home is Judy’s number one goal in life. She and Gary decided long ago not to have kids.