The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  ‘No. I haven’t had time to think.’

  ‘You don’t want to think,’ Bazza says.

  He’s right. I’ve been avoiding it. Doing anything to distract myself from his offer. And Fredricksen’s. I’ve been walking with Jess. Talking on the phone with Jacinta. I even rang Gary last night.

  ‘Look,’ Bazza says. ‘Let me tell you about this gig. You won’t be able to say no, once I give you the details.’

  He outlines the winter program. A tractor traverse out of Mawson to the Prince Charles Mountains. It’s an exceptional trip. I’d be mad to say no. While Bazza talks, Nick stands and leaves the room and I watch him go, only half listening to Bazza.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, when Bazza has finished. ‘When do you need to know?’

  ‘Four weeks.’ Bazza reaches out to shake my hand. ‘Do the right thing by yourself, will you? Don’t turn it down.’

  Emma calls on Friday afternoon and leaves a message for me to meet her at Salamanca in one of the pubs. A group of them is going out for a drink. I don’t much feel like heading back into town when I’ve just arrived home. And I’m not sure I’m up to a night of Antarctic reminiscence. But an outing might be good for me. I’ve been spending too many hours alone. I shower, feed Jess and then drive into town.

  Parking is difficult down by the wharves, but eventually I find a space behind Princes Wharf. The orange shadow of the Aurora looms behind the sheds, a string of lights along her flank, a spotlight flaring from the trawl deck. I pause to look at her, trying to project into my future. Can I see myself boarding that ship again? Can I imagine myself travelling south? I wait for some clanging bell of intuition, but there isn’t one.

  I pocket my hands and make my way through traffic across the road to Knopwoods. The doors are open wide and there are people spilling out into the street. Cigarette smoke wafts among laughter and clinking glasses. I edge between groups and slip through the door.

  The bar is frantically busy. People are packed shoulder to shoulder, pushing back and forth. Bodies clad in fleece mingle with loosened ties and suits. I smell aftershave, perfume, the stench of spilled beer. I squeeze through to the counter. After waiting several minutes, I buy a drink and move off into the crowd.

  Then I see them, a tightknit circle of eight around a table at the back. A knot of laughter and waving hands, sloshing glasses, trivial banter. Just another group among the general drone. I see Emma there, sitting beside Nick. His arm is around her shoulders. Did Emma tell him I was coming? What am I doing here anyway?

  I wind my way through the crowd and find a spot along the wall where I can see Emma’s profile through the shifting mass of faces and bodies. She won’t see me. Neither will Nick. She didn’t really expect me to come. It was just a gesture, to cheer me up. Who would want to come to a noisy bar when they have just experienced death? There’s no room for loss here.

  Watching her, I drink my beer, feeling it warm my stomach. Her face is bright and smiling. She’s having fun. She’ll go south again and dodge normal life for yet another year. She’ll be immersed in the usual summer season—with all its excitement, isolation, gossip and scandal. If I choose not to go, she’ll forget me . . . if she hasn’t already. She’ll be preoccupied with Nick. He’ll play with her. Keep her attention.

  I watch Nick between all the faces. I see him shift to gulp his drink, his arm still around Emma’s shoulders. If he looked straight up, he could look into my eyes. But I know he won’t see me. Because I’m the wrong sex. He has his arm around Emma, but he’s still taking the opportunity to survey other female talent in the room. I can see him doing it. His eyes are roving up and down, taking in legs, faces, breasts. Poor Emma. I feel sorry for her. She’s been so taken in. She might be convenient for now, but a man so busy windowshopping will always be tempted to try other wares. He’ll betray her. Secretly, at first. But she’ll find out. There are no secrets down south. And he won’t last a season. I wish she could see this about him.

  A knot of regret twists within me. I have to let go. Emma’s a great girl, but she’s not for me.

  I finish my beer and leave.

  36

  The following morning, I’m in the kitchen chopping zucchini for soup when there’s a knock at the door. I open it, and Laura stands there shyly, arms folded, eyes flicking from my face to Jess and back to me.

  ‘Just thought I’d pop by and see how you were going,’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘Thanks, I’ll be okay.’

  She gives a small smile. ‘It’s a hard time. But things will improve. I lost both my parents a few years ago.’

  She’s stating fact, not looking for sympathy. And her eyes are kind. I suppose her parents’ death explains why she looks after Mouse. There’s no-one else.

  ‘Mouse is coming home for the afternoon,’ she continues. ‘Today’s his birthday and they’re letting him out for a few hours. I was hoping you might come round with Jess. To help celebrate. Mouse loves dogs.’

  I draw breath, wondering how to tactfully say no. In my current frame of mind, I’d rather not face company. The agony of stilted conversation. And Jess will be terrified of Mouse after that awful trip to the hospital. I look down at Jess as she pants up at me. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure if Jess will let him pat her.’

  Laura glances at Jess. ‘Mouse is different now,’ she says. ‘He’s on medication. It makes him calmer. I don’t think he’ll frighten her.’

  I hesitate. Laura clearly does not understand the memory of a dog. ‘I suppose we can see how it goes . . . If she’s frightened, I’ll bring her back home.’

  Laura’s face splits open with delight. ‘That’ll be wonderful. It’ll make Mouse’s day. Could you come at four? He should be settled in by then.’

  During the afternoon, I try not to watch the clock, but the hands keep moving, and soon it’s four o’clock and we wander down the hill and across the road to Laura’s house. She flings open the door with frightening exuberance and my anxiety increases. She’s excited to see us, desperate to make a success of this occasion for Mouse. Jess and I step tentatively through the door and down the hallway to the lounge.

  Mouse is sitting on the couch, his face shadowy. He appears dull and unresponsive, his body large and slack.

  ‘Mouse. Our visitors are here.’

  Laura’s brightness seems forced, and when Mouse swings his eyes towards us, all I feel from him is disinterest.

  ‘This is Tom, our neighbour.’ Laura’s voice is high with enthusiasm. ‘And this is his dog, Jess.’

  Mouse’s blank gaze takes me in without reaction, but when he glances down at Jess, sitting very close to my legs, something flickers across his face and I notice the fingers of one of his hands twitching where it lies open, palm up, on the couch.

  Jess presses against me and watches Mouse carefully. She isn’t entirely at ease, but she’s not afraid either.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Mouse,’ I say.

  Mouse ignores me. I hear him humming to himself and his lips are moving, but I can’t make out any words. The fingers of his hand continue to twitch, and I watch them, mesmerised, unsure what to say or do. Then Jess stands up and pads softly across the carpet, sniffs at Mouse’s fingers and lowers her head onto his hand. A sigh passes through both of them: Jess and Mouse. I hear it and so does Laura. She stands rapt, watching Mouse’s mouth as he mumbles incoherently to Jess, the spark of something in his eyes, the feathery twitching of his fingers beneath Jess’s chin.

  My dog stands very still, her yellow eyes watching him. Her tail is waving very slightly, and she hasn’t shifted her head from his hand.

  ‘He hasn’t spoken in weeks,’ Laura whispers.

  Mouse’s muttering doesn’t seem to equate with speech, but to Laura it’s obviously progress.

  ‘He’s been heavily sedated,’ she says. Her face is sad. ‘They’ve only just started to back off his dose. I thought Jess might help. Thank you so much for coming.’

  She looks at me with tears sh
immering in her eyes, and I feel sorry for her. For both of them. My grief is overwhelming, but it’s a temporary state, a loss and readjustment that is difficult, but not impossible. This poor man is so lost and so disconnected that he will never see the world as most of us do. Yet he has the security of Laura’s love and support. And she will continue to love him even if he never realises it. In that, he is lucky.

  Laura has been watching me closely, and I see surprise sweep across her features. Then she gathers herself together, glances at Mouse who is still murmuring to Jess, and smiles warmly.

  ‘I’ll just get the cakes,’ she says.

  While she’s in the kitchen, I gaze out the window at my house up the hill. It’s strange looking at my place from Laura’s; for a moment I almost expect to see myself leaning against the balcony or passing like a shadow behind the windows. It’s a shock to realise how much of my life can be seen from here. I hadn’t known I was so visible. Laura could sit here and watch me moving in the kitchen, or observe me feeding possums with Jess on the deck. How much does she know about me? How much of my grief has she seen? How much can she tell by watching the movements of a lonely man in his house with his dog?

  Then I realise perhaps this is why I am here, in her house for Mouse’s birthday. Maybe this is Laura’s attempt to help, her way of showing she cares. She can’t fix things, but she can offer me company. She understands loneliness.

  Then she’s back with a plate bearing four cupcakes with a candle stuck in each. ‘One candle for each decade,’ she says, smiling brightly at Mouse.

  He stares at the candles, and the light flickers in his eyes. She sets the plate on a small table in front of him and we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in tuneless voices. Laura puffs out the candles then hands a cupcake to Mouse.

  ‘It has pink icing,’ she says. ‘Your favourite.’

  Mouse takes the cake, forgetting Jess for a moment, and eats it. The icing sticks to his lip and Laura wipes it gently away. Then she passes a cupcake to me and also puts one on a plate on the floor for Jess. Jess glances up at me for permission then scoffs the cake quickly. It has been a very happy visit for her. Not at all what either of us expected. Jess pants happily at me, and I’m sure it’s because she hopes we’ll be invited again.

  When we leave, Laura lingers at the door. ‘Can we go for a walk tomorrow morning?’ she asks. ‘I haven’t gone for a while—I thought you needed to be alone. But with my new job I’m stuck in an office. And I do like to get out.’

  I pause too before nodding. ‘What time suits you?’

  She smiles. ‘How about seven o’clock?’

  37

  Leon and I arrange to meet at the Cloudy Corner campground. His four-wheel drive is already there when I arrive. I find him sitting near a patch of blackened soil where there’s obviously been a large campfire fairly recently.

  ‘She gave a talk to a group of scouts here,’ he says, as I join him in the shifting shade. ‘Did she tell you? She was a hit.’

  ‘No. She didn’t mention it.’

  Guilt sweeps across his face. ‘Perhaps she didn’t tell you because it didn’t end so well.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She collapsed. I suppose she fainted.’ He flushes. ‘She didn’t want me to tell anyone. She was worried your sister would take her back to Hobart.’

  ‘Mum had a passionate hatred of nursing homes.’

  Leon nods, still flushed. ‘Awful places. I’m glad she didn’t end up somewhere like that . . . It was quick at the end. There wasn’t much time for nursing . . .’

  We pause, each uncertain what to say next. We are two people brought together by circumstance; Mum is our only common denominator.

  Leon waves towards East Cloudy Head. ‘Let’s climb the hill before the weather comes in.’

  We pull packs and rain gear from our cars. At the trail head, we sign the logbook and begin the climb. Once we’re moving, talk begins to flow. It’s easier without eye contact.

  ‘I resented your mum at first,’ Leon says, clearly embarrassed. ‘She was prickly, and it was a hassle to have to check on her. I was railroaded into it by my boss. And I didn’t want extra work. I had enough on at home. Your mum wasn’t an easy companion either. She didn’t seem to understand I had work to do. Kept trying to corner me into taking her places. Always wanting to go here or there. Asking me intrusive questions and expecting me to stay for cups of tea.’

  ‘Did you take her on trips?’ I ask, surprised. ‘She didn’t tell me about that. She never asked me to take her anywhere.’

  ‘She seemed to have an agenda,’ Leon said. ‘A list of places she wanted to visit. Any opportunity, she’d be bugging me to take her. Not that we did anything when we got there. She just stood looking into space. Like she was living in another time. Maybe she was.’

  ‘Where did you take her?’ I ask.

  Leon shrugged. ‘It was all just local. The campground here. Past the farm. Up towards Mount Mangana. Clennett’s Mill. She even asked me to walk her up East Cloudy Head, of all the outrageous things. It was just after she’d fainted and I said no. I took her back to the cabin and tucked her into bed, where she belonged.’

  ‘So she showed you the farm?’

  ‘Just from the road. She didn’t say much. Just that she lived there with her relatives. And that she met Jack there—your dad. But she loved this place, I could tell. I can’t count the number of times I found her on the couch just staring out the window with a radiant look on her face like she was already in heaven. She didn’t get on with your sister though, did she?’

  ‘Mum and Jan have always clashed,’ I say. ‘Gary and I tend to work around things. To keep the peace.’

  Leon laughs. ‘Your mum didn’t give me much peace,’ he says. ‘I wanted to keep our relationship superficial. But your mum was always probing, seeking out soft spots. I wish her health hadn’t deteriorated so quickly—I’d have liked to spend more time with her. I tried to make sure she took her medication. But she probably needed to be in hospital at the end there, with the attention of doctors and nurses. She told me to mind my own business when I mentioned it. She was never one to hold back, was she?’ He stops for a moment to look out over Cloudy Bay where the morning light etches shadowy lines in the cliffs.

  ‘What was it like,’ I ask, ‘at the end . . . ?’

  His gaze focuses somewhere out over water, and there’s a sense of calm about him when he speaks. ‘When the time came, I didn’t know if she could feel anything. Her breathing was so slow and weak. But I took her out on the beach beneath the sky, and talked to her. It was peaceful when she went, just beautiful. I think she knew she was in her home.’

  We climb again and Leon allows me silence.

  ‘It’s amazing really, the way we became friends in such a short time,’ he says finally. ‘Maybe we could do it because we didn’t have any mutual history. And we were both aware it would be short. She was here to die, and I knew it. That meant that we could be honest with each other. Not that she told me anything secret. But we talked openly. She listened to me—that’s more than I can say for anyone else in my life.’

  He laughs. ‘You know, the first time I met your mum she was on a mission to trap me. I was cross and I got away from her on some excuse about checking the campground. But when I came back, there she was going for a walk on the beach. I don’t know how she managed to get out there, but she had her head flung back and her nostrils flared, daring me to have a go at her.’

  We both laugh at the image and take a rest on the saddle, looking down towards Cloudy Corner and across Cloudy Bay to the distant cliffs. Then we resume the climb, hiking quietly up the last stretch of track until we are on top in the blasting wild breath of the wind, gazing out over the iron grey of the immense rolling ocean. We pull out coats and beanies and sit on rocks sheltered from the worst of the gale. From the depths of my pack, I dig out a plastic container of sultanas and almonds to share. But I have been outdone by Leon, who produces a thermos of hot
coffee which he pours into thermal mugs along with a dribble of milk from a plastic bottle. Then he melts dark chocolate into the brew.

  ‘To your mother,’ he says, handing me a mug. ‘She was a fine woman. The best.’

  We clink mugs and stare across the vast landscape of light and sea, wind and cloud. ‘This is her home,’ I say. ‘She’s still here.’

  ‘She’d be pleased with me,’ Leon says, after a while. ‘I’m making a change, and she’d like that. I’ve applied for a job with National Parks in the Hartz Mountains, and they say there’s a good chance I’ll get it. I’ve been here a long time, looking after my folks. But my old man hasn’t been too well lately. He’s bedridden and going downhill. His liver’s shot. Too much grog. Mum’s taking care of him now.’

  He looks to me for approval and I nod. ‘You’ll like the Hartz Mountains,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful there.’

  ‘I’ll miss Bruny. But I’ll be back to visit Mum.’ He lapses to silence and we fix on grey distance where the lighthouse might be visible on a clearer day.

  ‘I’m glad you were with her when she died,’ I say. ‘I want to thank you for that—the company and friendship you gave her. I wish I could show you how much I appreciate it.’

  He glances at me. ‘Come and visit if I get this job in the Hartz Mountains. I’d like to keep in touch with someone from your family.’ He smiles. ‘And I don’t think I have much in common with your brother or sister.’

  We laugh, and there’s a sense of camaraderie between us, an almost-brotherliness.

  For a long while we sit, paying private tribute to Mum. When the cold starts to seep in, we pack and wander back down the hill.

  38

  Jan decides we should scatter Mum’s ashes at Cape Bruny—a surprising suggestion given her aversion to the place. Maybe Mum’s death has softened her, smoothed her jagged resentful edges. Gary and I quickly agree to the proposal. It will be good for all of us to get some closure.