I suggest we invite Leon along, given his presence at Mum’s death. But Jan says she doesn’t like the idea of including a stranger. I insist that Leon was Mum’s friend, not a stranger, but Jan won’t budge, and Gary thinks it’d be an intrusion too.
We make the journey to Cape Bruny in Gary’s new car complete with spoiler and shiny mag wheels. He isn’t keen to take his pride and joy on the corrugated Bruny roads, but Jan refuses to go in my old car and there’s really no other option. I leave Jess at home, whimpering at the gate, and I join my brother and sister in the car. It amazes me siblings can be so dissimilar and feel so disconnected.
The trip is long and quiet. Jan sits rigidly in the passenger seat beside Gary while I relax in the back, savouring the space and the lack of conversation. Even Gary doesn’t seem tempted to break the silence. He’s probably afraid of sparking Jan off, or setting her going on some tirade about how the past weeks would have been handled differently if she’d had her way.
At the light station, Gary swings his car into the carpark and switches off the engine. It’s an average early winter’s day, overcast and windy. I feel right at home. We ascend the hill in single file: Jan in the lead, me deferentially just behind, and Gary labouring at the back, undertaking the most exercise he’s attempted in years. He hobbles up the hill like a lame old bear, puffing and grunting. I wonder if he remembers the buoyant way he bounded up here when he was young.
By the time we reach the lighthouse, he has dropped back a good fifty metres. Jan and I shelter on the leeside of the tower out of the wind and wait for him.
It’s been a long time since I was here—ten years, maybe twelve—and it’s good to feel the wind raking over the heath. The tower is pretty much the same, despite a few chips of peeling paint, a few salt stains, a bit of rust on the lock. Back when I was a kid, they were always slapping whitewash on the walls, always cleaning the windows, polishing the brass fittings inside.
Gary arrives, panting. ‘Some climb,’ he gasps. ‘I think I need to join a gym.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ Jan says. ‘You might live longer.’
Gary’s face is flushed an unhealthy red and his chest heaves. ‘So what do you reckon? Where should we unleash the ashes?’
Jan squints across the hill. ‘How about over there, near the new tower.’
Gary shakes his head. ‘No, Mum wouldn’t want that. She always said Dad detested automation.’
Jan sighs. ‘You’re right. She’d hate us to do it there. It’d be disrespectful to Dad.’ It’s the first time I’ve ever heard Jan admit she was wrong. ‘But I don’t want to spread her ashes right here,’ she says. ‘I don’t like to think about people walking on her . . .’ She trails off, voice quavering.
‘We could wander down the hill a little and go off along that grassy track,’ I suggest, pointing. ‘That’d take us away from the tower and the tourists. I bet most people just follow the path up here and then go straight back down.’
Jan agrees and we walk slowly downhill, each of us meandering somewhere in memory. When I stop halfway across the slope, Jan comes up alongside me. Her face is almost soft. She waits for Gary to join us before handing me the little china urn.
‘Here, you do it,’ she says. ‘You love this place more than any of us.’
‘Just be careful to check the wind direction,’ Gary cautions. ‘I’ve heard of people wearing ashes all over them.’ He laughs stiffly.
‘It’s a sou’westerly,’ I say. ‘The wind’s almost always from the south-west at this time of year.’
I take the lid off the urn. Honeyeaters dip and flutter over the heath. I wave Gary and Jan behind me, then lift the urn high and trickle Mum’s ashes out into the wind. Grey dust catches and drifts and spirals. I toss the rest up as far as I can and stand back to watch the last grey flushes disappear among the bushes.
We stand for a long time, breathing quietly.
‘Well, I suppose that’s it then,’ Gary says after a while.
We start back across the hill to the path, where Jan decides she’s going down to talk to the caretaker’s wife. Gary wants to sit on the bench seat at the top and look south at the view. I give him my rain jacket as some protection from the wind and then I follow the track down towards Courts Island.
I haven’t been this way in years. When I was a child, I used to scramble down here all the time. Each day after lessons, I’d race up past the tower and down the slope to see if the tide was far enough out so I could scoot across the causeway. Back before I was born, they sometimes used to deliver mail in the sheltered area between the island and the cape. Someone from the light station would scrape down to the pebbly cove and grab a few supplies from a dinghy launched from the boat.
Today, I pause as the track steepens. Around the craggy coast, I see coloured buoys floating on the swell, marking craypots. I climb further down, and the causeway comes into view. Waves run across it from two directions, meeting in the middle, but the rocks are still exposed and it’s shallow enough to cross. The track becomes rocky and I pick my way down carefully.
The route has changed since I was young—it’s eroded now from use by too many people. Before I was born, people used to flock here during mutton-bird season. They’d park their cars along the road behind the cottages and rush up here to wait for the official opening hour. Then they’d cross to the island, no matter what the tides, to drag chicks from their burrows. Mutton birds were supposed to make good roasts, but Mum said the meat was oily. I never tried it, and then the harvest was banned. So that meant Courts Island was a sanctuary for me, a place to watch birds excavating their burrows at the beginning of each breeding season, their feet scraping, dirt flying. Later in the season the eagles would come, perching on rocks or low scrub, waiting for an opportunity to carry away a fat chick for a feast.
I scrabble down the last precarious section of track onto a stony beach strewn with clumps of kelp and stinking seaweed. After picking my way over rocks, I stride across the causeway through shallow lapping waves. On the other side, I climb the steep track among succulent pig-face and iceplant. The musty smell of bird is thick in my nostrils. Small animal paths crisscross the slope marked by webbed footprints. Dark round holes plunge beneath the vegetation, their openings lined with feathers. As I wander over the spongy ground, a wedge-tailed eagle with a blond mane takes to the air, flapping up slowly from a rock splashed white with guano. I stop to watch him as he rises in a lazy spiral and floats effortlessly higher, cruising over the green dome of the island.
When I was young, I came here once at dusk to be among the mutton birds returning to their nests. I crossed the causeway early, when the tide was out, and waited in the approaching dark until the birds started coming home. Out on the water in the fading light, I saw them floating in large groups, rafting on the tide. When the first bird returned to the colony it came to ground with a thud and scuttled into its burrow, clacking as it reunited with its chick. Then more birds came slamming home, diving out of the darkening sky. Soon the air was thick with them—hundreds of flying projectiles bursting out of the night, crashing awkwardly to the ground and scurrying off into burrows. Some impaled themselves on vegetation as they came in to land. There was blood, cries of pain.
Then the pain was mine. A plummeting bird thumped heavily on my back, raking me with its nails. More birds fell on me, their beaks like spears. I crouched, cowering, arms over my head. When finally there were no more birds cascading from the sky, I struggled downhill, sobbing, and waded across the causeway. The water was up to my thighs, deep enough to be dangerous, and I limped across the beach and then home, facing years of nightmares, of black shrilling birds plunging at me out of the night.
Now, as I sit among the pig-face, remembering, the wedge-tailed eagle rises further above me in ascending circles and disappears to the south of the island. My presence has unsettled him and I should remove myself so he can resume his solitary perch on the rocks. I pick my way back, wandering towards the eastern cliffs.
Finding a sheltered nook, I squat there, watching black waves surging against the cliff walls and shattering themselves on the rocks below. Kelp swirls and kinks, and I sink into the rhythm and movement. The regularity soothes and cleanses me. The roar and drone of the sea.
Beneath my skin contentment settles. My mother is dead, yes. She’s gone. But this is her place. She found happiness here, and peace. Her history was written here, her life bending and twisting and folding, like these great lumps of rock—going through a journey of creation, just like the earth and sky and sea and waves. Nature repeating itself over and over.
39
Time passes, maybe two weeks, and Jacinta comes to Coningham to join me for a walk. She comes on a cold grey day and we don coats before strolling down the hill beneath ominous skies. Along the beach track, Jess loops around us, investigating small rustlings in the bush. We pass Laura’s house, and she waves to us through the window. Several times recently Laura and I have walked together in the mornings, enjoying the birds.
‘Who’s that?’ Jacinta asks.
‘New neighbour.’
‘She looks nice.’ Jacinta looks at me sideways. ‘How’s Emma?’
‘Not sure.’
‘What does that mean? That you’re not going out with her anymore?’
‘Not since Mum died.’
‘You have to keep on living, you know.’
I shove my hands into my pockets and shrug.
‘What about going south?’ Jacinta asks. ‘Did they offer you that job?’
‘Yes.’ Bazza and Emma have been on the phone at least twice in the past week. ‘I’m not sure I want to go.’
Jacinta looks surprised. ‘I thought you were keen to go down there.’
‘It always seems you want something till you get it.’
‘I don’t mind looking after Jess, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘It’s not Jess.’
We step from the sandy track onto the sand. It’s chilly on the beach with a cold fresh breeze rippling over the water. The sand is grey to match the light. We sit above the high-tide mark while Jess trots up the beach sniffing at dead Japanese sea stars and other treasures.
‘That girl back there,’ Jacinta says. ‘The one who waved. What’s her name?’
‘Laura.’
‘You should ask her out.’
I shrug again, embarrassed. Perhaps Jacinta can read my thoughts. Inviting Laura to dinner is something I’ve been contemplating. She’s been pleasant company out walking, and we’ve come to know each other little by little each day.
The tick of a boat’s motor trickles across on the wind; it’s about a hundred metres out, heading up the channel.
‘I’ve been going through Nana’s things with Mum,’ Jacinta says.
I picture them working though Mum’s wardrobe, pulling out dresses, the fabric swinging. I imagine the clothes laid out on the bed. The coat hangers. The musty smell. ‘How’s Jan coping?’ I ask.
‘Better than expected.’ A brief smile flickers on Jacinta’s lips. ‘We’ve decided to give everything to the Salvos. Mum thought Nana would want someone to use her things rather than throwing them all away.’
I pick up a shell from the sand and toss it into the water. Far out across the channel the small boat is still thrumming.
‘Tom, I wanted to bring this to you.’ Jacinta bends forward and takes an envelope from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘I found it in Nana’s suitcase. The one she took to Cloudy Bay. It has your name on it.’ She hands the envelope to me and I look at it with vague interest.
‘I don’t recognise the handwriting,’ I say.
‘Perhaps you should read it. It might be important.’
I stare at the unfamiliar spidery scrawl. I can’t imagine what the letter could be about. The will’s been dealt with. I turn the envelope over a couple of times before opening it. Inside is a piece of folded paper. I unfold it, flattening it against my leg. Then I read the uneven writing looping from line to line down the page.
Dear Tom,
I suspect if you are reading this letter, your mother is dead. Mary was a grand lady in her time, but she was very strong and opinionated. To deliver this letter to you while she was alive would have been too difficult for her. I forgive her for that, even though it means more time lost for me.
You see, Mary carried a secret that was important not only to her, but also to me. I met your mother in a park in Hobart when she was sixteen, and over ten days we became close friends. Ten days doesn’t seem like long enough to fall in love, but your mother was a passionate person, as you probably know. Our lives were bound together in those few short days in ways neither of us could ever foresee.
When your mother’s parents found out about me, they sent her to Bruny Island. There she met Jack. I didn’t see her for many years. But time does not weaken the strongest of bonds.
There was an occasion, when your mother was living with her parents in Hobart, that I met her alone. Her parents and two children were out. Jack was on Bruny Island. And you were not yet born. I heard from other people in Hobart that Mary stayed another six weeks before going back to Jack. The records of your birthdate indicate that you must have been conceived during this period when Mary was away from Bruny Island. This is how I know you are my son.
I don’t know what a man should say to a son he has never met, but I do know this. If you are willing, after you have come to terms with this revelation, I would like to meet you. I will not be offended if you choose not to contact me. However, you must know that I start each day with the hope that it will be the day you call me.
Yours sincerely,
Adam Singer
By the time I arrive at the signature I’m shaking. Who is this Adam Singer? My eyes skim blindly over the phone number written at the bottom. I fold the letter and put it away, then pull it out again with quivering hands and read it once more before handing it to Jacinta.
‘Read it,’ I say, looking out across the water, wondering if the thunder I am hearing is in my ears or my heart.
Presently, I feel Jacinta’s hand gripping my arm. ‘Perhaps it isn’t true.’ I turn to look at her. She’s pale and stunned. ‘Maybe it’s some sort of prank,’ she says helplessly. She looks so worried and I feel like I’m floating, ethereal and formless.
‘I don’t know who I am,’ I say.
‘Yes, you do.’ She clutches my arm tighter. ‘You’re Tom Mason. Nothing changes that. You’re the same person you’ve always been.’
I look at her, blank. ‘My roots are gone.’ That’s how I feel. Like a tree with no roots. A puff of wind could blow me down.
‘Perhaps this could be a good thing,’ Jacinta says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Being without roots,’ she says. ‘It could be liberating.’
I stare at her, unconvinced. ‘How can this man be my father?’
Jacinta frowns. ‘Perhaps he isn’t.’
I shake my head. ‘He must have been. Mum must have known what this letter was about.’
‘But it was unopened.’
I stare blindly across the channel. ‘She knew. But did she want me to know?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it does. If Mum wanted me to know, she’d have given me the letter. Or she’d have told me herself.’
‘But the letter says she couldn’t have done that.’
‘Why not?’ I stare at Jacinta in bewilderment.
‘It would have been like betraying Grandpa all over again. If she’d already done that once . . . if she had . . . maybe she couldn’t do it again.’
I look at her without understanding. ‘Why didn’t she destroy it then?’
‘Perhaps she couldn’t. Maybe she thought this man— Adam—had a right to know you.’ Jacinta pats my arm gently. ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ she says. ‘You need time to think. You have to do what’s best for you.’
What’s best for me is to wind the clock back ten m
inutes. I shake off Jacinta’s hand and kick at the sand, unsure what to do.
‘It’s all right, Tom,’ Jacinta says. ‘You won’t self-destruct, even if it feels like it right now.’
‘I need to run.’ I rip off my coat and shove it at her. ‘Will you mind Jess?’
‘Yes. But be careful, Tom.’
I turn from her and flee, feet stabbing the clinging sand. I run hard towards the end of the beach. My body is tight with adrenalin, my legs pumping, my mind erupting. As I charge along, a pied oystercatcher takes off over the water. Masked lapwings flap into the sky, protesting noisily.
At the end of the beach, I turn up the track and pound through the bush to the road. I pause at the edge of the tarmac, my heart thudding. For a suspended moment, I stare at my house. But I can’t go there. The walls would hem me in and I might explode. I have to keep running.
Down the road I sprint, rushing the steep descent and hoofing along the flatter stretches. My breath is coming in tight gasps, but I keep running. I run to obliterate everything. To rub out fear and shock. Where is Mum in all this? Why didn’t she give me the letter? There were several opportunities at the cabin, but she let them pass by. Why didn’t she do it? Surely it would have been better than this, this overwhelming sense of loss and doubt and confusion. Who is this man who claims he’s my father?
The road leads to the water’s edge and I hammer along it. A car passes on the narrow stretch and I almost stumble in the ditch. But my feet keep going. I run till I meet the highway. Then I run south up the long hill, cars whizzing past me.
Weather comes in and I pump through it. Rain wetting my face, soaking my clothes, trickling down my back and into my shoes. I thought I knew my mother. And I thought I knew my father too, even though I didn’t understand him. Now I have this disorder and upheaval. Do I need to know this man? Do I need to contact him? He’s had nothing to do with me. He may call himself my father, but my father is Jack. The lighthouse keeper. The husband of my mother.
The Lightkeeper's Wife Page 35
