I pass the fruit and vegetable shop at Oyster Cove. Cars are parked there, people buying things, thrusting fruit into bags. I run past them up the hill, resenting their normal lives. Just a short time ago, my life was ordinary too. I was Tom Mason, son of Jack Mason, grieving the loss of my mother. But my father is no longer my father. And another man has appeared. A nobody out of nowhere. He hasn’t watched me grow up. He hasn’t wiped my nose, cleaned my tears, patched bleeding knees. I don’t have to invite him into my life. I owe him nothing. Jack is my father.
When I’m close to the top of the hill the rain stops. I run on, past the skeleton of a house under construction, past paddocks where horses and native hens graze side by side, past farm dams reflecting the sullen grey sky. As I run downhill, the rain comes in again. It mingles with the tears on my face. The highway thuds beneath my shoes. The hills push me up and fall away again.
The turn-off to Kettering appears, with signs for the ferry. I keep on running. The road narrows past the marina where the masts of a hundred yachts bristle. Now my breath comes in gasps and sobs. I run to the end of the road, through the carpark, along the waiting lanes, and then I am at the terminal.
There’s the ferry, not far out. It has just left for Bruny Island, the white trail of its wash kicking up behind. I watch it pull away, its engines throbbing rhythmically. It feels as if my past is leaving me. As if it is deserting me, and I know it won’t come back.
How can I walk bravely into a new and unexpected future? It’s not something I’ve ever been good at.
I kneel on the tarmac, gasping for breath. The ferry rounds the headland. Soon it will be out of sight. When I stand up and walk away from here, I will have to accept that everything is different. Every thought I’ve ever had will require rethinking.
That night I keep hoping the oblivion of sleep will arrive, but it doesn’t. I feel the uncertain texture of the future. I keep thinking about Mum. Adam Singer. My father.
Then it is dark.
The sound of the sea is thick around me, rushing somewhere beyond steep cliffs. I’m crouching on the ground, alert, waiting for something. Suddenly I unfurl great wings and surge into a smudged grey sky. The channel is below. I sweep over it, just above the glassy surface of slow waves, flying low and fast, like an albatross.
Near land, I bank upwards, lifting over hills and forests. Cracks of creamy light seep between doleful clouds. I sail out over cliffs, like an eagle now, and the sea falls away beneath me. I drop over the water, skimming through fine spray from the wind-fetched tips of waves. To the west is the dark shape of Cape Bruny. The lighthouse flashes, and streaks of white light shoot across land and sea. I rush towards it on the wind, rising upwards over land, lifting high above the keepers’ cottages.
Below, a dark figure approaches the tower. It’s the tall shape of my father, Jack the lightkeeper, bent forward in the gale. He stops at the heavy black door, unlocks it, swings the door wide. I sweep in after him and stop at the foot of the stairs. He is on the staircase. I hear the steady clomp of his boots. The hollow ring of his footsteps. I have to hurry. I have to find him before he turns out the light.
I fly up the stairs, swooping around the spirals, ascending towards light. Then I am in the lantern room, the glass windows in a circle around me. The lens is still revolving, still bending scattered rays of light into coherent beams that shoot through grey dawn and lose themselves far out over the heaving sea. All is quiet.
I listen for my father’s voice, his cough in the silence, his muffled footsteps on the floor. There’s a bang. A rush of wind in the vents. The door to the balcony slams open and a shadow passes through. My father escaping.
I follow him out into the blast of the wind and the airiness of the balcony. The dawn flares red, brightening quickly, the light swirling as I look around.
There is nothing. Just the giddy height of the tower. The wild whip of the gale. And the strangely uplifting sensation of space. The possibility of air.
My father is gone, but the breaking light releases me. In the whirl of wind, I am the calm eye of the storm.
When I wake, the house is still. I’ve slept in and light slips beneath the curtains and across the floor. Jess is watching me from her basket, her chin resting on her forelegs. As our eyes connect, the fluffy tip of her tail flaps softly three or four times. She’s wondering when I’m going to get up. The day has begun. There are things to be done. Dog things, like walks and food.
I roll over beneath the covers and hide from the light. My dream is still pinning me down and I’m not sure what it means. But I can only rest a few minutes before I toss back the covers and slide out. Jess leaps instantly to my side. She pads to the door and looks at me expectantly, wanting out. I open the door for her, feeling the gush of fresh air on my face. After breakfast, I’ll go out too. I feel strong. I’ve resolved something during the night. Maybe it was the dream.
In the kitchen, I make coffee and contemplate my options. My mind is unsettled, but there are ways to move forward. I won’t sit around and wallow in sorrow and confusion like I would have in the past. I’m beyond that now. I can be decisive. There are many things I can do, positive things. I could go to the garage and get back on the job, or I could ditch work for the day and see if Laura is home. Maybe we could go for a drive up Mount Wellington, just to feel the wind.
Turning back to the bench to make breakfast, I see the phone and stop. My hand hovers over the handset and I pick it up, feeling its weight in my hand. Then I pick up the piece of paper on the bench, check the number and dial it.
‘Hello.’
‘Bazza.’
‘Tom. I hope you’ve rung to make me a happy man.’
‘I’m sorry, Bazza. I can’t do it.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re taking Fredricksen’s job.’
‘No. But I wanted to tell you first; I’m not going south.’
‘Well, that’s a bugger. Maybe next year.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But thanks for the opportunity.’
‘No worries, mate. Stay in touch.’
I hang up the phone and lay it on the bench. Then I pick it up again. I ought to ring Fredricksen. But there’s someone else I need to ring first. I find the number.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
My whole body is waiting for the receiver to be picked up.
Please answer.
‘Hello.’
My hands sweat. I turn the piece of paper over and run my fingertips lightly over the spidery writing. My heart is in my throat.
‘. . . Is that Adam Singer?’
‘Yes, yes it is.’ The voice is gravelly, unfamiliar.
‘Hello . . . this is Tom.’
Acknowledgements
The writing of The Lightkeeper’s Wife has been a challenging but fulfilling journey. For support, encouragement, persistence and good faith, I thank my publisher, Jane Palfreyman, at Allen & Unwin. She pushed me to delve deeper and deliver more, and for this I am grateful. The excellent editing skills and input of Siobhán Cantrill, Catherine Milne and Clara Finlay also helped greatly in the shaping of this book, and A&U designer, Emily O’Neill, has created a stunning cover. Thanks to all of you.
Without the ongoing support and positivity of my agent, Fiona Inglis at Curtis Brown, this book would not have happened. I thank her for guiding me through unexpected squalls along the way. Also, my wonderful husband, David Lindenmayer, had unflinching confidence in me, and read and re-read the manuscript beyond the call of duty. My sister, Fiona Andersen, gave invaluable comments on earlier drafts of the book. Marjorie Lindenmayer provided indispensible help and diligently read the page proofs.
For giving me the opportunity to experience Antarctica and be captivated by this grand wilderness, I thank the Australian Antarctic Division. I went south twice as a volunteer on ANARE projects working on Weddell and crabeater seals (summer of 1995–96 and 1996–97). The caretakers at the Cape Bruny Light Station, Andy and Beth Campbell, provided a happy and comfortabl
e stay in the assistant lightkeeper’s cottage, and I especially thank Andy for answering my many questions. The history room at Alonnah on Bruny Island was also a useful resource.
Where possible I have tried to be consistent with the history of the lighthouse, the region and the era, however deviations from the facts were sometimes necessary to facilitate the telling of the story. Information on lighthouses and the way of life on light stations was gleaned from many books, including: Guiding Lights: Tasmania’s Lighthouses and Lighthousemen (K.M. Stanley); From Dusk Till Dawn: A History of Australian Lighthouses (Gordon Reid); Romance of Australian Lighthouses (V. Philips); Beacons of Hope: An Early History of Cape Otway and King Island Lighthouses (D. Walker); Following their Footsteps: Exploring Adventure Bay (ed. C.J. Turnbull); Stargazing: Memoirs of a Young Lighthouse Keeper (Peter Hill); The Lighthouse Stevensons (Bella Bathurst); Lighthouses of Australia (John Ibbotson); and the newsletters and website (www.lighthouses.org.au) of Lighthouses of Australia Inc., a non-profit organisation which aims to create a higher profile for Australian lighthouses within Australia and overseas, to thereby preserve, protect and promote their place within our history. I have also visited many lighthouses both in Australia and eastern Canada, and have had wonderful sojourns at the Cape Bruny Light Station in Tasmania, Green Cape and Point Perpendicular lighthouses, southeastern NSW, and Gabo Island lighthouse in Victoria.
Insights into Antarctica were derived from my time at Davis Station in the Australian Antarctic Territory, from the notes of my friend Raina Plowright, and from several books, including: The Home of the Blizzard (Sir Douglas Mawson); Just Tell Them I Survived (Dr Robin Burns); Slicing the Silence: Voyaging to Antarctica (Tom Griffiths); and The Silence Calling: Australians in Antarctica 1947–1997 (Tim Bowden). Special thanks also to my lovely friend Mandy Watson for sharing her home in Coningham, and to friend Bryan Reiss for elucidating the role of diesel mechanics in Antarctica.
This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Vera Viggers, who is not Mary Mason in this story. She was, however, a humble, personable and generous woman who has been a great inspiration in my life. I am sad that she did not see the completed version of this book before she died, but she did enjoy an earlier draft.
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I: ORIGINS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART II: EVOLUTION
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
PART III: DISINTEGRATION
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
PART IV: RESURRECTION
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Lightkeeper's Wife Page 36
