He looked down, and saw a clumsily tied parcel, held together with fishing twine. He took out his penknife again and carried the parcel into the wheelhouse. As he cut away the twine and pulled off the rough hessian wrapped around it, the brass plate became clearly visible, as did the legend upon it. It bore a name and a date, and marked the point at which Will Elliott knew that there was no escape from the clutches of Boy Jack.
The plaque read simply: ‘Dunkirk 1940’.
Three
Needles
It took exactly eleven days for the surveyor’s report to confirm that Boy Jack, in spite of her appearance, was seaworthy. Gryler was asking £25,000 for her but Will managed to knock him down to £23,000, to include three months’ free berthing at the Crooked Angel – time enough, he hoped, to do the boat up. With any luck the spare £7,000 would be enough to fund repairs sufficient to make her seaworthy. He’d be on his way by midsummer.
With an armful of cardboard boxes, courtesy of Primrose Hankey, he walked up the rough gravel path from the lane that led to Prince Albert Rock, conscious that this was a journey that from now on he would make as a visitor.
The wind had swung round to the north-east and had more bite than of late. Leaden grey clouds ballooned up from landward and the sea looked restless, breaking heavily on the rocks below the clean white tower. It had lost the blueness of mid April and seemed to hark back to winter in its chill grey tones.
Will walked around the side of the building and pushed open the door into the engine room.
“You all right, then?” It was Ernie Hallybone, broom in hand, sweeping the floor by the old foghorn compressors.
“Fine. Just got some boxes for my stuff. Should be out by lunchtime.”
Ernie smiled thoughtfully and carried on with his sweeping. They’d had all their conversations about the rights and wrongs of automation. “Loony,” Ernie called it. “You can’t get instinct and experience from a computer.”
Automation had been on the cards since the sixties and had begun in earnest in the eighties. Few keepers regretted the conversion of rock stations such as Longships and Wolf Rock, Bishop Rock and Eddystone – Ernie had been stuck on Wolf Rock once for three and a half months, thanks to the weather. He’d regaled Will with stories of storms that shook the tower, waves that passed right over the lantern, and boats standing off in violent seas to relieve the keepers of their watch, then having to go away again, the sea too rough to transfer the men.
Will had arrived too late for such a posting: today the rock stations were visited only by helicopter when maintenance was needed. At the time he had longed for such isolation. The suddenness of the tragedy had left him oblivious to anything but his grief. The healing process was slow. Even now it was far from over, and there was still a huge part of him that he dare not explore too deeply. But he had learned to live with that. In time it might change, perhaps not. Whatever the future held, the Cornish coast and the kindliness of his principal lighthouse keeper had done much to ease him back into life.
When he had arrived Ernie had found him difficult to communicate with, but had been wise enough to give him time to come to terms with his future. As a rule, lighthouse keepers were a patient breed, and Will knew that the service had something of the Foreign Legion about it. It was a way of life suited to a few, usually those who needed an escape. Every man joined the service for a different reason. Those who stayed had in common only a unique brand of self-containment, their patience and, often, a love of nature. Few other vocations could satisfy such men, except the monastic life, and that precluded certain activities that many lighthouse keepers would have been reluctant to forgo.
Will climbed the brass-railed stone staircase to his room, opened the door and dumped the boxes on the floor. His packing was almost complete. There were just a few more odds and ends to wrap and box before he could load the whole lot into the back of Ernie’s van and transfer them to his new floating home.
He looked out of the small window towards the sea, crashing on to the rocks, its crests blown back by a brisk offshore wind. He knew that stretch of water in every mood and yet really hardly knew it at all. It was totally unpredictable; every day was different.
The half-dozen completed models of Cornish cobles had already been packed. He put the remainder of his wood, his knives and twine, the paint, varnish and assorted bits and pieces together in a box, pushed bubble wrap carefully around it, sealed the box with sticky tape and wrote in neat script on the lid: ‘Boat Bits’. To a man, lighthouse keepers were tidy. They had to be, to avoid falling over things in confined spaces, and irritating each other.
As with every other lighthouse in Britain, six men had been assigned to Prince Albert Rock, divided into two sets of three, each three working one month on, one month off, a twenty-eight-day tour. Ernie Hallybone was the principal lighthouse keeper, Ted Whistler and Will Elliott his assistants. The other team, led by Evan Williams, had left the service at the end of their last tour a month ago.
During their month on duty the keepers would live in the lighthouse; some – Will, Ted and Ernie – lived there all the time, others moved inland to their homes during their month off.
The eight hours on and sixteen hours off had been a routine that helped Will rebuild his life. Each watch was different. From 4 a.m. till noon you could see the sun rise over the cliffs, hear the dawn chorus of land and sea birds and feel justifiably virtuous. From noon until 8 p.m. you could take things steadily and in summer enjoy a watch entirely in daylight. From 8 p.m. till 4 a.m. you were up and about while the rest of the world slept. For many it was the unfavoured watch, but for Will it was the ultimate escape, a time to look out to sea and watch the sun go down. Never had he experienced the fabled ‘green flash’ that Ernie boasted of seeing on the horizon twice in his life – when the sun sets over a flat, calm sea and the weather conditions are just right – but he had seen and enjoyed, times without number, the moon glistening on the Western Approaches.
He would miss it. He would miss the ships passing in the night. They were often lit more brightly by the moon than the sun and even when there was no moon, they were clearly visible under the stars in darkness illuminated only by the light from the lantern, one flash every three seconds.
He emptied the chest of drawers, five sweaters and ten shirts, three pairs of jeans, underwear and socks, and packed them into another box, before clearing his bookshelves. A small pile of CDs – Rameau and Philip Glass, Pat Metheney and George Shearing – were tucked alongside the books: the five volumes of Frank Cowper’s Sailing Tours, Joshua Slocum’s Sailing Alone Around the World and Libby Purves’s One Summer’s Grace. He was relieved that, unlike her, he would not be battling around Britain accompanied by fractious children.
He filled another box with back numbers of Classic Boat and the exercise books he had used as diaries since his first day at the lighthouse six years ago. He flipped open the one dated ‘Apr – May ‘94’ and read a paragraph. “Noon. Better today, I think. Still hard not to think of E all the time, even when trying hard to concentrate on something else. Thought of what she said about the colour of the geraniums down the steps at Oriel. Saw a skiff rounding the headland and remembered that day on the Cherwell in the rowing boat.”
He felt a pang in the pit of his stomach, and flipped the pages. “4 p.m. Sea vile. Almost black. Terns trying to stay airborne. Painted wall behind generator. Wish Trinity House knew what it was like using this shitty-coloured paint. Ted being equally shitty to all and sundry. Must be his time of the month. 6.30 p.m. Watched fishing boat PZ 291 picking up lobster pots around Bill’s Island. Two men getting a soaking. Seemed to catch quite a few.”
Will smiled, closed the book, and stacked it with the rest.
That was almost it, bar the sweeping up. Oh, and the certificate. He walked over to the windowsill and picked up the framed citation that had been presented to him the day before:
This is to Certify that William Elliott entered the Service of the Corporati
on of Trinity House of Deptford Strond on 19th April 1993 and left the service on 7th April 1999
This Certificate is issued as a mark of the Elder Brethren’s appreciation of many years of faithful service rendered.
Patrick Rowe
Deputy Master
Trinity House
Tower Hill
London EC3
Not that many years, thought Will, but maybe enough. He slipped the frame on top of the diaries and closed the box.
He had left the most difficult job until last.
“Come on, then. We’ve got to go.”
The cat was asleep at the bottom of the iron-framed bed, curled up on the neatly folded blankets. Or, rather, he was pretending to be asleep, having watched carefully the previous preparations through one half-open eye.
Will walked over to him and prodded him with a finger. “Are you coming or staying behind?” He eased his hand under the animal who remained relaxed until he caught a glimpse of the cat basket, at which point he became rigid and totally uncooperative. It would have been easier for a camel to have passed through the eye of a needle than for Spike to have entered the kingdom of the cat basket. He travelled to his new home on Will’s knee, both eyes tight shut.
♦
“Are you sure you want to be moving out now?” Ernie Hallybone was driving towards St Petroc, through which they had to pass to get to Pencurnow Cove.
“Yes. The longer I leave it the harder it will be. I’ve got to get on.”
“I can’t believe it’s all happening, really. It’s been so long coming I suppose I should be ready for it, but I still can’t take it in.”
“Nor me.”
“Forty-three years. It’s a lifetime, isn’t it? A bloody lifetime.”
“At least you’ll still be living here. I’m being kicked out into the big wide world.”
Ernie looked across at him. “It’s a bugger, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
They passed through St Petroc and turned west towards Pencurnow village.
“Are you taking all this lot with you?”
“Can I leave a few boxes with you until later?”
“Course you can. May’s got plenty of storage space in the spare room. What about the state of the boat?”
“Oh, I can cope with that. I’ve got rid of all the old carpet and curtains and scrubbed it out. It’s clean…ish. Bit spartan, though.”
“And cold.”
“I’ve got plenty of sweaters, and a good sleeping-bag. It’s been recommended by an Antarctic explorer.”
“Scott?”
“No. Someone who survived.”
Ernie was trying to make light of the occasion. He’d grown fond of the lad who’d worked with him for the last six years. He’d miss him. He had more rapport with him than he’d ever had with the dour Ted Whistler. Will had regularly been invited into Ernie’s flat at the lighthouse for supper, cooked by his wife May, who had a smallholding in the village. He always ate well at Ernie and May’s – fresh eggs and ham and home-grown vegetables. May was the sort of figure Will had always imagined as a farmer’s wife – amply proportioned with grey hair dragged back into a bun – one wisp always managing to escape, and rosy cheeks. She had a high-pitched, sing-song voice, almost always wore a brown overall coat and wellies, and looked, Will thought, like Beatrix Potter.
Ernie’s face was as weatherbeaten as that of a deep-sea fisherman. He seemed always to be smiling, and he and May, a childless couple, rarely had a cross word. It was, Ernie claimed, because they had always let each other have their own space. Ernie loved nature and bird-watching, May loved her livestock, and the one complemented the other. They were married, said May, ‘for better, for worse, but not for lunch’.
“You’ll keep comin’ to see us?” asked Ernie with concern.
“Course I will. What’s started you worrying that I won’t? I’m only round the corner.”
“Ten miles. A long way round ‘ere, ten miles.”
“Yes, but only by road. It’s closer across the water and the cliff path. You’ve got too used to your van.” Will turned to look at Ernie, whose eyes had glazed over. His jaw was set firm and he looked straight ahead.
Will hesitated. “There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Mmm?” Ernie’s response was distant.
“The boat. The rowing boat – The Gull.”
“What of it?”
“I want you to have her.”
Ernie began to protest, but Will cut him off: “I’ll have a bigger boat, and the Gull will be too heavy either to mount on davits or to tow behind. Anyway I want you to have her. No arguments, that’s it.”
“OK,” Ernie said quietly. “Thanks.”
“You all right?” Will had not seen him like this before. He’d always been relaxed and sanguine about anything life threw at him. But right now Will detected a note of apprehension in the older man’s voice.
“Fine. It’s just been a long time, that’s all.” He brightened unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”
Ernie had worked on almost half of Trinity House’s seventy-two lighthouses, ending up back on home territory in Cornwall. The only time Will ever saw his feathers ruffled was when Ted Whistler droned on about the inevitability of automation. “We’re not coastguards,” Ted would moan. “We don’t have to look out for anything, just clean things up, that’s all.” When this happened Ernie would give him chapter and verse on the benefits of manned lighthouses, on how many potential disasters had been averted because of a lighthouse keeper’s observations and instincts, and how many lives had been saved because of man rather than machine.
“Look, it might be ten miles by road, but it’s only a couple of miles by sea,” Will repeated reassuringly. “You can row over when it’s calm. And when it isn’t I’ll get on my bike, when I’ve got one.”
“Course you will. Don’t mind me. Just bein’ daft.”
“Old bugger!” Will mocked him, and nudged his arm.
“Aye, daft old bugger.” He laughed and jerked a thumb in the direction of the slumbering Spike. “He don’t seem to mind, then?”
“You wouldn’t have said that if you’d seen him half an hour ago.”
“How are you going to stop ‘im comin’ back?”
“No idea. He’ll do what he wants to do, I suppose – always has.”
The cat began to purr.
“May says you ‘ave to butter their paws. It makes the smell of their new place stick to them and then they don’t try to go back home.”
“I can’t afford butter. Does it work with marge?”
“Now who’s a daft bugger?”
Ernie laughed again. Their journey to the Crooked Angel boatyard continued in silence, except for the hum of the engine and the purring of the cat.
Four
Portland Bill
Their first night together passed uneventfully. The gentle swaying rocked both man and cat to sleep at around midnight, and Will awoke to the sound of scratching and seagulls at seven in the morning.
One thing he had not done was buy food, so there was no margarine to put on the cat’s paws. But he couldn’t leave Spike cooped up while he walked up the hill to Primrose’s: the boat had an ample sumciency of aromas already, without adding one of a feline nature. What’s more, the ship’s timbers were beginning to suffer the effects of Spike’s claws.
Will struggled out of the sleeping-bag, stretched, pulled on a fisherman’s sweater and a pair of shorts, then opened the door and let the cat out.
Spike crept gingerly over the threshold into the bright morning, his whiskers twitching and his tail held vertically aloft. He looked, thought Will, like a little boy who had just been introduced to a fairground. Eyes wide, he padded around the boat, familiarizing himself with his new territory. Then he hopped off and went down the pontoon in the direction of the jetty.
Will considered calling him back, but resisted, thinking that he might wake his boating neighbours. Instead, he watched throug
h the window of the wheelhouse as Spike plodded towards the jetty. Gryler would not be in his office yet. He had told Will he generally started work at around eight. The cat reached the jetty and looked to left and right before disappearing behind a pile of old wooden crates. For fully five minutes he was lost from view and Will was getting ready to go in search of his lost shipmate when Spike emerged from behind the crates with the remains of a fish.
Will’s thoughts turned to his own breakfast. Then he gazed at the bare interior of the boat, and wondered yet again if he had done the right thing. But he’d had no option. The boat had spoken to him that day a couple of weeks ago and he’d felt responsible for it somehow. What he had to do now was make it more reliably seaworthy and more comfortably habitable.
He sat back on the hard wooden bunk, acutely aware that his daily timetable had gone. What he did now, and when he did it, was up to him. It was tempting just to stay in bed and brood or, at least, it would be when he’d found a mattress. He could put off the voyage for a year or two if he wanted. It was a hare-brained scheme anyway. Why was he preparing to do it? How long would it take? Cornwall alone had 417 miles of coastline, counting all the twiddly bits. The distance round England, Scotland and Wales amounted, geographically, to 6,872 miles, though the voyage would be nearer 2,000 miles in reality. And what would he find at the end of it? Would he be back where he’d started in more ways than one? He wanted to voyage alone, but part of him wished he didn’t have to. If things had gone according to plan…But they had not.
He took stock of himself. It was no use thinking like this. He had to be positive, practical. For three years he had promised himself this voyage. It was now or never. He had a year to do it – he could probably eke out his present funds over twelve months but no longer. Then he would have to find another job. He would probably have to go back to making clocks. Unless something else turned up. There. Sorted.
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 3
