The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  He pulled on a pair of deck shoes then sneaked off the boat. He walked down the pontoon, across the jetty, let himself out through the blue gate and went up the hill in search of provisions.

  ♦

  Primrose could not disguise her surprise at his appearance. She said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. It amused Will to think of the gossip she’d be passing on today: “Mr Elliott, the lighthouse keeper, has really let himself go. Used to be so neat and tidy. You wouldn’t know him now. Such a pity.”

  He walked back down the hill towards the boat, loaded with four carrier-bags. The threatening clouds of the day before had blown away, and the sky was clear. There was a faint nip in the air. He looked across at the lighthouse and thought of Ernie, hoping he’d soon settle into his new role. He was sixty-two now; time he slowed down a bit. Anyway, he’d have more time for his bird-watching between showing round visitors, which was pretty much a seasonal job in this part of Cornwall.

  As he reached the bottom of the hill he turned the corner and walked past the Roundhouse. Primrose had called it ‘the heart of the village’ and Will noticed that it had been smartened up since he last set eyes on it a couple of weeks ago. The window-frames were glossy white, and the clapboard exterior was now a soft blue. The slate roof sat on top like a coolie hat, and the double doors were crowned with a sign proclaiming ‘Roundhouse Studio’, framed by bleached lengths of silvery driftwood.

  Will mounted the steps to take a closer look inside. He pressed his nose to the glass of the door and started when he saw a face inside looking directly back at him. He lurched back and one of his carrier-bags gave way, spilling an assortment of produce from wild rice to apples, tinned sardines to biological toilet cleaner.

  “Sorry! I didn’t mean to make you jump.” The voice was a mixture of amusement and concern. Will looked up. Standing in the now open doorway was a woman in her late twenties. She wore jeans, a white T-shirt, and a mass of auburn curls cascaded over her shoulders. Her face was pale and expressive, and the corners of her mouth were doing their best not to allow themselves to turn upwards into a grin.

  She knelt down and helped him retrieve his shopping. “I’m sorry. What a mess. Aaah!” She looked at the oozing eggs in their battered box. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t worry. I shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

  “I’m glad you were. It proves the place looks interesting.”

  “Are you open yet?” he asked, retrieving a tin of soup from the gutter.

  “It’s my first day today.”

  “Well, I hope you do well.” He smiled. “The place certainly looks a lot better.”

  “I’ve done my best, but it’s taken a while. It’s a couple of months since I started on the inside. The outside was much easier. I only hope it works.”

  The shopping was back in the bags now and Will stood up, cradling one in his arms and hoping that the handles of the others would last until he made it back to the boat. “What are you selling?” he asked.

  “My paintings.” And then, belatedly, “Hi…I’m Amy Finn. I’m a painter. Sort of.”

  “Will Elliott. Lighthouse keeper. Well, until last week.” He made to shake her hand, then realised he couldn’t so grinned apologetically.

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’m living on a boat over there,” he jerked his head in the direction of the Crooked Angel, “but it needs a lot of work doing.”

  “Well, you’ve got the summer to come.”

  “Yes.” He found he was staring at her. She was quite small, with fine features and a dusting of freckles on her pale skin. She wore no jewellery, and there was a freshness about her that took his breath away.

  “Do you…er…would you?” He hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you consider exhibiting work from other artists, or will it be all your own work in the gallery?”

  “Oh, I’ll have to take stuff from other artists. I can’t paint fast enough to keep the place full – if my work sells, that is. And, anyway, I think people want to see lots of different styles – they might not like mine.” She shrugged.

  “How will you decide what to sell?”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open locally and see what I can find. And other artists will hopefully drop in and offer me stuff.”

  “Just paintings?”

  “No, sculpture. All art forms, really.” She looked at him inquisitively. “You sound interested.”

  “Well, it’s just that…I make these model boats, you see, not Airfix, wooden models of Cornish cobles. Traditional rowing boats. Do you think you might have a look at one…just to see? I have to make a bit of cash somehow and – ”

  “Love to. Why don’t you bring one round?”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “As long as you don’t mind me turning you down if it’s not the sort of thing I think I could sell.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Are you free tonight? I’ll be closing at five. Why don’t you come round then? If you’d like to?”

  He felt a brief sense of elation. “Yes. Fine.” He nodded nervously, a touch embarrassed, then walked backwards for a few paces down the lane before realizing that he must look silly, at which point he nodded again and turned. He began to whistle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. He took a deep breath and headed for the boat and breakfast.

  ♦

  The cup of coffee revived him. Gryler had supplied him with a cylinder of propane and Primrose had sold him a twin burner. He also had a kettle, a saucepan, a single set of cutlery and some plastic plates, bowls and mugs.

  The plumbing would have to be his first priority, along with a mattress. He found a pencil and pad in one of his boxes and drew up a list of things to do.

  He was at the bottom of page three when he heard a call. “Halloo? Hallooooo?”

  A bearded face was peering above the rail of the boat. “Halloo?”

  “Yes?” Will got up and ducked through the door of the wheelhouse.

  “Permission to come aboard, skipper?”

  It was the first time Will had been given the rank and it made him laugh. “Yes. Er…do.”

  His visitor clambered over the rail, a gangly man with long, thin limbs, grubby corduroy trousers that had once been green, and a navy-blue Guernsey threadbare at the elbows. His sandy whiskers matched the hair on his head – an unruly thatch unused to a comb.

  “Utterly,” said the man, offering his hand. Will looked about apologetically.

  “Yes, it is a bit, I’m afraid.”

  “No!” The man threw back his head and laughed, displaying a mouth full of uneven teeth. “Aitch Utterly – I live in the boat next door.” He scratched his head. “Good to have you with us. Not that there are many of us, but we’re a jolly bunch.”

  Will noticed that the man hardly stopped smiling. He had one of those faces that probably smiled when he was asleep.

  “You’re the lighthouse keeper, aren’t you? The last lighthouse keeper. Read all about it in the paper.”

  Will’s heart sank. Suddenly the prospect of living in a community once more – albeit a small boating community – filled him with dread. He’d imagined that on his own boat he could enjoy his own company. He’d not taken into account that he would have neighbours.

  “Now, look,” Aitch had seen the panic in Will’s face, “you’ve probably come here for a quiet life so don’t worry. Everybody on these boats does their own thing. We don’t live in each other’s pockets but we’re good company when you want it. Well, most of us. We stick together. Great community spirit, but most of us know where to draw the line. Sorry to go on a bit. Spend a lot of time on me own. Think it makes you a bit of a chatterbox when you get in company. Sometimes.” He chuckled. “Depends whose company it is, of course. One or two folk round here wouldn’t give you the time of day. Can’t be doing with them. Life’s too short. Mmmm. Too short.” He became introspective, as if transported to a different tim
e and a different place. Then he was back. “Anyway, there I am, in my boat – Florence Nightingale, the yawl.” He pointed to the other side of the narrow pontoon. “Bit close, I know, but I think we’ll get on. I won’t get in your way. Mmmm. No. Leave you in peace now. Let me know if you want anything – tools or whatever – only too pleased to oblige. Till then, cheerio.” And he leapt over the side, on to the pontoon then back into his own boat, disappearing through the hatch with a wave.

  “Well,” said Will, to his cat, “I think we’ve just met our neighbour.” For the second time that morning he felt unusually happy.

  Five

  Coquet

  Getting clean is not easy when all you have is a bucket. Will arranged a carpet of pages from the now unwanted Boats and Planes For Sale in the middle of the wheelhouse, put the bucket in the centre and added a kettleful of boiling water to the chilly contents. He had a bar of Wright’s Coal Tar soap and a flannel, a bottle of frequent-use shampoo, a throw-away razor and some shaving gel.

  He set to work removing his stubble. He squinted into a small mirror and caught Spike’s eye. “I know it’s not what you’re used to but at least you’ve got your own bit of blanket.” The cat blinked. Will finished shaving, shampooed his hair then set about washing himself in the bucket. The absurdity of the enterprise suddenly struck him. He laughed. “The sooner we get that bath and shower sorted the better,” he said to Spike, as he towelled himself dry.

  “If Gryler wasn’t too mean to have a shower block we’d be OK. Thank goodness he’s got a loo.” Spike ignored him: he was trying to remove the margarine from his paws.

  Will dressed as tidily as he could in a clean pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and brushed dried mud from his deck shoes. Then he went to the boxes at the sharp end of the boat to fetch out one of his models. It was carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and he eased it out of the box. He told Spike he wouldn’t be long, then he closed the door behind him and locked it. It was safer than leaving Spike loose on what was only his second night as a sailor.

  A meal was being prepared in Aitch’s boat as he passed, and he could hear shipboard voices on pontoon number two, accompanied by the gentle lapping of water at the bows of an old speedboat named The Slapper. In the sunset the water of the boatyard glowed a dull orange. The cry of a single gull echoed across the glassy water. It was, he thought, as he walked down the jetty towards the gate, not a bad place to live.

  ♦

  He tapped on the glass of the gallery door. There was a pause, then the sound of feet, and Amy unlocked the door.

  “Hi!” She flung back her arm to invite him in. He felt himself blushing. It surprised him. He was thirty-seven, for God’s sake. He cleared his throat. “Hi. How was your first day?”

  “Oh, a bit slow. Quite a few people came round but I didn’t sell much – it’s early in the season.”

  She dropped the latch behind him and pulled down a linen roller blind. “So what do you think?”

  He looked around. “Wow!” The Roundhouse consisted of a circular space on two levels, linked by a spiral staircase on the far side. The floor was of ancient oak planks that had been scrubbed clean of the nautical detritus of a century or two. The walls were white and lit with tiny bright spotlights fastened to wires that criss-crossed the room. On the floor, towards the middle of the room, stood half a dozen different artworks made from ‘found objects’ – lumps of driftwood, rusty old nails and chains. There were a couple of erotic sculptures of abstract figures, but it was the paintings that caught his eye, canvases of Cornish beaches with burning white sand and sky of the most brilliant azure. Each radiated a freshness and energy that amazed him.

  “There’s hardly anything here yet. There’ll be more over the next few weeks, I hope, but I don’t want to fill it with too much.”

  “No.” He was gazing at one of the paintings, transfixed.

  “Do you like them?”

  “Yes.” It seemed lame. “Very much.” Then he found his breath. “I think they’re wonderful.”

  “Oh, that’s a bit strong.”

  “No, I do. I can take or leave the driftwood but the paintings, wow!”

  “Well, that’s honest!”

  “Whose are the sculptures?”

  “Oh, a friend. I want to get more smaller things for a sort of plain wooden counter over there. I’ll have to sell little souvenirs, too, but I want them to be good. Anyway, come upstairs and have a drink. I’ve got a bottle in the fridge.” She walked towards the staircase. “It’s a bit spartan, I’m afraid.”

  Amy’s spartan was not Will’s spartan. The floor was covered in coir matting, the walls were washed pale blue and a vast cream linen curtain was hauled back at one end to separate the sleeping and living areas. Will noticed a large double bed with white pillows, and in the living area two blue and white striped chesterfields faced each other across a low, scrubbed-pine table.

  A cello lay on its side on the floor, near a music stand and a pile of music. A few pictures were propped up against the wall.

  “The bathroom is through there if you want it.”

  A single white-painted door was sufficiently ajar for Will to see an ancient iron bath with ball and claw feet and brass taps. “It’s better than my plumbing. All I’ve got at the moment is a bucket.” He put the boat on the table between the sofas as she came towards him with a bottle of Chardonnay and two glasses.

  “Could you do this? Do you mind? I’ll put some music on.”

  As he peeled off the foil she pressed the buttons of a small stereo, which eventually produced the soft sounds of a Bach string quartet.

  The cork came out with a loud plop and he tipped the wine into the glasses as she returned.

  “Mmm, that looks good.”

  “Well…here’s to you and your gallery.”

  “Studio, please. Gallery sounds a bit posh. Cheers!”

  They sipped and she motioned him to sit on the sofa. She sat opposite, tucking her bare feet under herself. “Now, then, show me the boat.” He put down his glass and carefully undid the tissue paper to reveal the Cornish coble.

  She slid off the sofa on to the floor, and studied it seriously. He began to believe it was not really her sort of thing. “I don’t mind if it’s not suitable,” he said.

  “What?” She was preoccupied.

  “I don’t mind if you feel it won’t really fit in.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She spoke quietly. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  He sat still and quiet, filled with unexpected pride as her eyes ran over the boat’s lines.

  “I don’t usually go much for model boats. They seem phoney, somehow. But yours has life. How long does it take you? Oh, God! I hate it when people ask me that about my paintings and here I am asking you.”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve never timed myself. But a long time, I suppose.”

  “So often models like this are…well, numb. But yours isn’t. I love it.”

  “I’m glad.” He felt ridiculously pleased with himself.

  “Can I exhibit it tomorrow?”

  “Fine. Great.” He could hardly believe his luck.

  She climbed back on the sofa. “What made you start making them?”

  “Oh, I had time on my hands and needed to fill it with something.”

  “But you could have done anything. Why model boats?”

  “Because I love the sea and the escape it offers. And I love the idea of escaping on a wooden boat. So a model wooden boat seemed appropriate. I could dream while I made it.”

  “About what?”

  “Sailing away.”

  “From what?”

  “Oh…life.”

  She looked at him and sipped her wine.

  “Is that why you became a lighthouse keeper? To sail away from life?” She made light of it, smiling as she spoke.

  “Yes.”

  She noticed his shuttered look. “I’m sorry. I’m too nosy. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No. It’s OK.” Will
always felt self-conscious when conversations took this turn, but she looked at him with a combination of gentleness and concern that made him feel secure rather than threatened. He felt under no pressure to speak, but found that he could without the usual burning desire to run away. “It’s six years ago now. I know it’s stupid but I still find it hard to talk about.”

  “Sorry. Typical of Finn. Barging in. I’m sorry.”

  “No, really, it’s fine. I should be used to it now.”

  She sensed the echoes of grief. “It is and it isn’t. Some things stay raw and others fade. I know.”

  He looked at her open face. She didn’t seem to be prying.

  “I was working in Oxford. I was a clockmaker. I’d been married a year, to Ellie. We met at college – went out for ages.” He smiled to himself. “Two days after our first anniversary she was killed. Hit-and-run driver. Just like that. Gone. She was expecting a baby. I lost the two of them in one go.”

  Amy sat looking at him, shocked, as he continued in a calm, measured voice. “I didn’t know what to do. I just knew I wanted to be on my own. I don’t mean I don’t like company – I’m better at it now – but I still need space and time on my own. I find it difficult to be in a room full of people.”

  He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his arms resting on his knees and his pale blue eyes gazing into the middle distance. “I’m so sorry.” Amy wanted to put her arms round him and tell him he was a lovely man and that it would be all right. “Did you ever think of seeing anybody about it?” she asked.

  “Not for long. Didn’t want to admit to anybody that I couldn’t cope. I wanted to sort myself out. Share your troubles and they just keep being brought back to you. I didn’t want that. Didn’t want somebody else getting involved.”

  “So you shut yourself away?”

  “Yes. I thought that way I could get over it in my own time. Cry myself silly. But I still haven’t.” He smiled. “Funny, isn’t it? My world fell apart and I couldn’t even cry.”

  “It’s more common than you’d think.”

  “I didn’t feel I could be a monk.” He brightened and she took the joke. “Anyway, Ellie wouldn’t have wanted that. And I didn’t know what I believed in, which was a bit of a drawback, so I looked for another solo occupation. As a lighthouse keeper I could be remote, solitary, have time to reflect. Then I found I’d be working with two other people, but our watches were solo so that meant I could be alone a lot. And I like Cornwall. It’s out on a limb. Like me.”