The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  “No family?”

  “No. Mum and Dad both died when I was young. I was brought up by my granny and she died ten years ago. Sorry story, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you told me. Pleased you felt you could.”

  “Thanks for listening. I’m sorry to go on. Talking about myself.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She moved across to sit nearer to him. “I did ask you – you didn’t volunteer it.”

  “No, but when you spend so much time thinking about yourself and your own problems you have to be careful not to forget other people.”

  “It’s not the easiest thing to get over, is it? Losing the person you loved most and your unborn child at the same time. It’s the most devastating thing imaginable. I think anyone would understand that.”

  “Like you? I’m not sure they would.”

  “Oh, I’m not that special.”

  “Special enough to come here all on your own and open your own place. That’s special. It takes courage.” He paused, anxious to move the conversation on to a happier subject. “Have you always been a painter?”

  “No.” She looked up. “Like you, I’m an escapee, except that it was my career that was taken away from me.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was with the Ballet Rambert. Then I moved to Ballet d’Azur. I was doing quite well. Principal dancer. And then my knee went. Lateral meniscus.” She rubbed at the offending joint. “That was it.”

  “God. How awful.”

  She laughed sardonically. “Yes, it was a bit. Life devoted to my art and wham! Finished overnight.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “Like hell. It nags away all the time. Like unfinished business. I still do a bit of barre work every day” – she pointed to a rail along part of the wall – “but my career is finished.”

  “How can you be so sure? Won’t it get better?”

  “Oh, it is better. But there’s always a danger it will go again.”

  “And you don’t want to take the risk?”

  “I wish I could. The trouble is, it’s not just the knee. It’s the nerve. I haven’t got the guts to carry on, if I’m honest. I try, but I keep feeling this nagging doubt. Some days I think it’ll be fine, and then others I know it’s over. To be perfectly honest I’m terrified it’ll go again and that I won’t even be able to walk.”

  “So you decided to paint?”

  “I’d always dabbled. I needed to find another way of earning a living so I thought I’d give it a go. I managed to sell canvases to friends and the time came when I had to get away from London. So I rented this place and here I am.” She got up, picked up the bottle and came back to fill up his glass. She sat closer to him than before. He admired the clearness of her complexion.

  “What about the cello?” He gestured towards it.

  “Oh, I’m not very good, but it lets me get rid of the pent-up frustrations I have when I do a crap painting.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s like me and boats. Stay off the water too long and I get withdrawal symptoms.”

  “Is that why you’re living afloat?”

  “Yes.”

  “For ever?”

  “I wish. But for now anyway. I’ve always had this nagging idea about sailing around Britain. I kept telling myself it was daft but it’s become a sort of personal challenge. I’ve learnt how to sail. I can navigate. And now I’ve bought a boat with two engines and no sails because I fell in love with it. Crazy!”

  “How did you come to fall in love with it?”

  “It turned out to be one of the little ships of Dunkirk, and I’m just a sentimental old fool.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “It’s a dangerous age – fast approaching the big four-oh.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Never you mind.” She paused and looked him in the eye. “Oh, all right, then, twenty-nine.”

  “Not a dangerous age?”

  Amy laughed. “What about supper?”

  “Oh. No. I couldn’t. I’m holding you up.”

  “You’re not holding me up at all. It’s nice to have someone to share things with. I’ve been on my own for a few weeks now.”

  “Well…” He hesitated. “Only if you’re sure.”

  She smiled her relaxed smile. “I’m sure.”

  Will wondered about her attachments, but told himself it was both too soon and too obvious to enquire.

  They talked on. She made supper – simple pasta with olive oil and broccoli – and they drank the rest of the wine.

  It was after midnight when he left. They parted at the door of the studio and she kissed his cheek lightly. For a moment he was unsure how to leave.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Thanks for listening,” he murmured.

  “It was a pleasure.” They stared silently at each other, and then he was gone into the night.

  Six

  Smalls

  “Jump, then! Go on, jump.” Will heard the commotion and felt the bump from the engine room of Boy Jack. It was an East London accent, male, and more than a little irritated. Friday afternoon and the weekenders had arrived.

  “Get it nearer, then! I can’t jump that far.” A female voice responded to the shouted order.

  “Bladdy hell, woman. I’m as near as I can get it! Jump bladdy off.” There was a loud bang followed by “Christ! Tie the bladdy thing off, then.”

  Will swung up from the engine room, arms smudged with black oil, and stuck his head tentatively out of the doorway. The speedboat whose name had intrigued him on his first visit to the boatyard – Sokai – was at right angles to his own pontoon, her engine burbling and her bows nudging one of the wooden piles. A long smudge of paint along the transom of Boy Jack showed where contact had been made, and a blonde, fluffy-haired woman in a blue-and-white-striped Breton jersey and white pedal-pushers lay spreadeagled on the pontoon, a length of rope in her hand. On the foredeck of the boat, his legs surrounded by jumbled coils, was a man in white jeans and a white Arran sweater, a fat cigar-stub clamped between his lips, his face getting redder by the moment.

  “Stupid bladdy woman. Tie it off, we’re drifting.” The pile of fluff in the pedal-pushers scrambled unwillingly to her feet and tied her end of the rope in an elaborate knot to a cleat on the pontoon.

  “Now the other one. Now the other one,” he bellowed as she tottered along the pontoon in her high-heels. He hurled at her a tangled web of rope, which dropped into the water just inches from her reach.

  “Jesus wept! Where’s the boathook? Where did you put the boathook?”

  The woman, now on the verge of tears, answered in a quiet but frustrated tone: “You’re standing on it.”

  Her tormentor looked down, swore silently to himself and pulled it from beneath his deck shoe. Then he poked and slashed at the water, as though he were stirring a gigantic pot of stew, and eventually hooked out the rope. This he tossed at the woman. She threw up her arms to catch it and received a faceful of muddy seawater as the rope looped itself around her neck.

  Screwing up her face, she picked it off and held it at arm’s length.

  “Pull it, then!”

  The woman’s patience snapped. “I am pulling it, Jerry MacDermott, and if you don’t think I am you can sodding well pull it yourself.” Her voice cracked and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Now look what you’ve made me do! I’ve broken a nail and I only had a manicure yesterday. Bugger!”

  “Have you done? Is that it? Are we tied off?”

  “Yes, we are. Tied off and pissed off. I’ve had enough.” And she teetered away down the pontoon in the direction of the jetty and the village, leaving the man to tidy up after her.

  He switched off the engine then leapt unsteadily on to the pontoon and caught Will’s eye. “‘Alio, squire! Sorry about that. Not much of a sailor, my missus.” He laughed, without dislodging the cigar, and continued to fasten a tonn
eau cover over the cockpit of his boat. “She enjoys a glass or two when we’ve anchored but she’s not so hot on the ropes. Wants a bigger boat where she can entertain ‘er friends. She’ll ‘ave one soon but she gets a bit uptight about ‘andling this one.”

  He looked at the transom of Boy Jack. “Sorry about the bump. Not that it shows much. ‘Ere, ‘ang on a minute.”

  He disappeared below for a few seconds, then emerged with a bottle of whisky.

  “Cop ‘old of this. Goodwill gesture.” He leapt off the front of Sokai and walked towards Boy Jack.

  “No, really. It’s OK. I haven’t started painting her yet.”

  “Take it, take it. Sort of welcome present.” He offered his hand. “Jerry MacDermott. Live at the big ‘ouse – Benbecula – up on the ‘ill. Come down at weekends. The missus misses London but it does ‘er good to ‘ave a change of air.”

  The missus was now sitting in a Mercedes on the lane by the jetty.

  “You’re new ‘ere, aren’t you, squire?” Will agreed that he was. “Thought so. ‘Aven’t been ‘ere that long ourselves but we know a few faces in the boatyard and the village. Didn’t think we’d seen you before. Stay in’ long?”

  “For a while,” admitted Will.

  “Lovely spot, ain’t it? Olde-worlde charm. Wouldn’t mind livin’ ‘ere full time but the missus wouldn’t wear it. Too much of a townie. Likes ‘er social life. Still, we’ve plenty of room to entertain down ‘ere and I like gettin’ away from it all.”

  Will smiled, not knowing quite what to make of the East End wideboy who didn’t appear short of a bob or two. He was around the fifty mark, sharp as a razor, with dark brown hair that owed its colouring to something in a bottle. His wife was younger, perhaps by twenty years. Probably married him for his money, Will thought.

  “You’ve got your work cut out.”

  “Sorry?” Will came back to earth.

  “With this thing. Bit of a state, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.” Will’s pride in his old boat was momentarily bruised, but he found it difficult to disagree.

  “As long as you’re not thinking of sailing round the world – heh-heh!”

  “No, not quite.”

  “Plenty of character, though, eh?” Jerry MacDermott eyed the boat up and down, seaching in vain for some redeeming characteristic. “Funny name. Boy Jack.”

  “She came originally from Yorkshire.”

  “Bloody cold up there. Went to Yorkshire once. Couldn’t understand a bladdy word they was sayin’.”

  “What about yours?”

  “Eh?”

  “Your boat, Sokai. What does it mean?”

  “‘Aven’t you guessed?”

  “Something Japanese?”

  “Nah. It stands for ‘Spending Our Kids’ Anticipated Inheritance’.” He chuckled. “Not that they’re our kids. My kids. She’s my second wife, is Trudie. Got rid of the first one. Couldn’t cope with the success. Wanted to stay in ‘Ackney. I couldn’t wait to get out. We just grew apart. Well, you’ve got to enjoy your success, ‘aven’t you? Can’t ‘ang around livin’ like you used to when funds ‘ave improved. Nah. Enjoy it, that’s what I say. That’s why we’re goin’ for a bigger boat. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. That’s my motto.” He looked around him at the picturesque decay. “Wouldn’t mind gettin’ my ‘ands on this place. Gold mine if it was run proper. Gryler ‘asn’t a clue.” Will could see that Jerry MacDermott was visualizing a fleet of floating gin palaces tied up in a West Country version of Monte Carlo. “Yes. A bit of imagination and you could transform this place. Not a bad idea.”

  He cast a glance at the Mercedes and the beckoning arm of the blonde inside it. “Well, better be off. She wants to ‘ave a look in that new art gallery. Plenty of walls to fill at the big ‘ouse. Be seein’ you. Keep at it!” He unscrewed the cigar butt from his mouth, tossed it into the water and lurched off down the pontoon in the direction of the gleaming car.

  Will shook his head, then turned back to Boy Jack and slapped the side of the wheelhouse. He stepped inside and was about to lower himself into the engine room once more when Aitch’s head appeared from a hatch on Florence Nightingale. “What was all that about?”

  Will turned round. “Hi. Oh, just some husband and wife having a disagreement about how to berth a boat.”

  Aitch looked in the direction of the speedboat. “Ah. Mr MacDermott and his floating bathtub.”

  “You know him, then?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say I know him, but I’ve encountered him a few times. Bought Benbecula when Hugo Morgan-Giles moved out. Keeps talking about buying the boatyard and sorting it out. I rather hope he never gets round to it. Made his money in mobile phones apparently. Rolling in it. Ha-ha. Lucky man. Think of all the books you could buy if you had that sort of cash.”

  Will grinned. He’d hardly encountered Aitch in the previous few days. Florence Nightingale had been shut up, the curtains inside her port-holes drawn and no sign of her skipper.

  “Books?”

  “Yes. Wonderful things, books. Never mind all this technology. Who wants to sit and look at a screen when you can turn pages that were printed centuries ago? Look at this…” He dived from view inside his vessel, and returned with a mighty leather-bound volume. “Been shopping. Had a few days in Dartmouth. A bit naughty, I know…”

  Will jumped down from Boy Jack and walked across the pontoon to where Aitch was standing with his prize, his eyes shining with excitement.

  He opened the large volume, about the size of a family Bible, reverentially, exposing marbled endpapers. He turned several pages to reveal the title: The History of Devonshire by the Reverend Richard Polwhele. “Look at that,” he instructed, as though he were guiding a party of tourists around ancient ruins. “Been hunting for a good copy for years. Promised it to myself one day.” He closed the book and stroked its spine with a loving hand. “All of Devonshire within my grasp.” His eyes had a faraway look.

  Will was struck by the look of pure pleasure on his face.

  “And,” said Aitch, “listen to this.” He thumbed through the pages. “I thought of you when I read it.” He found the page he was looking for and cleared his throat. “‘The storm that marked the twenty-seventh of November, 1703, was attended with awful consequences to the western counties…Daily intelligence of shipwrecks arrived, whilst great numbers of dead bodies were washed upon the coasts from Hull to Land’s End. But the destruction of the Eddystone Lighthouse will long fix the memory of this dreadful night. Its architect, Mr Winstanley, had often wished to contemplate a storm from his lighthouse, imagining that the stability of his fabric was proof against the elements. He had his wish; but the violence of the weather increasing to a wonderful degree, his resolution forsook him and he made signals for help. No boat, however, could venture off the shore: and neither lighthouse nor its architect were any more seen. The morning opened on bare rock!’” Aitch closed the book. “What about that?”

  “Quite a story, isn’t it?” agreed Will.

  “You know about it, then?”

  “Yes. They replaced it with a lighthouse built by a man called Rudyerd, but that one burned down in 1755. Then came Smeaton, a Yorkshireman who built his lighthouse on the principle of the trunk of an oak tree. You can still see the stump of it, and the one that’s there now was built by James Douglass in 1882 – it’s the fifth. Winstanley lost his life in the second one he built.”

  Aitch scratched his head. “Well I never. I should have known you’d know.”

  Will felt guilty at stealing his neighbour’s thunder.

  “Wonderful thing, knowledge,” Aitch went on. “This book’s full of it. Amazing chapters – ‘The Air and Weather’, ‘Indigenous Plants’, ‘The Religion of Danmonium’.”

  “The what? As distinct from C of E?”

  “Danmonium is what the Romans called this part of the world.”

  “Oh, I see. Which shows that I don’t know as much as you thought I did!”

  Ai
tch laughed. “Coffee? I’m just brewing up.”

  “I’d love some. All I can taste is oil at the moment. It’s filthy down there.” He indicated the engine room.

  “They’re fine when they’re working,” Aitch said, “but when they’re not they’re a pain in the nether portions. Come on board.” And then, seeing that Will was concerned about his state of cleanliness, “Don’t worry about the mess. It’s not exactly spotless in here.”

  Will pushed his head through the hatch of Florence Nightingale’s wheelhouse and was startled by what he saw. It was like a shrunken Victorian study. The walls of the wheelhouse were almost totally lined with books. A long seat down one side was covered with a threadbare red plush cushion, on which were tin boxes full of artefacts and hanks of rope crafted into Turk’s head knots. Bits of brassware gleamed here and there, and there was hardly room to put a foot down for clutter, most of it ancient nautical gear. On an old mahogany table a tarnished sextant tumbled from a broken wooden case. A couple of telescopes were in the process of being fitted with new lenses from a box filled with circular bits of glass and brass ferrules. A stuffed cormorant in an advanced stage of moult surveyed the scene from its glass case perched on a shelf, and plates of half-finished food sat on top of piles of books and periodicals. This was the domestic equivalent of Primrose Hankey’s shop.

  “Excuse the stuff. Can’t seem to stop picking it up. I should have enough of it by now but, well, when you see it looking forlorn at a boat jumble you can’t really leave it there, can you?”

  “Er, no.” Will looked about in vain for somewhere to stand.

  Aitch took the kettle off the hob of the tiny stove and poured it into a jug, releasing the pleasing aroma of coffee. “Tell you what, let’s have it out there – more room than in here. I’ll clear it up soon and show you round properly.”