The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  “Want to get yourself a job,” offered Gryler.

  “What, like yours?”

  “Why not?”

  “Couldn’t risk being found out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” muttered Ted, into his receding pint. He was well aware of Gryler’s reputation as a dealer in all things shady and a purveyor of goods of doubtful provenance.

  “Just you be careful what you say in here,” whispered Gryler. “Them fishing floats has ears.”

  “Anyway, I’ve had a job,” countered Ted. “Having a rest now.”

  “Suit yerself. Elliott obviously doesn’t agree with you. Working like a Trojan. Seems to be getting on with Aitch, too. Couple of oddballs together, if you ask me. Nutty as a fruitcake, Aitch. He’s been setting off for Devon every week for the past three years, and he’s still here. But at least Elliott looks as if he’s enjoying himself.”

  “Just because he’s busy it doesn’t mean to say he’s happy,” said Ted. “Everybody has their way of coping – his is to keep busy.”

  “Is that why he enjoyed lighthouse keeping?” Gryler winked at the landlord. “I thought you only worked for a month and then had a month off. And when you were on duty you were on shift work. More time off than the rest of us put together.”

  “Aye, well, you keep busy. Well, he did.”

  ♦

  “What doing?”

  “Making his boats. Writing up his diary.”

  “Not much going on round here to write about.”

  “Nature diary – birds. Staring out to sea most of the time, then writing up notes of what he saw in the evening.”

  Christopher Applebee came over and took his lager. “Ta,” he said, before going back to his machine. “Every day?” Gryler sounded interested, but there was also a note of unease in his voice.

  “Every day.”

  “Sounds a bit boring.”

  “I suppose it does to you, but you notice things when you’re a lighthouse keeper.”

  “What sort of things?” He was fishing, and probably not for the first time that day.

  “Anything out of the ordinary. Weird weather. Movements of shipping. Bird migration.”

  “Sounds bloody boring to me.”

  “Aye, well, it would. It bored me in the end. Glad to get out of it.”

  Gryler drained his glass and thumped it back on the bar. “This conversation’s depressing me. Give us a couple of pies, Alf, and I’ll be off. Might as well sit in me shed and eat ‘em.” He tossed a couple of pound coins on the bar, then retreated with his lunch, leaving his assistant to play with his balls.

  ♦

  She might have known he wouldn’t come back straight away. Oliver had always liked to keep her waiting, to make her nervous. He had succeeded. Since the previous evening she had been on edge, hardly sleeping, making sure the door was properly locked, alternately sweating and shivering.

  In the morning she had showered and put on a clean pair of Levi’s, some canvas shoes and a pale blue shirt. She tied back her hair and opened the studio at nine thirty, determined to carry on her life and not be threatened by his impending return.

  Thankfully, customers had been in and out all morning, taking her mind off the situation a little. Late in the afternoon her spirits had lifted with the arrival of a smartly dressed middle-aged man, who was interested in buying a painting. Hugo Morgan-Giles introduced himself and welcomed her to Pencurnow Cove. “We’ve had quite a few artists in the past but I’m sure you’ll make a go of it. I think your paintings are wonderful. Where did you study? St Martin’s?”

  “No. No…I wish I had. I haven’t studied anywhere. I’m self-taught.”

  “Really? Remarkable!” He looked closely at her work, leaning forward with his arms held behind his back and making appreciative noises.

  He was the epitome of the English gentleman, she thought, from his highly polished brogues to his neatly brushed receding fair hair. He was in his early fifties, she guessed, corduroy trousers of good cut, and a bottle-green cashmere sweater with a touch of cravat showing above the checked shirt at his neck. Even the signet ring was in place on the little finger of his left hand.

  “Did you paint these down here?” he asked, gazing at one seascape with intense interest.

  “No. From memory. But I want to paint from life now that I’m here.”

  He turned and smiled at her. “I hope it doesn’t spoil your technique!”

  “Me, too!”

  “Look, I rather like this one. Is it for sale?” He pointed to the scene of an azure blue bay, surrounded by a white curve of sand.

  “Well…yes. Would you like to take it now?”

  “Could I come back with my wife to make sure she likes it? I think it will be OK but I really ought to check. Could you put a red spot on it, or whatever it is you do?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’d say yes straight away but I don’t want to be told we haven’t the space for it. There was always plenty at Benbecula, but since we’ve been down at the Moorings it’s a bit tighter.” He looked slightly embarrassed.

  “I’m happy to reserve it for a few days.”

  “Marvellous. Well, I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Miss…er…”

  “Finn. Amy Finn.”

  “I’ll be back, Miss Finn. And very good luck with your enterprise. I’m sure it will work.” He walked to the door, then paused as something caught his eye. “That’s nice.” He pointed at Will’s Cornish coble, then walked over to it. She had stood it on a solid chunk of oak just inside the door. “I haven’t seen one so well fashioned for a long time. Did you make it?”

  “No. Will Elliott did. The lighthouse keeper that was.”

  Hugo picked it up and examined it. “This is excellent.” He looked closely at the cut of the planking, the intricate copper riveting and the flawless varnish. “I’ll have it.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Well, you see, I don’t have to ask about this. It’s for my study and that’s my domain!” He looked at the price tag. “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  He pulled a chequebook from his back pocket. “I’ll round it up.” He gave her the completed cheque.

  “Do tell Mr Elliott that he really ought to price them a little higher or he’ll never keep pace with demand. They must take so long to make that he should be well recompensed.”

  “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

  Amy wrapped the coble in its original tissue paper and a square of bubble wrap then put the cheque in the back compartment of the cash drawer.

  “Well, thank you again. And I’ll be back at some point with Mouse – sorry, my wife – and I’m sure we’ll have the painting, too. Goodbye!”

  As the door closed she could not resist a loud “Yessss,” and she punched the air. For a few seconds she forgot her troubles and felt a flush of satisfaction, even thrill, at her first sale. She had sold a painting, and that must make her a painter. For the first time in her life she had earned money from something other than dancing, and she glimpsed a chink of light in the gloom that had lately surrounded her.

  She looked at her watch. Five to six. She would close the studio, have a long soak in the bath then find Will and give him his money. She would also tell him the good news about her own painting. Nervously she opened the door of the studio and looked out. Behind Bill’s Island there were clouds on the horizon – prophetic, she thought – and a gentle breeze was blowing in off the sea. But the lane was empty. There was no sign of the expected dark figure hovering in the shadows. She stepped back inside, flipped the sign to Closed, pulled down the linen blind and locked the door.

  ♦

  Oil was in his hair, underneath his fingernails and his clothing reeked of it. Even the cat had begun to turn up his nose. It was time to have a break from the sordid confines of the engine room and think about supper. He replaced the hatch, cleared up the assorted bits of
oil filter and rubber hose then set about washing in the hip-bath. It made a change from the bucket, and he’d perfected a way of using very little water and even less soap in deference to the plumbing on the boat and the marine life in the boatyard.

  He was drying himself, concealed from the outside world by a newly purchased shower curtain, sporting seahorses and starfish (the least garish that Primrose Hankey could supply), when he heard Aitch’s now familiar “Hallooo.” He wrapped the towel around himself, clambered up into the wheelhouse and stuck his head out of the door.

  “What are you doing for supper tonight?” enquired Aitch.

  “Hadn’t thought. Too busy with my heaps of metal.”

  “Right, then. Dinner will be served in one hour. Aperitifs in twenty minutes. Does that suit?”

  Will was taken aback at the offer of hospitality, then suddenly realised how hungry he was. “I’d love to.”

  “Fine. I’ll see what I can rustle up from the gastronomic Aladdin’s cave that purports to be my larder. Most of it will be unidentifiable, but it should at least be edible.” With that he vanished and a clattering of pans and crockery ensued.

  When Will emerged from Boy Jack twenty minutes later, with the punctuality born of six years’ shift work, he was welcomed aboard Florence Nightingale with enthusiasm.

  “Come in, come in! Ah, yes, and you can come, too.”

  Will looked round in the direction of Aitch’s gaze and saw Spike peering at them. Slowly he sauntered towards Florence Nightingale, trod tentatively over the threshold. He pummelled the red plush seat cover with his paws, his whiskers twitching as they took in the rich aroma of cooking. Then he saw the stuffed cormorant. The hair on his back became vertical and he spat wildly at it before leaving the cabin without touching the floor.

  “Oops. I don’t think he’s taken to Draculus.”

  For the rest of the evening Spike sat and stared at them through the cabin window.

  Aitch had gone to great trouble for his guest and it occurred to Will that the invitation had not been quite as spontaneous as it had seemed. For a start there was space to sit among the nautical paraphernalia, and the table was laid with a deep red cloth, cutlery and glasses. Nothing matched – there was one plate of this pattern and one of that – but the effect was welcoming, especially when lit by the glow of paraffin lamps as the sun set.

  They were sipping a glass of sherry apiece – Aitch’s recommendation – and Aitch was poking and prodding at a clutch of pans on the stove, in a galley lined with bottles of spices and chutneys, when they heard footsteps on the pontoon outside and a polite “Is anybody there?”

  Will looked up to see Amy peering into his boat. “Hi!” he called. “I’m over here!”

  “Hallo! They told me this one was yours.” She pointed at Boy Jack.

  “She is, but I’m over here for supper.”

  Aitch put his head out of a hatch. “Company?”

  “Aitch, this is Amy Finn. She’s running the Roundhouse Gallery – sorry, Studio. She’s trying to sell my boats.”

  “Not trying to sell them. Selling them.” She took an envelope from her pocket and waved it in the air.

  “Crikey! Have you got rid of it, then?”

  “Yup. And a painting – I think.”

  “Good for you!”

  Aitch endeavoured to continue stirring his culinary creation while leaning out of the hatch. “Have you eaten, Miss Finn? Would you like to join the sailors for supper?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t. I’d love to but I only came to give Will his money.” Then she added guiltily, “Minus my ten per cent.”

  Aitch dropped his spoon and clapped his hands together. “Well, stay, then. There’s plenty for three. A spot of female company would be very pleasant. I promise we’ll have no salty sea talk!”

  “Oh, what a shame! But I’d love to, if you’re sure.”

  “Come aboard, then.”

  Amy picked her way among the coils of rope, the lowering sunlight glinting on her curls now freed from their daytime ties. Will was relieved by the change in her from the previous day, although she seemed tense at his proximity. He moved along the red plush seat to make room for her. It was a tight squeeze, in spite of Aitch’s clearing up, and he found himself closer to her than he had been before. He felt a sudden thrill.

  She pushed the envelope of notes into his top pocket, almost afraid to touch him, as Aitch passed her a sherry.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers!” she responded, and sipped at the tawny liquid from the dainty engraved glass. ‘Trafalgar – 21st October 1805’, it read, and there was a depiction of the Victory firing its cannon.

  “This is lovely!”

  “The sherry or the glass?” asked Will.

  “The glass.”

  “Probably used by Nelson,” quipped Aitch.

  “Along with the telescope,” added Will.

  “Well, you never know,” said Aitch, and winked at him.

  They dined more lavishly than Will had anticipated from Aitch’s invitation: crab bisque was followed by seafood risotto, then creme brûlee.

  They sat and drank and talked as though they were old friends. The dry white wine gave way to a full-bodied red, and the faces of the three, flushed with warmth and wine, became more animated.

  “Oh, I’ve forgotten Auntie Betty!” exclaimed Aitch. He leapt to his feet and out of the hatch. He reappeared rolling up a red ensign on its staff. “Left her out after dusk. Bad form. Sorry, Auntie Betty.” He laid the furled flag on the long, narrow shelf that was clearly her nocturnal resting place.

  The two onlookers laughed and Will noticed that Amy now seemed happy to be sitting close to him, comfortable and relaxed in his company. Occasionally she would rest her hand on his arm to make a point. He was acutely aware of how good it felt. He wished that the evening would never end.

  Aitch was recounting one of the more outrageous episodes of his life at school when Amy complained, “But you still haven’t told us what the Aitch stands for.”

  “Oh, my dear girl, you don’t really want to know that.”

  “I do!” She leaned back against Will.

  “Come on!” Will said. “We need to know. We deserve to know! It can’t be that bad!” He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.

  “Oh, it is,” replied Aitch.

  “Well, my full name is Amaryllis,” confessed Amy.

  “Amaryllis?” Will spluttered.

  “Yes.” She giggled. “Grim, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It has a touch of class.” He pulled her close again and she giggled.

  “Amaryllis is as nought compared with mine,” mused Aitch, with just a hint of moroseness.

  “Come on, then.”

  He blustered some more, then eventually drew a large breath. “You need to understand a bit about my background. The Utterly family come from a long line of retailers. Retail. Not wholesale. Tut-tut. Below the salt.” He took another sip of the rich red wine. “My father followed his father into the bakery and he hoped that I would do the same, continuing the Utterly tradition of baking loaves for the gentry. That was why he generously bestowed on me a name that he hoped would spur me on my endeavours. But it had the reverse effect. It put me off for life. I was christened in honour of my father’s favourite loaf. My name is Hovis Utterly.”

  Will and Amy wanted to be polite. They tried to be polite. They sat holding one another for at least fifteen seconds before dissolving into fits of laughter.

  At first Hovis regarded them dolefully, but eventually joined them in wild hilarity. From then on, he knew they would never call him Aitch again, but for the first time in his life he didn’t really mind.

  ♦

  It was twenty past twelve when they left. She’d looked nervous suddenly at the prospect of departure and he saw the fear in her eyes. “I’ll walk you back.’

  “It’s OK.”

  “No, I don’t want you walking there on your own.” The words
came naturally and she made no further protest.

  They went along the jetty towards the lane, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close, and her fear subsided. They talked casually, about Aitch and about the meal, then stopped by the railings of the jetty and looked out over the sea, the moon streaking the water with silver, and the clouds shot through with orange and purple.

  She caught her breath. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said softly.

  “Beautiful,” he agreed, but for once his mind was not on the sea. They stood quietly for a while, then she shivered a little and they walked on up the lane.

  At the door of the studio she turned to face him. “Thank you for a really lovely evening.”

  “No. Thank you.” He looked at her face. Before he knew it she had wrapped her arms around his neck, drawn his face to hers and kissed him with a tenderness he had all but forgotten. They paused briefly and he put his arms around her, held her even closer, stroking the back of her head and kissing her again.

  Eventually they drew slightly apart, and she rested her head on his chest. He inhaled the fragrance of the soft skin at the nape of her neck and rocked her for a while. At last she lifted her head and said, “Thank you for being there.”

  “I’m always here. Just let me know when you need me.” He squeezed her to reassure her. “I’d better go. You’ve the studio to open in the morning and I’ve a boat-builder to see about my planking.”

  “How romantic.”

  He smiled at her, then realised with a profound shock that this had been his first intimacy since Ellie’s death. The pleasure of the moment was replaced by a stinging sensation of guilt, which he did his best to mask.

  She saw it. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m just a bit out of practice.”

  She pulled him to her again and held him close. “I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

  “Yes. Are you sure you’ll be OK?”

  “Sure. Go now. And take care.”

  “You take care.”

  She nodded silently. He turned as she reached the bottom step. “Lock it.”

  “I will.”

  He heard the mechanism click home as he walked back down the moonlight-washed lane. For the first time in six years he felt alive. His fingers seemed to be tingling, his head reeling with an intoxication not wholly due to the wine. Yet the guilt deep inside him gnawed at his heart.