The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  He paused by the railings where they had stopped on the way up, and looked out across the moonlit waves. His mind swam with conflicting emotions.

  Below him the sea toppled on to the loose pebbles, sucking them away then flinging them back. He gripped the cold iron railings as tears filled his eyes, and he shook uncontrollably as his words spilled out over the sea. “I have to go on. I have to live. I can’t stay, Ellie. Don’t make me stay. Please…let…me…go.” For the first time since her death, he looked to the heavens and sobbed.

  Nine

  Inner Dowsing

  The boat-builder had good and bad news. The good news was that the state of Boy Jack’s hull was better than Will had feared. The bad news was that for the duration of the work – around two weeks – she would have to come out of the water and would be uninhabitable.

  The prospect of having to find a temporary home threw him into confusion. It had not occurred to him that he would have to live elsewhere while the work proceeded, but the builder was adamant. The clearer the decks, so to speak, the faster the work could be done.

  The whole scheme had not been without its ups and downs. Gryler, anxious for as much profitable work as possible, had been less than pleased when, out of courtesy, Will had asked if another boat-builder could come to the yard to work on Boy Jack.

  “Is he accredited?” he asked, officiously. The irony of the remark was not lost on Will, but he felt it best to play along.

  “Yes. He advertises in Classic Boat, and he’s well established as a restorer of wooden craft.”

  “Only I don’t want any old Tom, Dick and ‘Any comin’ in ‘ere and givin’ the yard a bad name.”

  “No. Quite.” It was the best response he could think of under the circumstances.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting to use my boat lift?” asked Gryler, waving in the direction of the rusting metal giant alongside the jetty.

  “Please.”

  “It’ll cost yer. It’s free if I do the work but I have to charge for it when I don’t.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “When do you want to get her out, then?”

  “Some time this week – as soon as I can sort out temporary accommodation.”

  “Aye, well, I suppose that’ll be all right. It’s irregular, though. Do you know where you’re going to put her?”

  “Er…well, I was hoping…”

  “Hoping what?” Gryler was doing his best to be tricky. He stood firm in his oil-encrusted boiler-suit, his trademark wrench clasped in his right hand like a sceptre.

  “I was hoping that you could help me out by letting me put her over there.” Will pointed towards an area of hard standing to one side of the yard.

  “What? Just like that?”

  “Well…”

  Gryler was intent on extracting as much from this encounter as he could. “I shall have to charge.”

  “But you’ll have the berth free while I’m out of the water.”

  “Not the same. I’ve had no chance to advertise it, and who’s going to come and take it at this time of year? Specially on a temporary basis. I suppose you’ll be wanting it again when your boat goes back in the water?”

  Will remained silent, thoroughly miserable at the thought of having to grovel to Gryler every time he needed anything out of the ordinary.

  “How long would you want to be there for?”

  “Just a couple of weeks.”

  “A hundred pounds a week.”

  “What? But you agreed to three months’ free berthing when I bought the boat.”

  “In the water, not out of it.” He slapped the wrench in the palm of his left hand. “Call it a hundred and fifty quid for the fortnight and I’ll throw in the use of my lift.”

  “A hundred.”

  “Hah!” He laughed derisively. “Oh, go on, then. I’m a fool to meself where boats is concerned. Where’s that lad got to? Better get him to grease the nipples.” He beamed at Will, confident that he’d come out ahead.

  Will watched him head back to the peeling hut and cursed under his breath at the loss of another hundred quid that he could ill afford. He tramped back to the boat, climbed aboard, and slammed the kettle on the gas burner. He looked around him at the squalor.

  “Shit,” he muttered, under his breath. He had just a few thousand pounds put away, five model boats to sell, and a voyage ahead of him. How was he going to survive? He looked across at Florence Nightingale. Hovis Utterly. Now there was a happy man. How did he make ends meet? He didn’t seem to have any income. Perhaps he had a hidden legacy.

  The kettle whistled and he made himself a mug of coffee. There was no sign of Spike. It occurred to him that the ship’s cat had yet to meet Amy. He’d put her out of his mind during the encounter with Gryler, though she’d been in his thoughts constantly since the night before. But he hardly knew her – had met her just three times. How could she come even close to Ellie?

  He’d tried to come to terms with the tragedy, to counsel himself rationally, but six years on he still could not bring himself to admit that Ellie was dead. He could not form the words, even in his thoughts. The reason was plain. Inside him she was still alive.

  Every hour of every day she was with him. Her face was as clear as day – the short black bob of her hair, the wide almond-shaped eyes, the way her face crinkled when she smiled. He could still see her naked. He could still feel the touch of her skin, her hand in his, hear her teasing him and getting irritated when he was stubborn about something inconsequential. But last night a part of him had been trying to move on.

  Amy had come into his life with all the force of an earthquake, rocking him to his foundations. The merest hint of resentment crossed his mind. He had had enough anguish already without falling in love. Yet he saw her face in his mind’s eye and the resentment faded. He wondered where she was now, what she was doing and what she was thinking.

  He drank his coffee quickly and looked through the port-hole at the morning. It was bright, and a stiff breeze blew from the south-west. He needed a walk. He would take the coastal path to the lighthouse and see how Ernie was getting on. It was time he called in. Ernie would think he had been forgotten.

  ♦

  Will pulled the sailing jacket around him against the force of the breeze as he rounded the corner from the boatyard. He looked across at the Roundhouse and saw that the blind was down on the door and the Closed sign in position. He checked his watch.

  Five past nine. She must be having a lie-in. He looked for some sign that all was well. He thought about knocking but didn’t want to alarm her. Nor did he know where to pick up the threads of the night before. He strode on, up the lane and past the little cottage known as the Moorings, where a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket and corduroys was looking out across the cove with a pair of binoculars.

  Will looked in the same direction. The woman with the pea-brained Labrador was at her stick-throwing as usual, and a couple of fishing boats butted their way through the water, which was generously sprinkled with white horses.

  “Good morning,” Will greeted the man as he passed.

  “Morning.” The man was startled, then recovered himself. “Lovely day for a walk.”

  “Hope so. I think I’d rather be on land than out there today.”

  “Yes. Bit choppy, isn’t it?”

  Will carried on up the hill.

  The top of the lane petered out into a rough footpath that led across the cliffs. Benbecula was the only house that remained above him now. He gazed up at it on its lofty eminence and thought what good views it must have of the bay.

  Sitting down on the tussocky grass through which the thrift was pushing its flower spikes, he took out his binoculars and watched as the boats at sea headed off in different directions, one to the east, and the other westwards towards Bill’s Island. This, he reflected, was what he would be doing in a couple of months’ time. The prospect thrilled and frightened him at the same time.

  The boat heading towards Bi
ll’s Island looked familiar. He took in the markings on the bows – PZ 291 – it was Gryler’s, an old fishing smack he had obviously bought for a song from a redundant fisherman. Christopher Applebee was at the tiller in yellow oilskins and there were lobster pots and fishing lines in the bottom of the boat. A bit of poaching, like as not, thought Will. He put away the binoculars and continued his climb.

  The path levelled out on the cliff top and, on the promontory of Prince Albert Rock, he could see the lighthouse. Three sandpipers wheeled overhead, buffeted by the breeze, and as he rounded the cove he noticed a small figure ahead of him, seated and looking out to sea. As he came closer he saw the easel, and instantly realised it was Amy.

  Fearful of startling her he began to whistle.

  She turned round, irritated at first by the intrusion then pleased to see him. “Hi!”

  “Hi, yourself. You’re up early.”

  “I thought I’d have a breath of fresh air and see if I could get any inspiration.” She remained seated, the wind blowing strands of coppery hair across her face.

  He leaned down and kissed her cheek. She put her arm around his leg as he stood beside her, and he felt a surge of warmth in spite of the breeze.

  It was a brief touch, but reassuring. He crouched beside her as she continued to paint.

  “How do you stop everything blowing away in this wind?” he asked.

  “Clothes-pegs and will-power.” She grinned.

  He studied the beginnings of the painting. “It looks good.”

  “Oh, it’s only a quick daub. Just a few ideas. I can’t stay long – I’ll have to open up in half an hour but I thought a breath of fresh air would do me good.” She began to pack away her brushes. “Where are you off to?”

  He stood up. “I’m on my way to see my old boss. Haven’t dropped in on him since I left and I’m feeling a bit guilty.”

  “Well, don’t get blown away.”

  “I won’t. I’ll see you later.” He was unsure whether or not to kiss her again. He settled for stroking his hand across the top of her head, and felt again the texture of her hair. They both recognized the awkwardness of the moment, neither quite sure how to pick up the threads. Will smiled and walked on across the clifftop, leaving Amy to pick up her bag and her chair and set off towards the lane.

  ♦

  “We thought you’d forgotten us.” Ernie Hallybone was only half serious, but Will apologized for his long absence.

  “How’s the boat coming along?” May asked, as she ferried the kettle from the stove to the table.

  “Slowly. I’ve got to get her out of the water for a couple of weeks while the hull is sorted out and that means I’ll have to find somewhere else to live.” The moment he had said it he realised it might sound as though he were angling for accommodation.

  May jumped in immediately. “Well, you’ll be welcome here. Your old flat has been turned into part of the visitor centre but we’ve a spare room at our end. Your odds and ends are stored there, anyway. Why don’t you come here?”

  “No, really, that’s not why I came. I mean, that’s not why I said it.”

  May laughed her free and easy laugh, and her plump cheeks reddened even more than usual. “I know. But it’s up to you. There’s always a room here for you if you want. Now, then, are you joining us for breakfast? Eggs from the Marans, bacon and sausage from the pig, and beans from Mr Heinz.”

  Will did his best to decline, but the sound of the bacon and sausages sizzling on the old stove and the sparkle in May’s eyes meant that he hadn’t a chance. Ernie brightened at the prospect of company, and Will sat down at the table, as his old boss gave him chapter and verse on the current developments at Prince Albert Rock.

  “The Gull’s been useful.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Caught a couple of mackerel off the back of her for tea last night. Made a change from pig.”

  “Don’t you go knocking my pork and bacon, Ernie Hallybone. Keeps us alive it does,” May scolded from her position by the stove. She stood there, every inch the farmer’s wife, errant strands of hair escaping from the bun at the back of her head.

  “How’s the farm?” asked Will.

  “Lambs aren’t worth a penny piece but folk still wants bacon and sausages,” May replied, “but I do it for us, really, rather than anyone else.”

  They tucked into a hearty breakfast, catching up on local news. May was still running her smallholding single-handed, though she’d cut it down to five acres now and sold the rest to a local farmer. Ernie was OK, he said, but a bit bored. Still, that would improve when the tourists started coming in a month’s time. “You sold any of them boats yet?” he asked Will.

  “One of them. Somebody called Morgan-Giles.”

  “Hugo Morgan-Giles?”

  “That’s him. Do you know him?”

  “Not exactly, but I know of him. With May’s relatives being out St Petroc way we tend to know more folk over in that direction tlian in Pencurnow, but the Morgan-Giles family has been around for years. Used to live in the big house up at the top – Benbecula. Now they lives in the little one lower down. The Moorings.”

  May brought a pot of coffee over to the table. “Yes. Been there for a few years now. Sad business.”

  “This Morgan-Giles,” said Will, “is he in his fifties, sandy hair, Army type?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I think I saw him this morning. I didn’t realise it was him. I should have said thank you. What’s so sad about him?”

  “Well, not so much him,” explained May, “more the family situation. He was one of them Names. You know, the ones that lost a lot of money. Something to do with insurance.”

  “You mean Lloyds?”

  “That’s it,” confirmed Ernie. “Family money. All tied up. Then it all went pear-shaped, didn’t it? Lost the lot. Well, almost everything. They’d owned Benbecula for generations and Morgan-Giles had to sell up and move into The Moorings, which they used to let. Bit of a come-down. I don’t think his wife was too pleased. Kids at public school an’ that.”

  “And those folk from London now live in Benbecula,” added May.

  “That’s right. Some East End tycoon, by all accounts. Made his money in televisions.”

  “Mobile phones,” corrected Will, and told them about his encounter with the MacDermotts. He did not mention Amy, but filled them in about Hovis, and Gryler’s penny-pinching ways.

  “You shouldn’t be surprised.” Ernie mopped up his egg-yolk with home-made wholemeal bread. “You be careful in your dealings with Gryler.”

  “Oh, I know he’s a rogue,” admitted Will. “But I think he’s a straightforward rogue.”

  “Just don’t cross him,” Ernie continued. “There’ve been funny goings-on at that boatyard over the years.”

  “What sort of funny goings-on?”

  Ernie continued with his mopping. “Rumours of smuggling and the like. Don’t you get yourself too involved.”

  “Smuggling what?”

  “Dunno. I choose not to ask. Ted Whistler knows more about it than I do, not that you heard me say.”

  “Are we talking serious stuff or just the odd bottle of booze?”

  Ernie looked at him earnestly. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Will thought back to his walk across the cliff and the fishing smack helmed by Christopher Applebee. He felt a sharp thrill at the prospect of being surrounded by illicit trading, and worried at the implications.

  He kissed May and promising Ernie that he would not leave it so long before he visited them again, Will began the return trip along the clifftop path, his mind whirling with the events of the previous few days and the news gleaned over the past couple of hours.

  Ten

  Anvil Point

  The sight of Len Gryler scuttling into his blue hut reminded Will of a rabbit running into its burrow. He wondered what the old rogue was up to now. He took off his sailing jacket as he walked along the jetty and down the pontoon, refreshed after
his walk and his mighty breakfast. Halyards pinged in the breeze and the gentle slapping of water against hull reflected the state of the tide. He stepped on to Boy Jack and stopped short. The port-side door was slightly ajar. He could have sworn he’d locked it when he left. He felt in his pocket for the key, and there it was, still firmly attached to the lump of cork that would make sure it floated were it ever to fall into the briny.

  He slid open the door and stuck his head inside.

  Nothing seemed amiss. The place was apparently exactly as he had left it. He stepped down into the wheelhouse and walked through into the forward cabin, calling for Spike as he did so. There was no sign of the cat. He turned and walked aft, noticing a long, oily smudge on one of the cabin windows. He stopped and cursed himself. Then he realised that he had not made the smudge. The pathological tidiness that had been instilled in him during his days as a clockmaker, then as a lighthouse keeper, had made it impossible for him to endure what many would consider normal signs of wear and tear. That oil stain was not his. Someone had been on board the boat. Perhaps it had been Hovis, looking for him. But Hovis never had oil on his hands: his engine room was not a venue to which he was especially attached.

  The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach abated at the sight of Hovis walking down the pontoon with a shopping bag on one arm and a baguette under the other. Will ducked through the door of the wheelhouse and hailed him. “Hovis!”

  “Ssh, dear boy. Our little secret. Aitch in public, please.”

  “Sorry. You haven’t been on board, have you? On Boy Jack, I mean.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I’ve just been up to see Primrose.” He gestured in the direction of his provisions. “Why?”

  Will knelt down on the deck, the better to explain without broadcasting to the entire boatyard. “Somebody’s been on board. The door was ajar and there’s oil on the wheelhouse window.”

  “Could be Gryler. Oil is his equivalent of aftershave. Did you ask him about letting you have a dry berth while your hull’s being done?”