The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe he was just eyeing her up.”

  “From the inside?”

  “That’s a point. Are you sure?”

  “Somebody’s been here, I know it. I can feel it.”

  “Anything missing?” asked Hovis.

  “Nothing obvious.”

  “Mmmm. Odd. Well, perhaps he was just having a nose. I caught him sizing up my binnacle once.” He pointed in the direction of the brass compass sitting atop its varnished pillar. “He was looking at it just a bit too covetously for my liking, so I had a go at him a few days later about security here. I thought that might let him know I had my eyes open. He talked about installing video cameras. I knew he wouldn’t do anything but at least I’d made my point.”

  Will looked thoughtful. “Are you here for a bit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you keep an eye? I’ve some phone calls to make so I need to go up to the village.”

  “All right, dear boy. I’ll keep the beadies open. Mmmm.”

  “Thanks.” Will walked back up the pontoon, checking that the piece of paper with the telephone numbers on it was in his pocket, along with a handful of change.

  “Give her my love,” shouted Hovis.

  Will turned to protest, then smiled. “I will.”

  ♦

  He made two phone calls from the box outside the Post Office: one to the boat-builder Harry Gwenver, telling him that Boy Jack would be out of the water by the day after tomorrow, and the other to the Association of Dunkirk Little Ships asking for more information about his boat. The voice at the other end asked him for details of Boy Jack, explaining that brass plaques bearing the legend ‘Dunkirk 1940’ were not uncommon on ships that had played no part in the evacuations. Will quoted the information Gryler had given him, along with various keel markings, and was pleased when his interlocutor confirmed that Boy Jack had indeed played her part on the Normandy beaches, though at that time the vessel had been known as Graceful. He would be sent a membership application form, and would he like a pennant that could be flown from his jack-staff on entering and leaving port, and when in the company of other Dunkirk Little Ships? Will, rather proudly, said he would. He also enquired about how many of the Little Ships had survived. “There are around a hundred and seventy still in existence and we have a hundred and twenty-four registered with us as members. We’ll be glad to add you to the list.”

  Will put down the phone, feeling better disposed towards Boy Jack than he had recently. Perhaps the old girl was worth persevering with, after all.

  He walked down the lane again and as he approached the Roundhouse he saw Amy on the doorstep. She saw him, waved and called him over. He worried at first that something was the matter, but then, as he walked into the studio, he saw the man he now knew to be Hugo Morgan-Giles, with a well-dressed woman in a tweed skirt and sweater, whom he assumed to be Mrs Morgan-Giles. Amy effected introductions.

  “You really are quite a craftsman, you know,” offered Hugo, once the pleasantries were out of the way. “I was telling Miss Finn that I thought you were rather selling yourself short.”

  “I’m just happy that someone likes them enough to buy them,” demurred Will.

  “Yes, but you might as well get as much as you can for them in recompense for your effort, eh, Mouse?”

  Mrs Morgan-Giles half smiled.

  “I’ve just brought Isobel in to see the painting I fancied. I think we can find room for it, dear, can’t we?”

  “Well, yes…if you think…”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can afford it. Can’t keep economising all the time. Have to allow ourselves the occasional treat, you know!”

  “Well, if you’re sure, Hugo. It is a lovely picture…” She looked wistfully at the blue sea and sky, the white sand, almost as though she were trying to spirit herself into the idyllic landscape.

  Will thought she looked deeply sad. He suddenly felt sorry for this couple who had once been the lord and lady of the manor in all but name, and who now had been relegated to the Dower House while some East-End-barrowboy-made-good had taken over their old family home. It must be galling. But with a staunchness imbued in them since childhood the Morgan-Gileses had mucked in and carried on.

  “Can we take it with us?” asked Hugo. “I’d love to hang it today.”

  “Yes, of course.” Amy lifted the painting from its hook and took it to the counter.

  Their painting was wrapped and handed to them, and the Morgan-Gileses left. Will watched them go.

  “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Amy broke in on his thoughts.

  “Mmm?”

  “Such a sweet couple. It’s a terrible shame about all their troubles.”

  “You know, then?”

  “Primrose told me.”

  “Ah, so you’ve been talking to the human telescope.”

  “Don’t be rude. She’s a poppet.”

  “Just don’t tell her any secrets, that’s all. She’s better than the BBC at spreading the news.”

  “Well, she did tell me a bit about the Morgan-Gileses.”

  “How much?”

  “Oh, that they lost a lot of money in the Lloyds fiasco, and that they’re living in the little house now and not the big one, and struggling to keep their kids at public school. The boy’s at Eton and the girl goes to St Mary’s, Ascot.”

  “So how does he earn his living now?”

  “A couple of consultancies in the City, according to Primrose. Goes up to London two or three times a month.”

  “You did get a lot of information!”

  “Well, I was curious. And he’s the first person to buy one of my paintings so he must have exquisite taste!”

  “Just a bit biased I should say!”

  “Cheeky!” She came and stood in front of him, looking up at him. “Thank you very much for last night. It was so lovely. I hope you don’t think that – ”

  He butted in, anxious for neither of them to spoil the moment by analysing too much too soon. “It was a pleasure. Is a pleasure. I really enjoyed it.”

  She took his hint, disappointed. “I thought Hovis was sweet. Funny, too. Another lovely man.”

  “He’s turning into a good mate. Haven’t known him long but he seems to know when I want company and when I want to be alone.”

  “You sound like Greta Garbo.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” She looked at him hard and struggled for words. “Look…I was wondering if perhaps you might like to come to supper?”

  “I’d love to.” Will had the strangest sensation that she seemed able to see through the outer Will Elliott and the veneers and defences he had spent so long building up. What shocked him was that he didn’t mind. It seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  He stared at her and felt a deep inner warmth and security that he had almost forgotten existed.

  They didn’t hear the door of the gallery open, only the words, which struck like a bolt of lightning: “I seem to have lost my sense of timing.”

  It was Oliver Gallico. He removed his dark glasses, to look Will up and down. “This is getting a bit tedious.” He regarded Will with the sort of displeasure that most cat owners reserve for a regurgitated fur ball. “Who is this?”

  “This is Will Elliott. Will, Oliver Gallico.”

  He stood squarely in front of them, arms folded, and nodded carelessly in Will’s direction. “When is he going?”

  Amy was recovering herself now. “He isn’t going.”

  “Oh, come on, Ame. Let’s sort this out. Tell him to piss off.”

  Amy interrupted, “Look, just leave, will you?”

  “You can tell me to leave as many times as you want. But I’ll come back. I’ll keep coming back. I’m not giving up, you know.” He smiled insolently. “You know you’ll have to come. Why pretend that you won’t? It’s only a matter of time. You always come in the end.” He tapped his foot repeatedly against the white wall,
leaving black marks on the once pristine paintwork.

  Amy tried hard not to appear rattled. “I’m not going to leave all this.”

  “Why not? What are a few paintings compared with what we have? You’re prepared to give all that up for this?” He looked around him at the vibrant Cornish seascapes.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  He walked towards them but Will stood his ground. “I think you should go now,” he said.

  Gallico looked him directly in the eye with undisguised contempt. “Piss off.”

  Will persisted, “It’s time you left.”

  “Or else what?” He sounded cold and threatening.

  Will reined in his emotions and spoke steadily. “Just leave.”

  Gallico moved closer to Will, who could now feel the heat of his breath on his cheeks. “What’s it to do with you?” He looked towards Amy. “Tell him about us. Go on, tell him who we are!”

  “We’re nothing, Oliver. Not any more.” Amy looked frightened. “Please, just go. It’s too late. It’s all over.”

  “You stupid bitch!” he said. “It’ll never be over. Not what we have. You hear? Never!”

  He paused, waiting for something else to push against. It did not come.

  He turned to Will. “All right, I’ll go. But I’m not giving up. I’ll be back.”

  “No, you won’t.” Will fixed him with a steely gaze. “You’ll go now and you’ll stay away. Amy’s had enough, and you don’t belong here.”

  “I’ll…”

  “No. You won’t. Come on, out.”

  He took great care not to touch Gallico, but walked round him to the door and held it open. “Goodbye.”

  The arrogant dancer made to speak, but thought better of it. “Shit!” he sneered at Will, cast a backward look at Amy then strode out.

  Will hoped he had also swept out of their lives, but felt it unlikely.

  Amy stood perfectly still, the gamut of emotions she had run during the past few minutes robbing her of the power of speech.

  As Will walked towards her the door of the gallery burst open again. “Will! Come quickly!”

  Will spun round to see Hovis in a state of breathless agitation. “What’s the matter?”

  “Fire at the lighthouse. Engines on their way. Thought you’d want to know.” Hovis leaned against the door frame, doing his best to catch his breath.

  Will shot a look at Amy and said, “I’ll call you,” then bolted out.

  She shouted after him, “Take my car!” But he was too far away to hear, running up the lane towards the cliff path as fast as his legs would carry him.

  Eleven

  St Anthony

  He could see the smoke billowing from the buildings behind the lighthouse as he ran along the cliff path. Above the sound of the breaking waves he could hear the sirens. His pounding footsteps took him round Pencurnow Cove and along the headland towards the lighthouse, but it was still impossible to see which part of the building had caught fire. It was only when he finally leapt up the steps towards the tower and rounded the corner that he saw flames licking out of a downstairs window adjacent to the rooms occupied by Ernie and May. He could see neither of them in the confusion.

  His lungs felt as though they, too, were on fire, and he rested his hands on his knees for a moment, lowering his head and catching his breath. The journey had taken him the best part of twenty minutes, during which the fire had taken hold. Where were Ernie and May?

  Then he saw them, on the other side of the veil of grey smoke that was now blowing across the craggy rocks and out to sea. Ernie had his arm around May, who was wringing the corner of her apron in her hands. They were watching as the firemen worked, directing their hoses through the window from which angry flames licked upwards towards the roof.

  “Are you all right?”

  Ernie was surprised and relieved to see him. “We’re fine. I think.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. One minute we were in there minding our own business and the next minute the place was ablaze.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the flames had died away, to be replaced with a gentle hissing as red-hot timbers cooled under their saturation. The visitors ambled off, the spectacle over and the acrid smell of charred wet timber biting into their nostrils. The firemen rolled up their hoses while Will comforted May.

  The two policemen were with Ernie, fixing up a time for him to attend the station in St Petroc to make a statement. They warned him not to touch anything until Forensic had been out to examine the scene. Plastic tape was fastened to slender poles driven into the ground with the intention of keeping out trespassers, not that anyone would have wanted to get near the blackened, sodden mess, thought Will.

  “Lucky,” commented Ernie, though the expression on his face did not accord with the word.

  “What do you mean?” asked Will.

  “It’s only damaged one room. It could have been much worse.”

  “What’s gone?”

  “Just some old furniture. We were using it as a store…” He stopped short as he was saying it, and looked at Will, his face etched with regret. “Oh, Will! It was where we’d put your stuff. Your books and things.”

  The three of them gazed at the blackened window frame. There was little likelihood of anything being salvageable. What the flames had not destroyed, the water would have finished off.

  Will gazed at the yawning hole almost in a trance. Why had he not taken all his things with him to the boat? His books, his charts, the few CDs, his old boating magazines all gone. His Trinity House certificate – well, that could easily be replaced – and his diaries. His diaries. His legs weakened and he flopped down on the grass beside Ernie and May. His life was between their covers. The record of his existence since he had lost Ellie. He felt sick. It seemed as though he had lost her for a second time.

  Events of the last episode of his life swam in his head, from his arrival on this spot six years ago, to the building of the Gull and the maturing friendship with Ernie. He had put down between the covers of the twenty or more exercise books his daily thoughts and observations, his feelings about Ellie and his feelings about himself. Now they were all gone up in smoke.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  He looked up at Ernie. “No, no.” He didn’t want to add to their misery. It would be better to appear unconcerned. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. It’s just one of those things.” He shrugged and tried to look as though it were no great tragedy.

  “We can still put you up if you want somewhere to stay,” offered May.

  “No. I mean, don’t worry.”

  “Oh, but your things…” May looked agitated.

  “Just books and stuff. It’s all replaceable.” He remembered them individually. The pilotage books, the navigation manuals, and the five volumes of Cowper’s Sailing Tours that he had so looked forward to taking with him on his voyage. Now all gone.

  “I expect the insurance will pay up,” remarked Ernie.

  “Yes. I suppose so.” It had taken Will a long while to find each of the five volumes of Cowper. He expected it would take him even longer to replace them. But right now what did it matter? He snapped out of his introspection. “Look, the important thing is that you two are safe. Who cares about a few books? What are you going to do now?”

  “Can’t really do anything until the police have given us the say-so. It’s a good job that the room is a bit out on a limb. The rest of the place should be OK, even if it is a bit smelly. Trinity House will want to come and have a look. I suppose I’ll have to leave it up to them as to what happens next. But I’ll tell them about your stuff. You’d better give me a list of what you think you’ve lost.”

  Will ducked under the streamers of police tape to take a look inside the window. The small room looked like the black hole of Calcutta. It was about twelve feet square. The iron bedstead against one wall was intact, in shape at least, but everything else had coagulated into
an amorphous charred mass, dripping with water. The door on the far side had remained shut. Will heaved a sigh of relief that Ernie’s assiduousness at closing doors behind him had prevented a small conflagration from turning into a major blaze.

  “There’s nothing salvageable in there.” Will dodged back under the tape to where Ernie and May stood. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “No, you get off. I’ll let you know what happens.” Ernie put his arm around May’s shoulder. She dabbed at her eye with the corner of her apron and Will saw she was crying.

  He stared at the pair of them, standing on the grassy knoll with the gigantic white tower rising up behind them, and thought how small they looked.

  ♦

  Boy Jack looked massive from this angle. Will stood under her bows as she sat on the concrete hard to one side of the boatyard, supported by a flimsy-looking rank of wooden poles, secured with slender wooden wedges. It was the traditional way of propping up a boat when it was out of the water, but he always marvelled that such a Heath Robinson approach could be effective.

  A ladder leaned up against her side, fastened with rope at the top, and Will shinned up the rungs to fetch a wire brush and have a go at the barnacles on the propeller while he waited for Harry Gwenver to turn up. He liked this kind of work: his mind could wander while he scrubbed. He’d returned to the Roundhouse after the fire to explain what had happened, but had been called away yet again to supervise the lifting out of Boy Jack when Gryler had finally succeeded (probably courtesy of a few smart clouts with his monkey wrench) in getting the boat lift to work. He’d spent the night on board, high above the jetty, with Spike looking puzzled about their sudden elevation.

  The day had dawned bright and clear, but the prospect before him was still cloudy. Early in the morning he strode up the hill and fixed up accommodation at Mrs Sparrow’s B and B for two weeks, hoping that that would be long enough. He also hoped he could carry on working on the boat during the day, if he didn’t get in Harry Gwenver’s way.

  “You!” The voice startled him. It was old, male and Cornish. Harry Gwenver, sixty-something, in brown overalls, a tweed jacket and a tweed cap stood, with his hands on his hips regarding the boat. He was tall and angular, the opposite of Len Gryler, and he had a quizzical look on his face, which gave way to a broad smile. “You ready for us?”