The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  “Er…yes. I think so. But I can’t be out of her just yet. I’m still sorting myself out.” Will saw the smile on Harry Gwenver’s face replaced with a frown. “I’ll keep out of your way, though – but I can’t promise about him.” He gestured in the direction of the furry face surveying the scene from the rail above the transom. It would take more than a refit to get Spike away from a home that provided such a rich supply of fish suppers.

  Harry Gwenver laughed. “Oh, we’ll cope with him. Is he friendly?”

  “Nothing much worries him. Except stuffed cormorants,” he added.

  “Right,” said Harry, “we’ll make a start.”

  He returned to his van, parked at the end of the jetty, to fetch his tools, while Will climbed the ladder to reassure the cat that he wasn’t about to be made homeless. The two sat, on the wheelhouse roof, looking out to sea, and Will was engulfed in a wave of self-pity. His books had gone and his diaries were no more.

  He felt like a man whose history had been taken away. But they were only diaries. Only a record of things gone. They were not of now and although they had vanished the memories were indelible. Through the sense of loss and desperation came a new feeling: release.

  Twelve

  Casquets

  Mrs Sparrow was a decent sort. She let Will have the front bedroom of Myrtle Cottage because it had the sea view, though she did explain that, should he stay longer than anticipated, he might have to move when the holiday season arrived.

  Will’s biggest problem was breakfast. Persuading Mrs Sparrow not to cook him a full English every morning was no easy matter. She was tiny and birdlike herself and clearly assumed that her guests also ate like birds – seven times their own bodyweight daily. As a result Will found himself wading through egg, bacon, sausage, fried bread and black pudding for the first two mornings of his stay. Finally he managed to convince her that a bowl of what she called ‘rabbit food’ would do very nicely during the week and he would save his fry-up for weekends.

  He breakfasted early – at around seven thirty – and tried to be ‘on site’ at the boat soon after eight when Harry Gwenver turned up. The old man didn’t seem to mind Will pottering around doing his own thing, provided he kept out of his way, and Will was gradually getting used to the peppering of Cornish language that decorated Harry’s speech. He now understood that ‘You!’ meant ‘hello’, durdathawhy good-day and benetugana goodbye, but it had taken him a while to work out that durdaladawhy was thank you. He’d asked Harry why he used such expressions, only to be told that someone had to keep the old Cornish language going, and that he didn’t see why it had to die with Dolly Pentreath in 1777.

  Will watched Harry disappear into the hold of Boy Jack and set to work himself removing the old antifouling with a paint scraper and a wire brush. He was surprised when Ernie turned up.

  “You all right, then?” enquired Ernie, looking up at the towering hull.

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “A bit shocked.”

  Will stopped scrubbing and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Police think the fire was started deliberately.”

  “What?” Will was stunned.

  “They found traces of a bottle and petrol. Reckon it was lobbed through the window.”

  “But why?”

  “Blowed if I know.” Ernie looked troubled.

  “Have you told May?”

  “No. I thought I wouldn’t.”

  “You’ll have a job keeping it from her.”

  “I suppose so. I just don’t want her worrying.” Will saw the fear in his friend’s eyes. “It can only have been some yobs, can’t it, having a bit of mischief? Couldn’t be anything else, could it?”

  “No. I shouldn’t think so.” Will hoped Ernie was right. What other reason could anyone have for torching the lighthouse?

  “Do you want a look round?” Will tried to cheer him by showing him over the boat, but Ernie was preoccupied. After ten minutes or so he made his excuses and left. “Got to get back to the rock. May’s nipping over to her pigs and I can’t leave the place unattended.”

  Will watched as the older man walked round the jetty to his van, got in, started up and drove off. He put down his brush and scraper, walked along the jetty and down the pontoon towards Florence Nightingale. Hovis was bending down and attending to his mooring warps. He looked up at the sound of Will’s footsteps. “You look a bit fed up,” he offered.

  “Confused, more like.”

  “What’s the problem?” Hovis stretched.

  “Ernie says the police think the fire at the lighthouse was started deliberately. They found glass and petrol. Reckon it was a fire-bomb.”

  “Good grief. Who’d want to do that?”

  “I wish I knew. Local oiks, probably.”

  “First time ever if it is. I know we’ve a few tearaways round here but rollerblading down the middle of the road from Primrose’s to the jetty is about their limit. They’ve set fire to a few litter bins in their time but I wouldn’t have thought they’d have touched the lighthouse. Too much a part of their lives. And their dads’.”

  “But who else would have done it?”

  “Can’t imagine. What does Ernie think?”

  “Hasn’t a clue. I think he’s in shock.”

  “And Whistler? What about him?”

  “I haven’t asked him.”

  Hovis looked at Will. “Don’t you think you should?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. What time is it?”

  Hovis glanced at the marine chronometer through the glass of Florence Nightingale’s wheelhouse. “Half past nine.”

  “He’s probably still having breakfast at the Salutation. I’ll nip over and see if I can catch him.”

  ♦

  Ted Whistler was just coming out of the door of the Salutation as Will turned up on his doorstep. “What do you want?” he asked plainly. He had never held the social graces in high regard. “Just coming to see you.”

  “Oh? That’s a turn-up for the books.”

  Will ignored the gibe, and asked Ted if he had heard about the fire.

  “Where do you think I’ve been living for the past month? Course I’ve heard about the fire. The talk in there,” he gestured over his shoulder, “has been about nothing else since it happened.”

  “What do you think caused it?”

  “Somebody must have been careless. Fag end or something.” That reminded him that he had not lit up his post-breakfast Camel, and he rummaged around in his donkey-jacket.

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “What?” Ted was looking for matches and asked the question absentmindedly.

  “The fire was started with a petrol bomb.”

  This time Ted Whistler heard. He stopped what he was doing and asked for confirmation. Will explained about the storeroom and his belongings, about what the police had found and the conclusion they had drawn.

  “I wondered if you had any idea who could have done it. Or why?”

  “Why me?” Ted was defensive.

  “Just asking, that’s all. Ernie and I can’t figure it out.”

  Ted leaned on the iron rail at the edge of the pavement across from the Salutation, the wind temporarily knocked out of his sails. His hunched but lanky figure with his thinning grey hair swept back from his face, gave him a cadaverous appearance.

  “Was it only that one room that was damaged? The storeroom where you had your stuff?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ted shrugged. “Funny that.”

  Will wondered what he was getting at.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe they want to make sure you don’t keep any more records.”

  “Who?”

  Ted shrugged again.

  Will faced him squarely. “What’s going on?”

  Ted looked out to sea. “I don’t know. I’m sorry you lost your diaries, but it’s none of my business.”

  He turned away from Will and walked ba
ck along the sand towards the Salutation, leaving his former colleague determined to get to the bottom of a mystery that seemed to be deepening by the hour.

  ♦

  It had not occurred to Will that the police would want to question him. The statement was taken at St Petroc police station by an apologetic detective sergeant sympathetic to his loss. Providing a list of possessions that had gone up in smoke lowered his spirits again.

  “Is that it, sir? You’re sure that’s all?” The portly sergeant, his Brylcreemed head bent low over the statement sheet, proceeded in his methodical longhand.

  “Yes. I think so.” Then he remembered the photograph album. He had forgotten about that. A sinking feeling in his stomach. Then a brightening of spirits. He had not put the album into store at Ernie’s. He had meant to, but something had made him wrap it in polythene and put it at the bottom of a canvas holdall filled with clothes, which now sat in the bottom of the wardrobe at Mrs Sparrow’s. He still had a reminder of Ellie.

  “You all right, sir?”

  “Mmm? Yes. I just remembered something I didn’t lose. That’s all.”

  “I’m afraid I have to ask you where you were, sir, when the fire started.”

  Will filled in the officer on his movements that morning.

  “So you did visit the lighthouse, then?”

  “Yes. I had breakfast there.”

  “And then you left?”

  “Yes. I walked back over the clifftop path to the boatyard. Then I made some telephone calls and then I went to the Roundhouse Studio.”

  The sergeant asked questions about the phone calls and precise details of timings. He asked if Will thought there was a reason why such a fire had been started. Will said he had no idea. He had already mentioned his missing diaries and what they contained. If the police thought this had some bearing on the case they would no doubt follow it up. It struck him as unwise to mention Ted Whistler’s conjecturing and, anyway, he was not sure he believed it. It seemed sufficient to say that he had kept diaries during his time at the lighthouse and that he had made no secret of it.

  The policeman beavered away with his Biro. He might be slow and steady, thought Will, but he’s thorough. His questioning over, and his painstaking calligraphy completed, the sergeant asked Will to check his list of lost possessions and confirm that it was correct.

  “Have you any ideas at all who might have done it?” asked Will, curious to know the detective sergeant’s take on the case.

  “We have our suspicions, sir,” replied the officer, “but as yet there’s nothing to go on. We think it might be something to do with your diaries, sir.”

  Will was surprised that the sergeant was so candid. “Do you?”

  “Yes, sir. They could pose a threat to someone who didn’t want their movements known. But, then, you’d probably guessed that, sir, hadn’t you?”

  Will looked suitably abashed. “It just seems so farfetched.”

  “Not at all, sir. You’ll hear all sorts of rumours about romantic notions of smuggling and the like. But it’s not romantic, sir. It’s against the law and we have to make sure that those who participate in it are brought to account.”

  “And you think that…”

  “I can’t really tell you what we think, sir. I would just tell you to be careful. It’s unlikely that anything else will happen now, sir. The diaries are gone and that’s probably all they were after. I should think you’re quite safe now, sir. But it might be a good idea not to keep another diary.”

  Will smiled weakly. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

  Thirteen

  Varne

  The next few days Will spent in a daze. Dispossessed of his living quarters, his concern for Ernie and May jostled in his mind with confusion about his feelings for Amy. He had deliberately stayed away from her, though he yearned to see her again, and to add spice to his jumbled brew of emotions there was now the possibility that somebody in the village had it in for him.

  Mrs Sparrow cleared away the breakfast dishes from his little table in the front bay window at Myrtle Cottage, flicking the dust off the aspidistra with her tea cloth as she passed. “Dinner at seven thirty then, Mr Elliott.”

  “Thank you. Yes.” Will got up from the table and walked through into the hallway. He grabbed his sailing jacket from the mahogany coat stand, unconsciously straightened one of the flying ducks that was doing a nose-dive towards the skirting board, and left the house to begin another day of restoration.

  Harry Gwenver was already lost in the bilges of Boy Jack when Will arrived. It seemed a shame to interrupt him. The poor man was getting used to being watched as he worked. Not that he seemed to mind.

  Will looked up at the sky – pasty and pale – then down when he felt a familiar rub on his leg. Spike was gazing up at him, silently miaowing.

  “Hallo, old lad! Where’ve you been?” He had neglected his old shipmate for the better part of a week. “Come on. Do you fancy a walk?” Leaving Harry in peace on Boy Jack, Will went along the jetty and out towards the cliff path. Spike followed, trotting behind him as obediently as any spaniel. They reached an outcrop above Pencurnow Cove and Will clambered up it. The cat reached the top in a couple of light bounds.

  They sat together looking out to sea and across to the lighthouse, still white as chalk in spite of the fire.

  “Oh, Spike! What are we going to do, eh?” The cat rubbed his head along Will’s arm, purring. He smiled. Sometimes the silence of animals was their most attractive quality.

  “People, Spike. Sometimes I think I don’t do people.” It dawned on him, now that he was here, how much he had needed to get away from the boatyard, the village and dear old Mrs Sparrow. How much he had missed solitude.

  The sea lapped at the sand below them, and whispered across the nearby shingle. A pair of black and white oystercatchers were probing the shore with their scarlet bills, fluttering out of the way when the incoming waves interrupted their scavenging. Among the tussocky grass that surrounded their lump of granite, slender drumsticks were pushing up from the tufts of sea pinks, and a watery sun did its best to cut through the clouds.

  A fishing boat bobbed gently on the waves half a mile from the shore, its crew hauling up their lobster pots, emptying them, then tossing them back overboard. Tiny orange floats marked their position, dotted across the surface of the dull green sea like a sparsely beaded necklace.

  Man and cat sat and watched as the tide receded, leaving the beach fresh-washed, the colour of fudge, and unsullied by footprints.

  As the waves advanced and receded Will remembered the Cornish holiday he and Ellie had enjoyed the year before they married. It was on the north coast, even more rugged than Pencurnow. They had walked, and eaten, slept and made love in the front bedroom of a boarding-house not unlike Mrs Sparrow’s.

  He felt a rush of sadness. From the blissfully happy days of being together, living for each other, he had returned to being a man happiest in his own company. Until now. He stroked Spike, and remembered the night on Hovis’s boat, with Amy sitting close to him, the kiss in the doorway, the looks between them. The tears that had finally come after six years.

  Was he wrong to want to start again? To be happy? When he thought of how happy he and Ellie had been together, it seemed impossible to imagine that he could ever feel the same about anyone else. And yet he could not deny his feelings for Amy. That, in its way, would be as wrong as betraying Elbe’s memory.

  “Oh, Spike!” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and looking out to sea. A freighter edged slowly across the horizon and he remembered, with a sickening feeling, his diaries. “What to do?”

  “Come on, then, Spike.” He chucked the cat under its chin, caressed the white bib that ran like a starched shirt front across its breast. The cat chirruped. “Let’s see how far you can walk. I’ll carry you if you get tired.” He got up, stretched his legs and set off in the direction of Land’s End, striding out and breathing in the salt air. The cat was never
more than a couple of paces behind him.

  ♦

  They stopped for lunch at a pub near Logan Rock, where the sight of a man with a black and white cat in tow was greeted with good humour by the laconic landlord. Will got himself the other side of a Cornish pasty and a pint of bitter, while Spike tucked into mackerel pate and a saucer of milk before they retraced their steps on the return journey.

  The cat walked almost every inch of the way, even though Will offered him a lift from time to time. He would sit in Will’s arms for a couple of minutes before letting out a brief harrumph, bounding down and off in the direction of home. Spike took the lead all the way back, sometimes running fifty yards ahead, until the Crooked Angel boatyard came into view and he sat on a rock and curled his black tail around his white feet with a smug expression on his face.

  Will scooped him up and walked down to the yard. When they reached Boy Jack there was no sign of Harry. Will looked at his watch. A quarter past five. Their walk had taken them the best part of the day, and he felt better for it. Spike leapt up the ladder and on to the deck. Will followed, keen to see how Harry had got on in their absence.

  He fished in his pocket for the spare key for Boy Jack, opened the wheelhouse door, found a torch by the hatch and shone it down into the hold. Harry was making good progress: the once gappy planking now looked uniform and watertight, and part of it was even painted. With any luck he would finish on time and Boy Jack would be back in the water where she belonged.

  He swung up from the hatch, replaced the torch on its narrow shelf and came out on to the deck. The early evening was still, bathed in a soft light. A movement caught his eye. A distant figure was running down the lane. He watched as it rounded the corner of the jetty and continued towards the boatyard. He could see now that it was Primrose Hankey, clad in a baggy navy blue tracksuit, her long plait bobbing from side to side as she jogged across the yard.