The Last Lighthouse Keeper

by Alan Titchmarsh

  She looked at him across her bowl of cornflakes, a droplet of milk balanced on her lower lip. He reached over and wiped it away with his finger, and felt a wave of love envelop him. “See you later, then?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek and spiralled down the iron staircase. He could not remember when he had last felt so unassailable, so powerful and so alive. The guilt that had gnawed for so long at his soul seemed to be relaxing its grip.

  Fifteen

  Strumble Head

  Primrose Hankey was having a high time of it all. On a scale of one to ten in terms of quality gossip, Pencurnow would normally struggle to reach two. But the past few days had yielded rich pickings, which she gleefully retailed along with the paraffin and Pampers. Not that her face betrayed any pleasure in passing on the information: it was all done with an innate sense of duty.

  Will had avoided the shop for the best part of a week, but eventually had to call in for provisions. Mrs Sparrow’s hospitality did not run to lunch, and a boat-builder, as Amy had discovered, had quite an appetite. His curiosity also encouraged him to acquaint himself with the lie of the land as Primrose saw it.

  Will hated himself for falling prey to her desire to inform and be informed, but something inside him told him that she might have some knowledge, however scanty, that would give him a better overview of what was going on. And he felt guilty at not having shown more appreciation of her athletic personal delivery service.

  Primrose was up a ladder, which was unfortunate, not only because the view of her from ground level was less than flattering but also because when she set eyes on Will Elliott her excitement was so great that she almost lost her footing. In the event, she descended to the concrete floor with greater speed than was good for her, and a shelf stacked high with tinned goods vibrated dangerously on impact.

  “Mr Elliott! How nice to see you. Come for your magazine, have you? Lovely to see your boat. So glad I was able to help!” She reached under the counter for Classic Boat, anxious to ingratiate herself after their last meeting.

  “Yes.” It was as good as Will could manage, and a considerable accomplishment, bearing in mind the short space that Primrose allowed between sentences.

  “About Miss Finn…”

  “Have you any Cornish pasties?” Will waded in to change the subject.

  “Over there in the cool cabinet. She seems such a nice person. Very genuine. I’m sorry if you thought I was interfering.”

  Will delved among the chicken and mushroom slices and sausage rolls, seeking vainly for a pasty and wishing he’d shopped elsewhere.

  “Sorry to hear about the fire. It must have been dreadful.”

  “Yes. Terrible.”

  “Poor Mr and Mrs Hallybone. Are they both all right?”

  “I think so. A bit shocked but I hope they’ll get over it. It’s just a good thing that the fire was fairly contained.”

  “I’m sorry you lost your diaries. All those memories gone.”

  Will had finally located a battered pasty. He closed the cabinet and came over. “No. Not the memories. Just the diaries. But you have to move on, don’t you, Primrose?”

  Primrose was unsure whether or not this was delivered as a reproof. She paused to consider. Will felt that the best form of defence was attack. He became the inquisitor rather than the one who was being quizzed.

  “What do you make of it all, then, Primrose?”

  Primrose was an old hand at being pumped. If anything, she enjoyed dispensing information even more than discovering it. What was the point in having theories and bits of intelligence if you didn’t spread them around? Every now and again her conscience niggled, but she invariably failed to restrain herself. This made her popular with the ladies of the village, except when the piece of gossip being retailed concerned them personally. Under these circumstances Primrose was regarded as an interfering busybody.

  “Very strange.” She looked conspiratorially to left and right. “There’s something very unpleasant going on, I think. I reckon we’ve not heard the last of it yet.”

  Will leaned on the counter and did his best to sound casual. “What sort of something?”

  “The sort of something that goes on by the sea. Things coming and going, if you know what I mean.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Oh, not for me to say, Mr Elliott. Gracious me. I mean, if the lighthouse has been burned down on account of your diaries it would be very silly of me to start saying things, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m just rather confused about it, that’s all.” Will was amazed that Primrose had cottoned on to the significance of his diaries.

  “I think it’s been going on for quite some time, Mr Elliott.” She was whispering now. “Ever seen Whisky Galore?” she asked.

  Will nodded.

  “Well, you know what I mean, then. Them folk from the city like to think they have a hold on us down here in Cornwall, when they don’t have a hold on us at all. It’s a sort of gesture of defiance, if you know what I mean.”

  Will could not help but show a little surprise, and Primrose read his reaction. “Oh, don’t you go thinking that we’re all at that game!” She pointed to the bottles on the shelf behind her. “My stocks come from the wholesaler!” She chuckled.

  “But you could get some that didn’t if you wanted to?”

  Perspiration was forming on Primrose’s upper lip. She clearly thought she had said more than she should and changed the subject. “Anyway, how’s Mr Utterly?”

  “Hovis?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Hovis. Bread. I need a brown loaf. Have you got one?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him as though he had had a brainstorm.

  Will recovered himself with commendable and unusual speed. “Mr Utterly. Yes. He’s fine. Says he’s leaving in a few weeks, though. Going back to Devon. Salcombe or Dartmouth. I shall be sorry to see him go.” The moment he had said it he bit his lip: in covering up his slip about Hovis’s name he had revealed different information, which Primrose would now impart to the rest of the village.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. Mr Utterly has been leaving for Dartmouth or Salcombe every month for the past three years to my certain knowledge.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s a dream he’s always had. Going back to his roots. Where his family used to live. But, so far, he’s never made it. They do say,” she leaned over the papers on the counter to speak more confidentially, “that he hasn’t a clue how to sail that boat of his. Wouldn’t even know which way to turn out of the harbour to get to Devon.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “Nobody likes to push him, though. Lovely man. Very good family. Bakers, by all accounts.”

  “Really?” Will said again. He fished in his pocket for money and scooped up the carrier-bag into which she had deposited his goods. “Must dash, Primrose.”

  She called after him, “Not a word now!” But it was too late: he was already on his way down the lane, feeling strangely excited about the prospect before him, and even more warmly disposed towards his whiskered neighbour.

  Sixteen

  Breaksea

  “Wight, Portland, Plymouth, south-westerly five or six, increasing seven or gale eight. Occasional rain. Good becoming moderate…”

  The sound from the radio on board Hovis’s boat seeped out of the port-holes and Will heard the unfavourable forecast as he approached. “Doesn’t sound too good.”

  “No.” Hovis was sweeping his decks and looked up. “Sounds distinctly grim. Batten-down-the-hatches time. I think I shall have to put off my voyage for a bit. No point in setting off if there’s a gale threatening.”

  “No.” Will didn’t like to say any more. “Have you seen Gryler or his lad?”

  “He was around half an hour ago. Probably in the pub by now. The lad’s gone off in his boat.”

  “He spends a lot of time in that boat, d
oesn’t he?”

  Hovis stopped sweeping. “You think he’s up to something?”

  “I don’t know.” Will looked thoughtful.

  “How’s Boy Jack coming on?”

  “Better than I’d hoped. Harry reckons he’ll be done by tomorrow. That means I can finish painting and antifouling the hull and have her back in the water some time next week, weather permitting.”

  “Well, it might not. You heard the forecast.”

  “How imminent?”

  “Pretty imminent. And talking of pretty, how’s the lady?”

  “She’s fine, thanks. Fine.”

  Hovis chuckled as Will’s eyes grew misty. “Well I never.”

  “Mmmm? Sorry?” Will realized his momentary lapse.

  Hovis grinned. “What have you got planned for the afternoon?”

  “I want to nip over to the lighthouse and see if Ernie and May are OK. If that weather is as imminent as you say it is, though, I’d better get a move on or I’ll get a soaking.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the throaty rumble of a powerboat and they turned in unison to see a white gin palace bearing down on them, with Jerry MacDermott at the helm. The boat, almost fifty-foot long, was slewing precariously towards the pontoon, and Will, anxious to avoid a repetition of the MacDermotts’ last berthing exercise on a vessel barely a third the size of their new model, dashed along the pontoon to fend it off before it could do any damage. Hovis followed.

  “You OK?” Will asked the helmsman, before laying a hand on the boat.

  There was a look of panic in Jerry MacDermott’s eye, as though he knew that this time he had bitten off more than he could chew. He lobbed his cigar butt into the water, the better to grind his teeth and bite his lip. “Bit tricky, son. Could do with a hand. The missus is on her way down by car. Thought I’d surprise her.”

  “You on your own up there?”

  “Yes. Broker said it could be ‘andled by one at a pinch.”

  Yes, but not this one, thought Will. “Put your rudder amidships then go astern on your port engine,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “The left-hand engine. Ease it into reverse. Keep your starboard engine – the right-hand one – in neutral.”

  “Right.” The port engine gave a rich, deep growl, and the water churned at the stern of the boat.

  “Not too much. Now go ahead gently on your starboard engine.”

  The boat did a stately pirouette.

  “Put them both into neutral and throw us a rope.”

  Jerry MacDermott did as he was told and threw ropes to both Hovis and Will.

  “Just ease back on both engines now – very gently,” instructed Will. “That’s it. A little more. Fine. OK. You can switch off.” He fastened the new black mooring warp around a rusty cleat on the pontoon and Hovis did the same. The one thing Hovis knew how to do was keep a boat in port, thought Will, watching his companion deftly wind the rope around another corroding cleat.

  “You’re a gent, squire.” MacDermott tossed the compliment with a note of relief in his voice.

  Will read the name on the transom of the new boat: Sokai Again. Jerry MacDermott had pushed the boat out in more ways than one.

  “Like her?” asked her new owner proudly.

  “She’s…er…very big,” said Will diplomatically.

  Hovis stood perfectly still, eyeing her up from stem to stern, scratching his head and wondering just how much money had been spent on the largest piece of Tupperware he had ever set eyes on. He didn’t have to wonder for long.

  “Two hundred and fifty grand,” boasted her owner. “Only a year old. Barely run in.”

  “How big?” asked Hovis, his eyes like saucers.

  “Forty-eight feet,” replied MacDermott. “Got everything. Radar, GPS, generator, two TVs, CD player, cocktail bar, twin staterooms – both with en suite showers – two fridges, fly-bridge, bathing platform. It’s even got a gangplank.”

  “Passarelle,” supplied Will.

  “And one of them as well,” confirmed MacDermott. “The missus will love her.”

  “Are you sure you’ve got enough fenders out?”

  “Not blown it up yet.”

  “No. Not your tender. Your fenders – to stop it scraping.”

  “There’s some in that crate thing at the back.”

  “I’d tie a few more of them down the pontoon side, I think. And your springs and your head and stern lines will need to be strong. Some high winds are forecast. You’ll want her secure.” Will hated dishing out orders, but the prospect of that amount of money at the mercy of the impending elements drove him into offering unsolicited advice.

  “Are you going to leave her here?” asked Hovis, still in awe of the stately hulk.

  “For a bit, squire. Thought she’d give this place a touch of class.” MacDermott had recovered and was back to his swaggering ways. He hopped down.

  “Are you sure she’ll be safe?”

  “Oh, I think so. With the likes of you on site I shouldn’t have too much to worry about.”

  “Yes, but it’s a lot of money.”

  “Nah. Bit of fun, really. Take us along to Brighton in a jiffy. Trudie’ll like that. Likes Brighton. Good shopping.”

  “Brighton?” Hovis was musing on how long it would take a Cornish yawl to get from Pencurnow to Brighton, with a favourable wind. Pencurnow to Falmouth. Falmouth to Salcombe. Salcombe to Weymouth. Weymouth to Lymington. Lymington to Brighton. He reckoned on a good five days, allowing for overnighting in port.

  “How fast does she go?”

  “Thirty-odd knots.”

  “Good grief. It’s not natural.”

  “No. But it’s the business, squire. Anyway, mustn’t ‘old you up. Old Gryler around?”

  “Pub, I think,” murmured Hovis.

  Will had been watching silently. MacDermott and his boat seemed so out of place in this tiny Cornish boatyard. Perhaps it was a sign of the times. A sign of the way things were going.

  “Old bugger. I’ll go and tell ‘im ‘e’s got a new charge to keep an eye on. Be seein’ you.”

  “Yes.” Hovis stood, entranced. “Two fridges,” he muttered. “And a cocktail bar.”

  “Yes,” said Will, “but once he plugs into shore power just think of the size of his electricity bill.”

  Hovis brightened. “That’s a point. There’s a lot to be said for a locker below the water-line. Let nature do the cooling. And anyway…”

  Will looked at him quizzically. “Yes?”

  “I’ve never liked Brighton. Not a patch on Salcombe.”

  ♦

  Amy turned the envelope in her hand and ran her fingers over it. She had put off opening it, half afraid of its contents, half annoyed at its encroachment on her life. The handwriting was assured, over-elaborate. At least it meant, hopefully, that Oliver was now some distance away. That much should have been a relief, but it was not.

  She walked to the counter and picked up a pair of scissors, sliced neatly through the top of the envelope. She pulled out the single sheet of crisp white paper and unfolded it.

  The message was written in black ink.

  Ballet d’Azur

  Dear Ame,

  I didn’t mean to upset you, angel. You know I wouldn’t do that for anything. [Amy threw her head back and let out a single sharp laugh.]

  I just want you back. Need you back. You know what it’s like – the not dancing. The not being near you. You must miss it as much as I do. I only get angry when I think we won’t be together again. I have so many plans for us. We can get back what we had. You know we can. Trust me and it will all work out.

  I’m planning to take the company to Nice – the place where we thought up the name. Remember the hotel? The room over the terrace? Five times a day? Again perhaps?

  She winced, half at the painful memory, half at the cloying sentiment shot through with arrogance that Oliver seemed to think would override everything that had happened since.

 
; Don’t shut me out. Give me a chance to show you that we can do it again. We have so much together, you know that. We shouldn’t waste it.

  I’ll come and see you again, soon, and this time I won’t take no for an answer. You must come. We can make a fresh start. There is nothing else for either of us. Believe me. O.

  She dropped the letter on the counter. Then she picked it up, tore it into little pieces and threw it into the wastebin.

  ♦

  The walk along the clifftop was not pleasant. His thoughts of Amy warmed him, but the sky was threatening and the wind building in gusts. He wondered what she was doing. He saw the Gull pulled up on the patch of shingle to one side of the lighthouse. Ernie was coming out of the door below the tower and hailed him. “Not looking so good.”

  “In there?” Will was concerned about the lighthouse.

  “No. The forecast. Blowing up.”

  “I know. I thought I’d nip over and see you before it bucketed down.”

  “Nice of you. They reckon we’re OK for a few hours yet.”

  “How’s May?”

  “Oh, coming along. Getting over it. She was a bit shocked, you know. Nothing like that’s ever happened to her before. Not to either of us.”

  “I know.”

  “Still, got to carry on. Look forward, not back. That boat of yours,” he pointed at The Gull, “good at catching mackerel. Hooked another two this morning. Reckon I’m on to a winner there.” He patted Will on the back. “Fancy a cup of tea?”

  The two men walked through to Ernie’s kitchen and he brewed up.

  “Seen much this morning?” asked Will.

  “Not much. Quiet, really. The Scillonian pushing out to St Mary’s. Young Applebee out there with his lobster pots but that’s about all.”

  “Still out, is he?”

  “Reckon so. Motored off behind Bill’s Island an hour or more ago. Haven’t seen him since. Time he was getting back in.” Ernie searched for clues in the sky.

  “Strange.”

  Ernie stared at him. “You think he’s up to something?”

  “Might be. Not sure.”