by Tim Pegler
Then, for some reason, I’m thinking of all those deaths in the disaster that was September 11 2001. Mum and Dad tried to shelter us kids from the news reports but the footage was replayed on TV so often it was impossible to avoid. I only needed to see it once and I had nightmares for months. Even now, as the planes dive again through my mind, nausea flares in my gut. Imagine sitting in an office, following your daily routine, when horror gatecrashes your life. You barely have time to comprehend the chaos before your world combusts. Death by…God only knows what. Incomprehensible hatred? Blind fanaticism? Corrupted religion?
And I think of me. The one Death keeps hooking, kissing and throwing back. The one beating the house in some cosmic casino.
I nearly drowned in an ice-clad river. I’ve been scorched in a bushfire and almost electrocuted. I was in a plane crash with Dad, the car smash with my mates. That makes me five parts dead. Five of my nine lives gone and I’m still here.
Why? Why me? I wasn’t the strongest, toughest or fittest of the blokes in the Falcon. Not the smartest, best looking, coolest or funniest. Just the luckiest.
What the hell does it mean? That there’s something
I have to do before my time expires? That I’ll keep getting chances until I seal a deal with fate? Save the planet? Cure cancer? As if. There’s no way I’m the chosen one or anything like that.
But what does it change? Should I act differently, live cautiously? Treat every moment as though my luck is so depleted I could be killed by a paper cut? Or should I just stay away from cars, planes, fire, water…even electricity?
I got up-close and personal with the power supply early last summer when Barney and I were trying to save up for some online gaming gear. He nagged his older brother Davo to find us work for cash. Davo’s nineteen and a labourer and we ended up on a home renovation site where they were running behind schedule with a house extension. The task sounded simple enough, though I joked that the heavy work would kill me. It nearly bloody did…
Two long, parallel trenches. The excavator can’t get close enough to the building so the final footings have to be dug by hand, deep and square enough to satisfy a notoriously fussy building inspector.
Three guys: Davo, Barney and me. Two trenches, the length of a living room. Too bad they didn’t mention the ground was solid clay.
We finish the first trench by eleven. Barney inhales his lunch and half-heartedly swings a pick along the length of the next trench, barely loosening the soil. ‘Gotta dash, lads. You’ll be right to finish off, won’cha?’ He scurries away and straddles his bike. Vanishes before I can finish my mouthful.
‘Weak prick,’ Davo spits, and keeps digging.
Two-thirds done. Shoulders, wrists, back aching. Palms blistered. The pick feels heavier each time I lift it. Davo stops for a smoke and I’m left alone, daunted by the unexcavated distance.
Heave. Swing. Klunk.
Heave. Swing. Klunk.
Heave. Swing. Thwunk.
Jammed. It’s as if the clay swallowed the pick-head. I can’t budge it.
I kick the wooden handle in frustration. No joy. Stuck solid. I try to wobble it, again without effect. For a second I identify with the knights trying to remove the sword from the stone. Man, they must have been pissed off when Arthur slid it out one-handed.
I bend and grab the iron pick-head with both hands. THWWUMP! Simultaneous blows to my armpits and the rear of my skull. It’s like being drop-punted by a bull elephant…or Boris. I’m flying, falling, arcing backwards across three trenches and landing in a fourth.
I lie there, vision pixellated, white noise surging in my ears. Footsteps approach and then a voice blasts through the fuzz, the site manager or Davo, maybe.
‘What the hell were you thinking? You’ve cut the mains power! Stuck a pick in the underground wiring. We’re going to lose a day at least. Lucky you’re alive, ya dickhead!’
III
G: WANT A PILOT
Morning bulldozes its way under my blind. I trudge to the kitchen and find two notes on the bench. The first is in Mel’s writing. Mum and Dad have driven her and Pip to the national park office to meet Hiroshi and his tour group. The message is the equivalent of a withering glare; there’s no ‘Have a great day’ or ‘Catch you later.’ Can’t say I blame her. I’ve hardly been Mr Good-Times since we got here.
The second note is from Mum and Dad. After dropping the girls off they’re going camping and will be gone two nights. At least they sign off with an X.
I take stock. It’s sunny outside, which is a plus. My head seems less foggy, like I’ve had an overnight defrag. My foot…I lumber across the room testing whether I can leave the crutches behind. Nope, still too sore…five out of ten at best. Which means, Ladeeeees and Gentle-mennnnn, for today’s entertainment we will…read more of the logbook. It’s better than reading bounty hunter rubbish. At least the action in the logbook is real.
Inside the lighthouse everything is as I left it, although a streamer of cobwebs, strung with desiccated bug carcasses, has fallen across the desk. I swipe it aside and retrieve the log.
With Captain Wilton dead, the underkeepers aren’t as anal about their records. The handwriting varies, suggesting the other men, perhaps even their wives, are doing the recording. It’s hard to tell. The captain initialled his entries but now some are initialled and some are anonymous. There are notes scrawled in the margins—were they writing from memory rather than as things happened?
Then a new head keeper arrives on the supply ship and the log changes again. Captain Stanley Llewellyn is a single man and an ex–navy officer who sounds like he’s used to being in command.
NOVEMBER 25
Commenced with moderate breeze S by SE. Cloudy until 4am. At 8 a large vessel sighted to the NE. At 10 the Yatala arrived. Sent Mr Sutton to greet it.
SL (Head keeper)—After Mr Sutton and I hauled my gear from the jetty to the light station and stowed it at the cottage, I met with all the keepers and their families. I spoke of the importance of being able to rely on and trust each other implicitly and how, in such an isolated outpost of Her Majesty’s Empire, we all had to pull together or our small community would crumble.
Captain Wilton’s daughter, Miss Lily, asked if she could remain at the Cape as she has no family closer than Bristol and little money to pay for passage. She said she would happily undergo training as an underkeeper and work as hard as any man.
I said the Marine Board would likely oppose any official appointment but I would be willing to make a recommendation on her behalf, subject to her trial performance in the role. I put it to a vote that Miss Wilton remain at the Cape. With the exception of Mrs Bellows, all were in favour.
I then asked Mr and Mrs Bellows to accommodate Miss Wilton in one of their spare rooms, as the Sutton cottage is overflowing and it would not be appropriate for the unfortunate girl to live with a bachelor. Under the gaze of their peers, Mr and Mrs Bellows acquiesced. I adjusted their oil rations accordingly.
Throughout this twenty-four hours, light winds from the SE and a dark gloomy sky.
The new captain is more descriptive in his writing—and more long-winded. I flip ahead in the log, hoping for, I don’t know, anything other than weather and shipping notes.
DECEMBER 17
Commenced with squally weather and showers. Put out the light at 5.45am. Employed throughout today polishing the lantern.
Miss Wilton is proving to be a true helpmate; I have assigned her to caring for the horses. She also brings meals to those manning the light— and often stays to keep me company while I work. Indeed, she spends very little time with the Bellows. I concede her living arrangement isn’t ideal—but a necessity in the absence of alternative accommodation.
DECEMBER 18
Commenced with fog so thick that it clings to your skin. None of the underkeepers recalls conditions such as these. We keep the light on twenty-four hours. It is barely visible from the cottages, so I fear for anyone at sea.
DEC
EMBER 19
Still the fog cloaks us. Mr Bellows grumbled about working extra hours to keep the light burning but I said that we had a duty to any poor souls lost in this ghostly veil. At change of shift I overheard Mrs Bellows stating to her husband that the fog is the work of the Devil.
DECEMBER 20
At midnight, a gale from the SSW. Rain squalls and hail. Visibility extremely poor. When Miss Wilton delivered my supper, we remarked upon the eerie sensation that there are voices wailing in the wind. I am glad of her companionship this fearsome night. I surveyed the horizon for lights but saw naught in the haze. I gave a prayer that no vessels were at the mercy of these tempestuous conditions.
DECEMBER 21
Commenced with wind gusts from SSE. Extinguished the light at 8.25am. Employed in lantern maintenance. At 11am, Mr Sutton’s lad returned from fishing at the Point and reported signs of a wreck. I ordered all hands, except Mr Bellows, who was on duty, to search for survivors. We located various timbers, a wooden chest but no survivors. I cautioned everyone to take care they weren’t swept from the rocks.
DECEMBER 22
Commenced with moderate breeze at SW. Overcast till 2am. From 2 till 8 a breeze at SSE.
At 3.10pm Miss Wilton discovered a survivor inside Sealer’s Arch; a young man more dead than alive. No other souls located. Mr and Mrs Sutton, Miss Wilton and I conveyed the youth by stretcher to the spare room in my cottage. Miss Wilton offered to stay with him while I was on duty. From noon until 8 overcast with light flying showers, SSW breeze…
DECEMBER 24
Commenced with moderate breeze at SSE. Overcast & cloudy till 8am. At 10.45 a vessel sighted, bearing WNW, too far away to signal.
Survivor woke today but remains too weak to speak. Miss Wilton continues to nurse him around the clock. Sky clear. Sea calm. Spent the day cleaning the lantern and window glass.
DECEMBER 25
Commenced with fresh breeze at SE, continuing throughout these twenty-four hours. Blue sky! Sailor still very weak. He has told Miss Wilton his name is Samuel Stevenson. He was crewing the Loch Awe, a barque bound for Port Adelaide with two women and thirty-two men on board. He won’t accept they are all lost.
Being Christmas, I assigned extra oil to the underkeepers and encouraged them to take a day off while I tended to the light. I urged Miss Wilton to administer extra hay for the horses too! At noon we gathered for a short service and to sing some hymns…
JANUARY 4
Commenced with moderate breeze at SW. Cloudy with passing showers until 2am. Till 9, breeze at SSE and overcast.
Our guest is gradually regaining some of the colour leached from him by the sea. Mr Sam, as he prefers to be called, has been with us two weeks now. He is still weak and his hands and forearms are badly bruised. Despite this, he today endeavoured to assist Miss Wilton repair fencing around the stables. It is good for her to have someone her own age to speak with. They are becoming close.
Yesterday we located the remains of a woman and boy child, tied to a wooden door. I asked Mr Sam whether there was no lifeboat on the Loch Awe. He replied that there was but would say no more.
Mr Sutton dug graves for the pair in woodland above the jetty at Nolan’s Return, near the original campsite. I conducted the funeral service and Mr Sam read from the Scriptures.
I close the logbook, my imagination on spin cycle. If there was a lifeboat, why were the mother and child strapped to a door? Who was in the lifeboat if not the women and children? And why wouldn’t Sam tell Captain Llewellyn anything about the wreck?
My thoughts stall at the sound of wheels on gravel in the distance. I struggle upright and peer out a window. Mel, Pip and Hiroshi are tumbling from a tour bus, laughing. Hiroshi speaks briefly to the driver and then the bus farts away from the cottages, excreting black exhaust smoke into the sky. I grab my crutches and head back to the cottages, keen for company.
Hiroshi nods me a polite hello as I emerge from the scrub.
Mel looks me up and down before wrapping me in an unexpected hug. ‘How’s the foot? You up for a jog yet?’ She’s joking but only just. Mel runs five kilometres or more on most days, even when she’s on holiday, and she revels in beating me.
‘Up for a jog? Shit, yeah. But I did a half-marathon while you were out so let’s wait until tomorrow.’
Pip says nothing. I reckon I’ve got some ground to make up there.
After lunch, Mel and Hiroshi go down to the Cape to watch the fur seals on the rocks. I find Pip reading The Book Thief on the verandah and drop to sit on the sun-warmed paving stones beside her. She doesn’t look up. This is going to be harder than I thought.
I consider asking if she stole the novel, just to break the ice. No, that’s way too risky...and just not funny. I roll different apologies around my mind, grasping for something smooth or witty. I’ve got nothing, so I clear my throat and blurt: ‘Pip. Sorry I snapped at you. I…I’ve been an utter prick since we’ve been here.’
She puts her book down. Gives me a part grin, part grimace. ‘Thanks, Dan. And I’m sorry for…interfering. I can’t quite get it right.’
‘Get what right? What are you talking…what are you trying to get right?’
She frowns. ‘It’s hard to explain. I’m trying…I want to be supportive—be there for you—but it’s more than that. It’s bigger. It’s something I’ve been struggling with since Dad died. I don’t expect you to understand, Dan. I’m not even sure I’ve got my head around it…I probably sound like a complete tosser.’
‘Got your head around what? Pip?’
‘That you need compassion, okay, no matter how much of a shit you’re being.’ She sighs. ‘We all need it… every one of us, because we’re all the same, all dying, all going through the same stuff.’
I stutter. ‘We’re…we’re what?’
Pip turns to face me. Is she checking whether I’m taking the piss? I stare back at her, trying not to look as rattled as I feel.
‘Forget it, okay?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I didn’t mean to go all school-counsellor on you. You’ve probably had enough of that since the accident. Shit, I didn’t mean to remind you of the accident. Forget I mentioned it. I don’t expect you…or anyone else…’
Her voice fades into silence as my brain scrolls backwards, searching for the words that jolted me out of orbit.
‘Pip…I want to know, please, what do you mean by “We’re all dying”?’
She pauses, still cautious. ‘It’s from The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. It…helped me make sense of stuff when Dad was sick. The Tibetans say the only thing all humans have in common is that we’re dying from the moment we’re born…just at different speeds, I guess. So we’re supposed to have compassion for everyone, even people we don’t like, because we’re all going through the same thing. We’re all grieving because we know this life will end one day.’
I don’t know what to say. Pip watches me, probably bracing herself for a smartarse reply. Then she turns away, kneading her forehead with her fingers. ‘Look, it’s not for everyone, okay. I just needed to find a way… of thinking about what happened to Dad.’
I’m grasping for a response when Mel and Hiroshi skip around the corner of the cottage. ‘Did you guys see the sea eagle?’ Mel drags Pip to her feet and the three of them dart up the path towards the lighthouse. I gather together Pip’s novel and discarded jumper and make my way into the cottage.
I’m grieving and dying? I might have to sit with that thought for a while.
Dusk tumbles into darkness as Hiroshi and Pip team up to create an awesome vegetable curry for dinner. It’s so good that I barely notice the absence of meat.
Dad’s left a bottle of champagne in the fridge with a note curled around the neck and held in place with a rubber band. I pull it free and translate his scrawl: Well done on a great year at school, guys. Play safe. Then, in Mum’s handwriting: If you’re going to drink, please do so responsibly. DO NOT let Hiroshi drink and drive.
Sometimes I
wonder what planet my parents are from. Ever since we turned sixteen they’ve been weirdly liberal about drinking, even offering half-glasses of wine at family dinners when the mood strikes them. The funny thing is, neither of us likes it that much. Mel rarely drinks because she’s training and me, well, once bitten…
Tonight’s an exception though. I want to chill out and forget a few things and I’m grateful to have the company. Mel gives a whoop and the champagne cork smacks the ceiling.
Perhaps it’s the painkillers but after one glass I’m almost levitating. And my Japanese improves…or Hiroshi’s English does. Either way, our jokes seem funnier.
Mel and I wash up as Hiroshi brings the guest book into the kitchen and leafs through it. ‘Aah,’ he laughs. ‘Our ghost likes wine. It is he who finishes this bottle, not us.’
‘Brilliant,’ Mel squeals. ‘We are sooo having a séance tonight. This place has got to have stories to tell!’
‘I don’t know,’ Pip frowns. ‘We shouldn’t mess with that sort of stuff. You don’t know what could…’
‘Come on, Pip,’ Mel says. ‘You’re the one who’s always telling me to have an open mind about the spirit world. Let’s wait until midnight and give it a go.’ She flings a soggy tea-towel at me and leaps onto Hiroshi’s lap.
Rosh winks at us. ‘Subarashii! Excell-ento!’
We move to the lounge and Hiroshi unveils his secret weapon—a bottle of sake transported in his hand-luggage for a special occasion. He disappears to the kitchen and warms the rice wine before returning with four coffee mugs. ‘You Aussies like to, how do you say it, up-size,’ he beams. ‘In Japan we serve sake in very small cups.’
After a few sips my head is a helium balloon. I’ll be lucky to see midnight without floating away.
‘I’ll tell you a story,’ I begin, ‘while we wait for the witching hour. There’s this property listed for sale in a country town, okay? It’s an old nunnery, no, what do they call it…a convent. Anyway, this joint is vacant and the church decides to sell it. The local paper does a story and they print this rumour that it’s haunted by a murdered nun.
