The Lighthouse at Devil's Point

by Gary P Moss

  ‘But you’re a part of all this.’ Her hand swept across the space in front of her. ‘You fit in well here.’

  Tim smiled. ‘I know, and I’m grateful for it. But, well, you know, since my marriage ended, I’ve been rebuilding a life, but it feels as though the foundations are missing. Stupid, I know.’

  ‘Do you miss her? Your ex, I mean.’

  Tim laughed but it was hollow. ‘No, well, I suppose at first I missed the companionship, but she made such a fool out of me, I was pretty angry for a long while. First a cuckold, and now this, the whole fake childhood thing.’

  Angela raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Cuckold? Surely not, not you!’

  ‘Well I might as well be one.’ He’d started this so he might as well finish it; an abbreviated version, anyway.

  ‘Sky engineer. Caught him with his pants down, about to take hers off.’

  Angela coughed into her coffee, spilling it. She was trying hard not to laugh.

  ‘Sorry. It’s brutal.’

  ‘And I couldn’t bear to watch television for a long time after that.’

  This time, Angela almost choked, she was laughing so hard.

  ‘I know, it’s funny really. With time gone by, of course. I suppose I’m too soft, too trusting. I should have horsewhipped the guy. But, you know, without her, I wouldn’t have that gorgeous flat. View of the Minster from the front, the university from the back.’

  ‘Horsewhipped?’ She grinned. ‘A hundred years ago, maybe. You probably had to leave a nice house though.’ She was fully recovered now from her laughing fit.

  ‘It was her money, from the business. Something good came out of it, I suppose. Bye-bye dreary suburbia.’

  ‘Do you get lonely, though? Sorry, Tim, I’m prying now. Just ignore me.’

  ‘Sometimes, I guess, but I’ve plenty to keep me busy. The university, for one.’

  ‘There’s always the antique lady!’ Angela’s animated face looked full of excitement, as if she’d solved all the world’s dating problems.

  ‘She’s seventy, at least!’ Mock shock was all over his face.

  ‘She’s never, is she? I’d never have thought it. I’d have said mid-fifties.’

  ‘I’ll tell her when I see her. She’ll like that.’ He was thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘Truth is, I’ve never felt like I’ve done anything particularly noble in my life. I suppose that’s what puts me off trying again. Nothing to dine out on, so to speak.’

  Angela frowned.

  ‘Look after yourself down there, Tim. What is it people say nowadays? Lower your expectations.’

  It was Tim’s turn to laugh. He leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I think the expression is ‘manage your expectations’.’

  ‘Oh yes, silly me.’

  The village of Berrington was larger than Tim expected. Streetlamps reflected off water to his left as the taxi coasted the streets. He shivered. An involuntary action. Some of the streets were wide, almost like avenues. After a quarter mile, the taxi driver swung right onto a narrower street. It looked affluent. Solid middle class.

  The car stopped a few doors down from the address Tim was looking for. He asked the driver to wait, in case it had been a wasted trip. Tim expected it would be. The driver looked around him, probably figured it was an all right area and the passenger wasn’t likely to do a runner. He agreed to wait.

  Tim felt his legs turn wobbly.

  What’s wrong with me? I’m not visiting a loan shark. It’s just an old address which might have been my parents’ or grandparents’.

  He took a series of long, deep breaths, squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest.

  Now I’m the loan shark?

  He relaxed his posture. He walked up a short gravel drive. The door was at the side of the bungalow. The sky was already dark, but it was still late afternoon.

  He waited for a couple of minutes. He could still see the taxi. The driver had turned the engine off. Tim began to get fidgety, decided it was a wasted trip, like he’d imagined it would be. He felt no connection. There’d been a brief, uncomfortable moment when he’d sensed the river, but he put that down to a general fear of water. The swimming lessons had helped with his phobia enormously, but deep, open water was another thing altogether.

  He sighed. He turned to leave. A light came on behind the door. His heart hammered in his chest. A woman, late fifties he guessed, answered the door. Her look was enquiring rather than hostile. But her eyes were wary, searching. Tim could hear piano music coming from another room. He recognised it immediately: ‘Lara’s Theme’, from Doctor Zhivago. One of his favourite films.

  ‘Yes?’

  For a second or two, Tim found that he couldn’t speak.

  ‘I was hoping to find out some information about the people who lived here.’

  He paused for a second, as if he were reconsidering what at that moment felt like a stupid, unreasonable question. ‘About thirty-five years ago.’

  The woman’s face seemed to drain of colour, but she recovered herself quickly.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’ve only lived here a few years. Who are you, anyway?’

  Her tone had turned imperious, but Tim thought that might be because she was suddenly suspicious. He couldn’t blame her. He studied her as he spoke. She was about five foot six, he reckoned. Slim, but certainly not skinny. Facing him, her hair was black as night. Her eyes were lilac, perhaps a bit darker. When she turned her head, even a little way, the kitchen strip light illuminated tiny bits of russet amongst the black. It looked salon-cut and coloured. She was well groomed, dressed in a black suit, matching trousers and jacket. A white blouse was studded at the neck with a black cameo brooch. She wore black patent court shoes. She was pretty.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I should have said straight away.’ He held out his hand. ‘Tim Collins. Nice music, by the way.’

  The woman ignored his hand. Was she flustered now?

  I’m making her feel nervous, and in the dark too.

  She looked up the street, towards the taxi, parked with its lights off. Tim followed her stare. The driver was visible.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she said, distracted. ‘Is that your car?’

  ‘It’s a taxi, yes. I asked it to wait, in case there was no one in. Do you remember the people you bought it from? They weren’t called Morris by any chance, were they?’

  The woman seemed lost in thought. As if she were either deciding whether to trust the stranger in front of her, or if she were trying to remember. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘Morris, yes, I think that was them. I don’t know. I bought it from an animal charity. They’d left the house to them you see. Look, it’s getting rather late and I’m heading out soon. To the church.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Just another quick question.’

  The woman sighed.

  ‘Do you know when Mr and Mrs Morris died?’ He swallowed. ‘They were my grandparents, you see.’

  The woman had a dreamy look in her eyes. As if she weren’t really concentrating.

  ‘Mr Morris in the August. His wife a month later, in September. Five years ago.’ She suddenly seemed to snap back to reality. As if she were surprised to see him standing there.

  ‘And their daughter, Lynne,’ he pressed on. ‘I don’t suppose you know what happened to her do you? It seems a bit odd to leave your house to charity if you’ve a surviving child.’

  It also seemed that Tim couldn’t stop asking questions. He was aware now that he was overstaying a welcome that was not extended in the first place.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea. That’s all I know. I really must go now. Goodbye.’

  She shut the door on him, the piano music fading as it closed.

  As he walked back to the taxi, he realised he’d not asked her name.

  ‘Any luck there? You were gone a while,’ the taxi driver said as Tim climbed in beside him.

  ‘Not really. Just that the woman
living there now confirmed my grandparents are both dead. I suppose that’s something, knowing that.’

  The taxi pulled away, heading back to Huntingdon station. Tim stared into the dark early evening, hardly noticing anything as the countryside gradually morphed into a town. He felt sick and miserable, as if he were grieving for two people of whom he had no memory whatsoever.

  Sara Palmer watched through a gap in her front room curtains as Tim’s taxi pulled away. She took a plastic bank bag full of pound coins, slipped them into her coat pocket, and left the house. Two full streets away, she yanked open an old-fashioned red telephone box and dialled an overseas number.

  ‘Evet?’ a man’s voice answered in Turkish. It sounded harsh. Impatient.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ The tone softened.

  ‘Yes, well, something cropped up this evening. Just now in fact. Remember I told you about Tim?’ There was silence at the other end. ‘He just showed up. At my door. Can you believe that?’

  There was a deep sigh from the man.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you buying that house was a crazy idea?’

  ‘I know you did. But, well, it was important to me at the time. Not so much now. And anyway, I’ll be rid of it soon. One more time, and then I’ll come to you.’

  ‘I assume you got rid of him.’

  ‘Yes. I was still dressed from the churchyard, from earlier. I looked, vulnerable.’

  She chuckled, low and throaty, as if she were a heavy smoker.

  ‘Will he come back, do you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. he seems all right. Respectable enough not to push any boundaries. If he does, I’ll tell him he’s making me nervous. That I’ll call the police if he doesn’t leave.’

  The man snorted.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. Don’t push it. Like you said, one more time and we’re free.’

  ‘How’s the building work coming on?’ Sara asked.

  ‘It’s all good, no problems. Did you go to the bank?’

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow. It shouldn’t be hard to re-mortgage. When I go, the bank can just take it, do what they want with it.’

  ‘Try to get extra, another ten, twenty percent.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can, Andreas. They might only give me the hundred.’

  ‘Okay, just whatever you can. We’ve got builders to pay.’

  ‘I know, love, I’m on it. Don’t worry.’ She paused, then took a deep breath. ‘And while we’re on the subject of worrying, Andreas. What if your wife tries to find you? It won’t be difficult for her.’

  His tone was confident, serious.

  ‘She won’t get in. I’ll get her passport flagged on the Turkish border and from Nicosia. Stop worrying. I have connections, I told you that. You should know me by now.’

  ‘All right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Good,’ Andreas said. ‘And you don’t have to keep visiting his grave all the time, you know.’

  ‘It looks good. The grieving widow.’

  ‘It’s been four years, Sara.’

  ‘I know darling. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Get some rest. Be up early for the bank.’

  ‘Bye, my love,’ she said.

  ‘Seni seviyorum.’ I love you.

  ‘You too,’ she whispered. The phone clicked.

  Angela brought two coffees over to the table. Tim sat brooding. He understood what was happening but was determined to prevent himself entering a spiral of depression. He smiled as she placed a mug in front of him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tim. I know to meet them might have filled in some more gaps. But they might not have known much either, especially if like you say, there was no contact with your mum’s side of the family.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I should just forget it now. Life hasn’t treated me so badly.’

  Angela’s eyes locked onto his own.

  ‘A bit weird though, wouldn’t you say?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s weird?’

  ‘I mean, this woman who lives there now. She seems not to know much about the house’s history, which is understandable I guess, I mean who does, when they move into a new house? New start, exorcise the ghosts. But yet she can recall the exact month and year when both your grandparents died. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?’

  ‘I suppose so. I never really thought about it. I just thought I was intruding. She looked like she was in mourning. To be honest, I felt a bit guilty.’

  Angela was still staring at him. It was making him uncomfortable.

  ‘What? You think the woman at the door might be my mother? She said the house had been left to a charity. Why would she say that if it weren’t true?’

  Angela shrugged.

  ‘I’m not saying it definitely was her. Just something to consider. It’s that thing with the dates. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have even entertained the idea.’

  His eyes prickled. He felt a film of tears, which he blinked away.

  Silly man. Why am I upset? Because I might have been rejected all over again?

  He snapped himself out of it, took a long drink of his coffee.

  ‘What will you do?’ Angela asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I should write a letter. I might have freaked the poor woman out, turning up unannounced like that. Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps it was just one fact she remembered as the deaths were so close together.’

  Angela smiled. Tim thought that her smile was laced with sympathy.

  ‘There you go again. Thinking of others.’

  ‘I know, I’m too soft.’

  She slapped his knee.

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re all right, you are, just the way you are. Come on, let’s get back to the rabble.’

  ‘Twelfth century English monasticism. Hardly a rabble.’

  The woman troubled him. He wouldn’t admit it to himself before, perhaps because he didn’t know what wasn’t sitting right about the visit to Berrington.

  Chapter Ten

  Tim checked the electoral register for the area that covered Berrington. The woman wasn’t on it. There was information regarding the last price paid for the bungalow but that was all. He decided to go ahead with writing the letter; he guessed that another unannounced visit would not be warmly welcomed.

  He didn’t know her name. He could hardly begin the letter with Dear Mrs/Miss/Ms Collins/Morris/Whoever, so he decided on Dear Madam. He thought he needed to get the idea out of his head that the woman might indeed be his mother. Angela’s suggestion was unhelpful. But plausible, he had to admit. But if it wasn’t her, where would that get him? She can’t tell him what she doesn’t know. And anyway, even if it is her, what’s to stop her continuing the lie? She’d not been in touch for the whole of his life so why should she make an effort now, on the basis of a little bit of unexpected pressure: her son turning up unannounced after thirty-five years.

  He outlined his reason for writing in a formal style, with nods to respect and privacy while making his case for a reasonable request for information that might help to smooth out his jagged identity, especially since the death of his father. He mentioned that his father had never spoken about his mother or her side of the family. It was the truth, but he wondered if including this information might be viewed as trickery if the remote possibility that Angela’s less than veiled suspicions were proved to be true.

  It would give his mother a clean slate, if in fact she was in any way to blame for his parents’ split. He had no idea. He gave no indication that he thought she might be withholding information, rather seeking to ‘jog her memory’, or any of her neighbours that might have known the Morris or Collins families. He concluded by saying how grateful he was that she was taking the time to consider his request, and that he’d be available to call or email at any time. He supplied both his residential address and that of his university department.

  As he sealed the letter, his heart rate soared. He gripped the envelope tight as he left his flat to take the shor
t walk to Gillygate where he knew there was a postal collection before noon. He wanted it to arrive in Berrington as quickly as possible. It was another step on his short list of things he could do to try to fill in the gaps. And if this was to be unsuccessful? Well, it would likely be the end of it. He would have to concede defeat, to get on with the somewhat charmed life he’d created for himself, especially after his divorce.

  It would be time to draw a line, and about time too. And this time, he wasn’t sharing what it was he was up to. Not to Angela, not to anyone. Advice was all well and good, but it was usually conflicting, tearing him from one direction to another, stressing him, forcing him to decide on things, like in a malevolently written ‘choose your own adventure’ book.

  Almost a month later, after constantly checking his email account and his mobile phone for missed calls, he was about to give up, to bury his search for good. Then a small envelope dropped onto the floor as he was heading back to the university. He’d decided to take more lunches at home, where he could quiet his mind. He picked it up. Turning it over, he noticed neat handwriting, with a slight tilt to the right. The stamp looked as if it had been placed with a rule underneath it, to ensure that it was perpendicular to the top of the envelope. This was prepared by a person who cared about the little things.

  Attention to detail. He liked that.

  Tim held his breath as he took out his reading glasses to examine the postmark that covered the stamp and spread out onto the pale blue envelope. It said ‘Cambridge.’ Not Huntingdon, but not too far away. And would the sorting office be in the town anyway? Probably not. He weighed it in his hands as if certain information might weigh more, according to its seriousness. Cambridge. It could be my aunt, he thought. No, this isn’t her handwriting. Hers is copperplate script. His fingers trembled as he prised a forefinger under a small gap and tore straight across.

  There was no address where he would have expected it to be, at the top right of the front page. There were two pages, the same pale blue as the envelope. The same handwriting. As he began to read, his heart boomed as if it threatened to burst from his chest. Tears prickled his eyes. The woman from the bungalow in Berrington had replied.