Meet Me at the Lighthouse

by Mary Jayne Baker

  “Look, I can’t talk here,” I muttered to Jess while I scooped up my winnings. “Come meet me in the playground, ok?”

  “Oh, what, get dressed?” She groaned. “Can’t you come home?”

  “Please, Jessie. The natural light’ll do you good. And you can bring Monts for his walk.”

  ***

  The old playground perched halfway up the hill, overlooking the sea. A fat, muddy cloud had swallowed the sun and the water wasn’t sparkling any more. Instead it looked clotted and greasy, like my mood. I pushed my swing back and forth with my feet, eyes fixed glumly on Monty foraging for treasures in a nearby patch of shrubs.

  “So it was probably just a mate,” Jess said for about the third time as she swung past me. “Or a client maybe. Graphic designers meet with clients, don’t they?”

  “And buy them chips?”

  “Yeah, when they’re hungry. If someone’s your bread and butter you have to keep them sweet.”

  “Do clients touch your arm and giggle and stick their boobs out at you?”

  She shrugged. “If they’re paying for the platinum service.”

  “Don’t joke. It was a date, Jess. What else could it be?”

  “Any number of things. Lass from school, maybe.”

  I slowed my swing down and twisted to look at her. “No. This was a stranger.”

  Jess stopped swinging too. “You only saw her from the back, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I could tell it was no one we knew.”

  She sighed. “Look, I want to be supportive sister and all that, Bobs, but… well, what’s it to you? He’s not your boyfriend.”

  “It’s just he’s – I mean, since we started this, it’s felt like we’ve been –” I broke off. What the hell did I mean, exactly? “I can’t believe he’s still dating, that’s all,” I finished lamely.

  “Why can’t you believe it?”

  “Because he’s married, Jess! He told me he couldn’t even think about seeing people until his divorce came through.”

  “Did he?”

  I hesitated. Actually, thinking back, had he said that? Or had I told him that’s what he ought to do and then just assumed his agreement?

  “I’m not sure. I thought he did. I thought…”

  “What did you think?”

  I flushed. “That he liked me, I guess. The flirting, the way we just seem to click. In the back of my mind I think I had an idea that eventually his divorce would come through and me and him and the lighthouse would live happily ever after. And now he’s off guzzling chips with another woman, on top of the wife he keeps back in Sheffield for emergencies.”

  Jess stretched her arm around my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “You don’t know it means anything.”

  “It bloody well looked like it did.”

  I stared absently at Monty, still scrabbling in the shrubs like his little doggy life depended on it. It made me smile in spite of myself, watching him cover himself in dirt with his tail wagging excitedly.

  The playground Grandad had taken us to so often as kids was steeped in a sepia layer of nostalgia and neglect now, just like the lighthouse. A fancier modern affair with a zipwire on the other side of town was more of a draw for local children, but Jess and me still liked to come sometimes to swing and reminisce. Whenever one of us felt down, it was safe money that’s where we’d be.

  I heaved a deep sigh. “The worst thing is, Ross lied to me about it. Why would he do that?”

  “What did he actually say?”

  “Said he was going home to work on a big project.” I scoffed. “Actually had me feeling sorry for him, offering to take on more of the lighthouse stuff so he could get some rest. Turns out he’s knackered from nights on a different sort of job.”

  “I could be right though, couldn’t I?” Jess was like a dog with a bone when she got a fixed idea in her head. “If she’s a client it could’ve been a working date.”

  “Pretty touchy-feely for a graphic design client.”

  Jess shrugged. “He’s a good-looking lad. Not his fault if his lady clients want to feel him up.”

  “Trust me, he wasn’t exactly fighting her off.”

  She laughed, pushing with her feet to get the swing swaying again. “Stick the bottom lip in, before you trip on it. You need to grow up.”

  “Shush your face. You do.”

  “Look, all it boils down to is you’ve seen a bloke you like eating chips with someone. It’s not as if you’ve caught him inflagrante in a pair of frilly knickers bending over the kitchen worktop, is it? Ross Mason’s a nice lad, I’d bet my medical degree on it.”

  “The one you bought online?”

  “Ooh. Right, come here and take your punishment, you.” She jumped off her swing and came over to get me in a headlock, rubbing my hair with her fist.

  “Arghh, geroff!” I spluttered. “I’ve got mousse in, bitch.”

  “Make me.”

  Giggling, I pushed her away.

  “So am I being a daft cow as usual then, our Jessie?”

  “Yeah. But I can’t help being fond of you. You’re like a manky old cat living in a bin you just have to feel sorry for.” She gave my hair another affectionate nuggy. “Come on, manky, let’s go to the pub. I’ll let you drown your sorrows if you’ll let me have a go on the quizzer.”

  Chapter 8

  I tried to follow Jess’s advice and put the redheaded woman, whoever she was, out of my mind, and although I couldn’t help being a little cool to Ross at our next meeting, it soon melted as we threw ourselves into our pet project with gusto.

  Once the clean-up operation was under way, we decided the next step was to rally the troops: do the rounds of everyone we knew who might be able to help. Which was why I found myself one Saturday morning knocking on the door of a rundown bed and breakfast by the seafront, swilled over in peeling, pastel-pink paint.

  It was answered by a short, slim woman in beads and tie-dye skirts, her green hair clashing eye-wateringly with the building’s strawberry-milkshake façade.

  “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” she said. “Which one are you again? The doctor or the mad lighthouse owner?”

  I tutted. “We’re not identical, Mum.”

  “No, thank God. One of each is plenty.”

  I followed her along a yellowing hallway, pungent with the smell of greasy bacon and black pud, to the dining room. We navigated the tables of guests enjoying their full English then headed upstairs to her snug living room.

  “So, what do you want?” she asked when she’d made us both a cuppa and we were seated together on the sofa.

  “Can’t a daughter visit her aged parent without needing a reason?”

  “No. And I’m 46, missy. What is it then?”

  “Want to pick your brains.” I pulled out the notepad and pen that these days seemed to live in my handbag. “Lighthouse stuff.”

  She shook her head. “You must get this from your dad, you know. There was never any history of insanity on my side of the family.”

  “And was there on his?”

  “I don’t know, do I? If your art teacher knocks you up with twins when you’re 17 and promptly buggers off back to the missus, popping round for a detailed medical history isn’t the first thing that springs to mind. ‘Bollocks’ is the first thing that springs to mind. Followed closely by ‘ow’.”

  I patted her arm. “Ah, who needed him? You and Grandad managed us all right.”

  “Some might say you and your lighthouses are evidence to the contrary.”

  “Well if Jess is a doctor then it’s my job to be the idiot child no one in the family wants to talk about, isn’t it?” I said. “Anyway, you know you think the lighthouse thing’s a good idea.”

  “It’s not the idea that worries me,” she said, tossing back a mouthful of tea. “So what do you need advice about?”

  “All of it, basically. Have you got the paperwork from when you started the youth club?”

  “Yes, in the
filing cabinet. I’ll fetch it.”

  “Did you know Ross came to see me?” Mum asked when she’d brought a stack of ringbinders from her little office next door and dumped them on the table.

  “Did he?”

  “Yep. Popped round for a cuppa.” She flicked her green braids with an offended air. “You should take a leaf out of his book yourself.”

  “Come on, I ring you all the time.”

  “Well you could come over a bit more, the pair of you. I haven’t seen our Jess for ages.”

  I tried not to let her notice the flicker rippling across my face. I knew why Jess hadn’t been round, she was putting off having the new boyfriend conversation about Gareth. It was weeks now since they’d made the jump from “just dating” to “officially a couple”. Mum always worked these things out.

  “All right, all right. The three of us’ll take an evening class together or something,” I said, waving a hand impatiently. “So why was Ross here?”

  “Said he felt like he should visit now he’s back, with his Uncle Charlie being my godfather and you two working on this thing together.” She put her tea down on the table. “There, er, isn’t any other reason he might be trying to butter me up, is there?” she asked in a carefully casual tone.

  I reached over to pick up a ringbinder, give myself something to occupy my hands.

  “Like what?”

  “I wondered if you two might be… well, you know.” She nudged me. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten grounding you for what your head of year called ‘inappropriate behaviour’ at the school disco when you were 14.”

  “Oh God. Please stop with the innuendo, it’s more than my ribs can take.”

  “So are you?”

  “You know I wouldn’t do that. He’s married, Mum.”

  She shrugged. “Only technically.”

  I stared at her. “Have you had a brain transplant or something? Since I was old enough to wear a bra, you’ve been hammering it into me that married men are off limits. You’ve grilled every boyfriend I’ve ever had on his intentions before we’ve made it to the second date. You’re not seriously telling me you’re giving me your blessing to start bonking Ross Mason just like that?”

  “Well, maybe I’m softening in my old age,” she said, draining the last of her tea. “Not that I don’t think you’re right to hold off until his divorce comes through. But Ross is a good boy, I’ve known him all his life. He’d be better for you than the motley selection you’ve introduced me to so far.”

  I sighed. “Well, it’s academic now anyway. He’s off the market.”

  “Only until his divorce.”

  “Not what I meant.” I blinked back a rogue tear. “He’s seeing someone, Mum. I saw them in town, shovelling chips in their gobs and tittering like love’s young dream.”

  She snorted. “You think he’s seeing someone because you caught him eating chips? I eat chips with the bloke who comes to deadhead the roses, I’ve never thought of it as foreplay.”

  “Not just that. They were flirting and… and stuff. What made you think there might be something between me and him anyway?”

  “Oh, maternal instinct. The way he was talking about you when he came over, maybe.”

  I brightened a little. “Was he talking about me?”

  “Yep, he’s a big fan,” she said with a smile. “Singing your praises about this project. He said I must be very proud.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “After I’d stopped laughing, you mean?”

  I leaned over to prod her arm. “You’re rotten, you are.”

  She grinned. “All right, so I’m proud of you. Now come on, tell me what you need to know for your crazy lighthouse business.”

  “Funding sources mainly,” I said, rifling through the ringbinder I’d picked up.

  “How much do you need?”

  “Well, the council grant plus the money we got from Coastal Heritage’ll get the rot out, which is the most expensive part of it, but there’s still a lot to do. We want to get a loo installed in that little pokey-outy bit, insulate the walls with this acoustic stuff Ross says makes the music sound better.” I started counting on my fingers. “Bottle bar in the lantern room, crescent viewing balconies, staircases. Oh, and speakers to help the sound carry, LCD screens so people can get a better view of the acts –”

  “Ok, stop, stop!” She held a hand in front of her face. “Bloody hell, our Bobbie. That sounds like it’ll cost a fortune.”

  “Yeah. Ross did a rough costing.” I fished it out of my bag and handed it to her.

  “£200,000! Jesus!”

  “I know it looks a lot,” I said, flushing. “But that does include the two grants we got, which come to 140. So that’s really only 60 grand we need to find.”

  “I’ll check down the back of the sofa, shall I?” She shook her head. “Only, she says.”

  “You think we won’t get it?”

  “Not necessarily, if you write good bids. But you could do it cheaper using the community for some stuff. Anyway, it helps get people invested in a project if they feel they were part of it from the off.”

  “Suppose it does,” I said. “What sort of stuff?”

  “The painting – does that have to be done by professionals?”

  “Shouldn’t think so, not once the inside’s been certified safe.”

  “You remember when we got the old Guide hut for the youth club? We got everyone involved in helping out.”

  “Oh yeah, the painting party. Hey, that’s a great idea. Cheers, Mum.” I scribbled it down on my notepad, itching to ring Ross so I could share.

  Mum was still scanning the list. “Here, give me the pen.” I handed her the biro and she started working her magic, writing out the names of funding bodies next to some items. “So you could try the lottery for more expensive stuff: screens, platforms. See if you can get businesses to donate materials like paints. The Eric Godfrey Trust’s a local thing, funds art projects, they might cover speakers.” She looked up at me again. “And then there’s fundraising. The usual, jumble sales and that. You could ask the schools and uniformed groups to organise events on your behalf, since their kids will benefit. We’ll do something at the youth club, obviously.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” I twisted round to give her a hug. “You know, sometimes you’re a pretty handy person to be related to.”

  “Oh right, just sometimes? Ta muchly. Oh!” She ducked out of my hug and started scribbling again. “And you can ask local businesses about match funding. Try your college, for a start: sure they’ll be impressed one of their staff is getting involved in something like this. Don’t forget to stick a donations bucket out at your painting party as well, will you? Give everyone a few beers, that’ll loosen their wallets.”

  I laughed. “You look like Ross. That same mad glint in your eye.”

  “So will you soon, I bet. This stuff’s addictive.”

  To be honest, I was well past that point. The last couple of months working on the lighthouse with Ross had been the most alive I’d felt in years.

  “See?” I said with a smug grin. “Told you you thought it was a good idea.”

  “All right, so I do,” Mum admitted. “Have to say, when you first told me you wanted to open a music venue in a lighthouse with a lad you hadn’t seen since school I thought you’d gone completely potty –”

  “Er, ta.”

  “– but you’re doing it all the right way, if you will insist on doing it.”

  “I think so too.” I smiled at her. “I know you think I’m a reckless, impulsive moron, Mum, but I wouldn’t have come this far unless it was something I believed in. It’s the right thing for the lighthouse, I know it – and for me.”

  “I know,” she said, rubbing my arm approvingly. “Now give us a proper hug.”

  “And I don’t think you’re a moron,” she said gently when I was absorbed in a comforting Mum hug. “Impulsive maybe, like your mother, but there’s nothing wrong with that if you’re smar
t with it. I really am proud of you – of both my little girlies. Your grandad would be too.”

  “Well we’re proud of you,” I said, patting her frizzy hair. “Works both ways, doesn’t it?”

  “Suppose it does.” She pulled out of the hug to look into my face. “Well done, Bobbie. I mean it.”

  “Thanks, old lady. Doing my best.”

  “All I ever expected of you,” she said with a warm smile.

  Chapter 9

  When Jess and I arrived at the lighthouse for the painting party, Ross was already there setting up.

  The building had been pretty much reset to Lighthouse Zero during the clean-up, filleted from bottom to top. The old staircase, the broken lamp, all the rot was gone. The walls had been rerendered, windows glazed, and a local business keen to support the project had donated rolls of acoustic insulation. Now, after nearly a month’s work, the inside was a big, tapering grey tube; an empty canvas for what was to come.

  Currently there were a load of old bedsheets covering the stone floor and some enormous extending ladders propped against the wall.

  “All right, Hannigans?” Ross said when we walked in. He was slicing bread rolls behind a pop-up table laid out with polystyrene cups and a Thermos urn. The fact he was wearing his scruffiest jeans and a paint-stained old t-shirt didn’t make him the least bit less gorgeous. If anything, it was worse. Made him look sort of… rugged. And then there were those bare, rippling arms…

  I tried to let my eyes wander anywhere but over his body.

  “Hi Ross,” Jess said brightly. I cast her an envious look. Apparently Ross’s arms didn’t have any effect on her, lucky cow. “You know there’s graffiti on your door?”

  “Yeah, little buggers,” he said, scowling. “They better hope I never get my hands on them.”

  He came out from behind his table to give Jess a kiss on the cheek. With me he just exchanged a self-conscious nod. That was all the greeting I tended to get these days.

  There’d been a change in him over the last six weeks, since we’d met with the council. I’d thought at first I was imagining it, but no, it was definitely there. He still seemed fond of me, still did the jokey banter thing, but he was… different.