Meet Me at the Lighthouse

by Mary Jayne Baker

  I shot another glare at the old woman, who obviously thought “bloody” wasn’t appropriate language for a place of worship and had turned to give Ross evil eyes again.

  “It does feel strange, the way it all turned out,” I said. “Like fate or something.”

  “I know.” He shuffled a little closer to me against the hard wood back of the pew. “Best thing I ever did, telling that bloke you had chlamydia.”

  Lady bloody Muck in front of us didn’t have a problem with STD references in church, I noticed. She hadn’t bothered looking round this time. I almost giggled as I imagined her pondering what a lovely name Chlamydia would be for her little shih tzu or something.

  “So you want to come round mine after?” I asked Ross. “I’ll make you my famous phone call to Domino’s, we can get into our PJs and have a cuddle?”

  “God, sounds great.” He sighed. “But I should probably spend the evening with the family, do my duty as son and nephew. Not fair to leave the parents to Will and Joe while I’m getting snuggles really, is it?” He nodded at his older brothers, seated near the front with their wives and kids.

  I felt a stab of worry. Was he bailing out again? It felt like this had been happening more and more lately: the evasive-sounding fob-offs, the excuses.

  No… I was being paranoid, wasn’t I? Of course he wanted to grieve with his family. I mustered a reassuring smile.

  “I guess not. Come round after if you get the chance, eh?”

  “I will.” He gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Best girlfriend ever.”

  Mum leaned round with a finger on her lips. She jerked her head towards the vicar, who was standing expectantly behind Charlie’s coffin waiting for hush.

  It’s traditional after a funeral to say it was a lovely service, but this one really was something special – perhaps because Charlie had planned it himself. The hymns had an appropriately nautical flavour, beginning with the men of the Cragport Fishermen’s Choir singing Those in Peril on the Sea. Charlie had been a member himself for years, before his Dublin pipe finally cost him his smooth baritone.

  After Mum had recited Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep, Ross gripped my hand. He looked flushed and twitchy, the way he did before he sang.

  I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Sure you’re ok to do this eulogy, Ross? You’re upset.”

  “I have to. Needs to be me.”

  “Guess it does.” I kissed his cheek. “Good luck.”

  Wendy introduced Ross and he made his way hesitantly to the pulpit.

  He cleared his throat and gave everyone a shy wave. Judging by the old woman in front’s tut that was some sort of etiquette breach, but it seemed to help him feel less nervous.

  “I met Uncle Charlie the day I was born,” he began. “But I didn’t know him till I was seven years old. The day he taught me to play cricket.”

  He skimmed his notes then pushed them away, looking over the crowd of mourners. Seeing how many friends had come to say goodbye seemed to give him confidence.

  “We’d been through the basics, down on the beach,” he went on. “How to hold the bat, the leg before wicket rule. It was while we were taking a break that he told me the story of how he met his wife Annie. And that’s when I knew Uncle Charlie. Because you couldn’t know him, not really, without knowing how he felt about the love of his life.”

  He paused to look over at me. I blinked back a couple of tears and smiled encouragingly.

  “They met the year of the coronation, 1953, at a dance hall in town. The Cragport Palais – the building that’s now Tuxedo’s cabaret club. Uncle Charlie was at the bar with his old national service buddy Bert Hannigan when he first saw Annie. Those of you who remember this pair of likely lads will probably have seen them propping up a few bars in their day.”

  There was a ripple of laughter, and a few knowing nods from the older folk.

  “That night a beautiful brunette on the dancefloor caught Charlie’s eye. Red silk dress, pouting cherry lips, tiny waist just the right size to curl an arm around: a proper little darling, he told me, the spit of Jane Russell. So he winked at her, hoping she might come over.” Ross laughed. “Well, that wasn’t Annie. But she was dancing nearby to that old tune you just heard. She thought the wink was for her, gave her partner the slip and went to join Charlie at the bar.”

  There was another chorus of laughter. I was laughing too, listening attentively. I’d never heard the story of how Charlie and Annie met.

  “Ever the gentleman, Uncle Charlie didn’t let on he’d been winking at someone else. Instead he did the chivalrous thing and bought Annie a port and lemon. The two of them talked for hours, and by the end of the night they were engaged. Never one to waste time when he was onto a good thing, my uncle.”

  More laughter from the amused mourners. As eulogies went, this one was going down a storm.

  “And that was it,” Ross continued. “From that moment until she died 18 years ago, I don’t think Charlie and Annie spent more than a day apart. He told her the night they fell in love he’d never let her go, and he never did.” He made a choking noise, but struggled bravely to the end. “That was the love story that helped me know my Uncle Charlie. Warm, impulsive, mischievous, fierce, eccentric, kind, quarrelsome Charlie Mason, who selfishly I’ll miss every day, even though I know he’s back in the only place he ever wanted to be. With his Annie. Thank you.”

  He descended hurriedly, and I could see from his twitching features that his tears wouldn’t be held back any more. Instead of coming over to us, he strode up the aisle towards the door.

  In her pew near the front, Claire turned to watch. I thought for a moment she was going to go after him, but after a second she turned back to comfort a tearful Molly.

  Gareth nudged me. “Is he all right?”

  “Think he just needs a time out,” I whispered. “Wait till the next hymn, then I’ll go check on him.”

  When the congregation stood to sing Guide us, Pilot, to the Harbour, I slid quietly from my seat and slipped out of the side door to find Ross.

  I had an idea where I’d find him, and when I wandered out into the cemetery I saw I was right. He was standing by a headstone in blue-grey marble – Annie Mason’s grave. Next to it, a man-sized hole waited to receive his Uncle Charlie.

  I walked over and slipped my hand into his.

  “That was a lovely story, sweetheart,” I said gently.

  “Felt like the right one to tell.” He laughed through his tears. “And to be honest, there’s not many of Charlie’s anecdotes fit for church.”

  I laughed too. “Bit blue, were they?”

  “Yep. You should’ve heard the one about the cabin boy, the can-can girl and the avocado.”

  “Sure I can use my imagination,” I said, smiling. “So what happened to the other lass? The fit one Charlie was really winking at?” My eyes widened. “Oh God, it’s not that old woman who keeps giving you evils, is it?”

  “No, the Jane Russell lookalike’s not around any more. You’ll know the name though,” he said, turning to flash me a tearful grin. “She married another navy buddy of Charlie and Bert’s. Harry Hasselbach.”

  “You’re kidding! Not –”

  “Yep. Gracie Hasselbach née Holt, of bench fame. Bit of a raver apparently. In the fifties she was known as Hot Lips Holt round here.”

  “Bloody hell. She really did seize every day.”

  “Yeah. Along with a few other things, from what Uncle Charlie said.”

  “Ha! Naughty Charlie.” I gave his hand a squeeze. “Come on, Ross, we’d better go back in. It’s nearly over now, then we can do our remembering at the Crown.”

  “Yeah. Spose we should.”

  I turned away from Annie’s gravestone to look at Ross. He was smiling at his memories of Charlie, but his lip was trembling and his cheeks were soaked. I remembered it: the emotional rollercoaster of loss.

  “Hug first?” I said gently.

  He blinked hard to push back his tears. “Yes pl
ease.”

  I wrapped my arms around his middle, thinking about Charlie, and Annie, and me, and Ross… and the lighthouse. Always the lighthouse. Ross was right: all those things were twined together, like ivy. Their love story, and ours. Their lighthouse, and ours.

  “Thanks for today, Bobbie,” said a muffled voice from my hair. “Couldn’t have got through it without you.”

  “Anything for my Ross,” I said, pressing my lips to the nearest bit of him, the skin of his neck just under his ear. I sighed. “Love…”

  “What?”

  “There isn’t anything you need to tell me, is there? If there’s something wrong… I’d rather know.”

  He sighed too. “Can’t hide anything from you, can I? Yes, there is something.”

  Oh God… was he finally going to tell me what had been happening? The lack of free time, the excuses? My stomach lurched unpleasantly.

  “Charlie’s death – that’s not the only bad news I got that day,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you right away, let you deal with the other thing first…” He blinked down at the grass, resting his crown on my forehead.

  “God, Ross, tell me quick. What is it?”

  “The lottery bid. It’s a no-go. I’m so sorry, Bobbie.”

  “What?” I sagged in his strong arms and he gripped me tighter.

  “You know it was never a done deal. That’s the most competitive source of funding.”

  “But – but what can we do? We’ve tapped everyone else. It’ll take forever to raise what we need if we’re relying on community fundraising alone.”

  “There’s one other source though, isn’t there?”

  I shook my head. “Not the emergency fund. It’s your own money, Ross. You need it.”

  “I don’t, I told you. Anyway, I’m not spending our lighthouse money.”

  “Are you sure though? You don’t know how long it’ll be until the flat’s sold.”

  “Hey.” He planted a kiss on my cheek. “If you’re willing to do it, so am I. Partners, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah.” I smiled at him. “Yeah, we are, aren’t we? Thanks Ross, I –”

  I bit my lip before the word, that scary word beginning with L, slipped out.

  “Come on, we’d better go back in. We can talk in the pub.” Ross released me from his embrace and we headed into the church to say one final goodbye to Charlie Mason before he joined his Annie at last.

  Chapter 28

  “Hope your sister didn’t hear that,” Ross said as we lay panting in bed one Saturday evening.

  “We honed our selective deafness skills pretty well when we were teenagers. She’ll have the telly on full blast downstairs.”

  “Good.” He grinned. “Because I’ve never heard you make that noise before.”

  “I make a lot of noises I’ve never made before when I’m with you.” I leaned forward to kiss him. “Thanks, Ross.”

  “You’re welcome. Er, for what?”

  “For being sweet and gorgeous and great in bed.”

  “Oh. Well, right back at you.” He returned the kiss with interest.

  “So you fancy getting dressed and going down the pub?” I said, stretching. “Feel like I need a drink after that.”

  “That bad, was it?”

  I laughed. “Let’s just say my knees are still wobbling.”

  “Sounds good, but I shouldn’t,” he said with a sigh. “I need to go home and get some lyrics down, it’s been ages since I’ve done any writing.”

  “Oh.” I tried to keep my voice light. “Well, I could come too. Maybe I’d inspire you.”

  “Yeah, I know what you’d inspire me to do,” he said, nuzzling into my neck. “I’d never write a word.”

  I giggled as he kissed along my shoulder. “Is that so bad?”

  “No.” He detached himself from me and threw off the covers. “But I really should go. You and Jess have a girls’ night instead. I’ll see you soon, eh?”

  When he’d left I pushed open the door to the living room. Jess was reading with Monty on her lap.

  I threw myself down opposite and sighed heavily. She didn’t look up.

  I sighed again, louder this time.

  “All right, all right,” she said, slapping her book down. “What this time, drama queen?”

  “Him.”

  “What’s he done then? Popping his cork too quickly?”

  “He’s off again. Won’t tell me where, won’t tell me why…”

  “So?” she said. “Don’t need to live in each other’s pockets, do you? You already spend most of your free time in bed together or working on that bloody lighthouse.”

  “It’s not that he isn’t with me, it’s that I don’t know where else he is. He’s so cagey.”

  “Did he not tell you where he was going?”

  “Well, he said he was going home to write lyrics, but…”

  “Then that’s where he’ll be,” Jess said, picking up her book as if that ended the conversation.

  “It’s not just today though, is it? It’s been going on for ages. Did I tell you what happened after Charlie’s funeral?”

  She gave a resigned sigh and put the book down again. “No, what?”

  “I asked if he wanted to come back here for a cuddle.” My face twisted in sympathy as I remembered his tear-stained face. “Thought he’d need one. But he said he wanted to be with the family.”

  “That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I told myself. But when I rang he wasn’t there. Molly said he’d left ages ago. And he wasn’t answering his mobile.”

  Jess shrugged. “Well there’s only so much of Keith the lad can probably stand in one sitting. Went home for an early night, I bet.”

  “Just seems odd he wouldn’t come round here, that’s all.”

  “Everyone grieves differently. You remember what Mum was like when we lost Grandad: she didn’t leave her room for two days.”

  “Yeah.” I blinked at the memory. “Poor Mum.”

  “Anyway, you’re reading too much into it. Trust me, sis, he loves you to bits.”

  I sighed. “That’s another thing. How soon would you expect someone to say they loved you, Jess? I mean, if things were going well?”

  “What, has he not said it yet?”

  “No. He tells me he likes me, tells me I’m special, tells me I’m beautiful, but he never tells me that. He’s sweet as hell but it’s like he goes out of his way to avoid it.”

  I made a clucking noise to call Monty to me. He jerked awake and bounded off Jess and into my lap. I petted the little guy absently, glad of the company.

  “Oi. Dog thief,” Jess said, frowning. “Anyway, Ross does love you, take my word for it. Thinks the sun shines out of your backside.”

  “Wish I could be sure of that. It’d be nice to hear it anyway.”

  “Then you tell him first. Not sure if it’s made its way to the rock you hide yourself under, but there was this little thing called feminism a few million decades ago.”

  “Dunno. What if he doesn’t say it back?”

  “Look. Is this about that prick Alex Partington cheating on you again?”

  I twirled Monty’s white curls around my fingers. “No.”

  “Right. So you’re not paranoid that Alice in Wonderbra’s back down the rabbit hole with nipples set to stun then.”

  “Who, Claire? No.”

  She raised a single eyebrow. Jess could say more with one eyebrow than Roger Moore with a bloody facial tick.

  “Ok, yes,” I admitted. “Come on, what am I supposed to think? She’s his wife, Jess. She as good as told me she’s only here to get him back, and he’s busy all the time, won’t tell me where he’s going…”

  “You can’t believe he’d cheat on you though?”

  “No. But at the same time I can’t help remembering I would’ve said exactly the same about Alex.”

  “Well, Ross isn’t Alex.”

  “I know.” I sighed. “Just wish I knew what was goi
ng on, that’s all. If he’s getting sick of me or whatever.”

  “He isn’t getting sick of you,” Jess said, waving an impatient hand. “Ross Mason’s just about your ideal man, love, so stop being a knob and relax. If there’s something up he’ll tell you, soon as he feels ready.”

  “Or we could settle this now.” I looked at her, eyes glinting with determination. “Hey, you had a drink?”

  “No, got a shift at nine. Why?”

  “Good, you can drive. Let’s find out what he’s really up to tonight.”

  “What? I’m not doing that!”

  “Come on, just to set my mind at rest. I have to know, Jess. I just… I have to know.”

  “Absolutely not.” She folded her arms. “I’m having no part in your weird boyfriend stalking. Find yourself another stooge, darling.”

  ***

  Half an hour later we were parked outside Ross’s flat, watching the light in the bedroom window.

  “Happy now?” Jess said. “Look. He’s working on lyrics, just like he said.”

  “Give it half an hour.”

  “All right, but then that’s it. Told you, I’m working at nine.”

  “Aha!” I said, grabbing Jess’s gearstick arm with both hands as Ross emerged ten minutes later carrying a large holdall. He chucked it in the boot of his Mini and got in.

  “Aha nothing,” she whispered back. “He’s probably going down the gym. Pretty obvious you don’t get a physique like that without working out.” She dug teasing fingers into my hip. “Unless he’s gone all Rear Window on us. Reckon there’s bits of Claire in there?”

  “Er, no. I might be willing to entertain the idea a man’s been thinking with what’s in his pants, not that he’s a psycho killer. Come on, he’s pulling out.”

  At a little distance, we followed the Mini through the garish lights glistering in multi-colour from the drizzle-drenched streets.

  “Aha!” I said as we passed the turn-off to Cragport’s only gym.

  “All right, all right. Sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

  Eventually Ross pulled into a car park down by the pier. Lurking up a side street, we saw him take his holdall from the boot and head towards Tuxedo’s, Cragport’s downmarket cabaret club.