The Lightkeeper's Wife

by Karen Viggers

  It was a pity, though, that he’d ruined it all. God knows why he’d lifted his sleeve to check the time. There was a digital clock on the vehicle dashboard. Why hadn’t he looked at that? Habit, he supposed. Sometimes he could get quite obsessive about checking his watch. Especially at the end of the day, around the time his father would be getting home.

  So Mrs Mason had seen the bruises. It wasn’t any of her business. She might probe him with a few questions next time he saw her, but he didn’t have to answer. He was good at evading tricky questions. And she had no right to hear anything he didn’t wish to impart. Then again, if he wanted to hear more about the lighthouse . . .

  He’d often wondered what it was like to live at the light station years ago, when the old tower was still operating. At least once each week his rounds took him down to Cape Bruny and the Labillardiere Peninsula. If he had time, he drove to the end of the road at Cape Bruny and parked the vehicle in the public carpark just past the cottages, then climbed the hill. The tower had such a sense of history and power about it. He would have loved to see it lit at night, the beams streaking out across the landscape and the sea.

  The cape was so wild; it was like being at the end of the earth. Up by the light tower, he usually sat on the wooden bench chair—a memorial to a young guy who’d been swept off the rock pillars to the south while he was researching seabirds. On clear days, when Leon could see the rock stacks, he somehow felt close to that young man. He must have been really dedicated—even crazy—to put himself out there on a bunch of rocks like that. The sea could be demonic, Leon knew. The young guy had been well enough prepared, his camp anchored to the rocks. But when a ferocious wave came up, it simply swept him away. Leon often imagined that rogue wave flooding the rocks. He saw it surging, ripping out the young man’s protection. And then he saw the rock, empty. A life gone. It must have been awful for the people who went to collect him after his stint out there finding the rock pillars teeming with their usual plethora of seabirds but nothing else. No smiling face or waving hand.

  For Leon, there was a soothing rawness in sitting up by the tower, especially in bad weather. He liked to look out over the heaving sea where it merged into grey mist. If he walked along from the tower, he could look down over Courts Island and watch the waves dashing themselves to death against the cliffs and the rocks.

  Sometimes when he was walking up from the carpark, he’d run into Tony, the caretaker, or his wife, Diane. Both of them were kind enough to him. They considered him part of the local infrastructure, like themselves. They’d been keepers at Cape Bruny before the old light was shut down. But they openly admitted they didn’t much care for the tourists. The light station was now a historic site, preserved for the public, but somehow it seemed an invasion of privacy, with people wandering all over the hill.

  Leon thought Tony and Diane blended with the landscape, in a way. Their faces were craggy and lined like the cliffs, and even though they always said hello to him, they kept their distance. He’d never been asked in for a cup of tea. But he didn’t mind. This was something he understood. People had a right to their personal space.

  It was his ranger training in Hobart that had kindled his interest in local history. Most of the other students considered history as something to learn for exams and then forget, but for Leon it had become a passion. History helped him understand his origins. It linked him with that sleepy place his parents called home. And the more he delved into Bruny Island and the history of the lighthouse, the more he wanted to know. Not just the facts, but also the feelings—what it had been like to exist there in another time.

  Mrs Mason had suggested he should rent the keeper’s cottage for a few days, but Leon reckoned he had a fair feel for the place in modern times from his regular visits—and he’d been there in all sorts of weather. No. What he was interested in was how it felt to live there when it was more isolated, like in Mrs Mason’s time, and even before that. He’d read the archives in the history room at Alonnah, and he’d found out all sorts of stuff. They had folders full of newspaper clippings and writings going back years—about agriculture, the timber industry, and of course, the lighthouse.

  Reading and learning about the history of the island had roused his interest further. And given Tony and Diane’s preference for privacy, Leon figured Mrs Mason was his best bet to find out more about the light station. He thought maybe this scout talk might draw extra stories out of her. Perhaps it might open a few cracks and give him some openings to enter further into her life with well-placed questions. In retrospect, the trip up the mountain road had been worth it, even if she had spotted the bruises. But he’d be more careful next time. He’d button his sleeves so it was difficult to pull them up.

  His thoughts turned to home and he checked the time once more—making a studious effort to use the clock on the dash rather than his watch. There should still be time to make the run through to Alonnah to check the mail at the post office and then go on to the campground at the Neck before he headed home. He’d heard from some locals that there were campers up at the Neck, and it wouldn’t hurt to drop by and see how they were going, and whether they’d adhered to the honesty system. Perhaps it was a reflection on his character, but he liked to see them flush and squirm when he cleared the box and went to ask where their payment was. Some of them had pretty fancy set-ups, with intricate tarp riggings to protect them from the rain, and gas lamps and picnic tables. Everything but the kitchen sink. They had plenty of money for a snazzy rig but were too stingy to pay a camping fee.

  Being bound to the clock was a big restriction in his job. From September to February, during peak penguin season, it would have been nice sometimes to stay with the tourists at the Neck and watch the birds coming in at dusk. But he always aimed to be home by six so he could be there when his father walked into the house. That way he could try to defuse the arguments that erupted when his father was drunk, and make sure his mother didn’t receive the brunt of his father’s rage. These days, Leon was physically stronger than his father, but in the midst of a fury, his father was unpredictable and could lash out suddenly. Leon would have liked to match his father’s ferocity and teach him a lesson. But so far, he’d managed to restrain himself. Strength had to come from the inside, he kept telling himself, not from violence.

  His father had been a steady man while Leon was growing up. He’d been a hard worker, toiling long hours at one of the timber mills on the island. They said he was a good cutter. Efficient on the saw. The island sawlog industry had dwindled over the years, but Leon’s father had always managed to keep himself in a job. The accident happened a few years ago. His father’s right hand got caught in a belt on the machinery that drove the saw. Surgery in Hobart hadn’t been as successful as they’d hoped. And then he’d been pensioned off.

  Reg Walker had never been good at sitting around. He liked being a breadwinner, and the job had given him power and status. To him, the disability pension was a public disgrace. After a lifetime of denigrating dole bludgers and those on sickness disability pensions, he couldn’t accept his impotence. Leon had been studying in Hobart, and at first he felt sorry for his father, hearing second-hand from his mother how his morale had declined. Then the drinking binges started.

  Leon hadn’t known of his father’s earlier trouble with the bottle. It was only after questioning his mother through her tears that he discovered his father had given up drinking before they were married. Apparently, he had never handled drink well—becoming boisterous and belligerent, and occasionally getting into brawls. But that was a long time ago. Since he’d given the drink away, everything had been fine. He’d almost been proud to be a teetotaller. And while he was steadily working, it hadn’t been an issue. But after the accident, bored, depressed and restless, it had only taken one lapse at the pub for his anger and aggression to surface. Drink helped him forget. But it also brought out a deeply buried ugliness.

  Before knowing about any of this, Leon had come home one weekend to vi
sit his parents in their small white weatherboard cottage just across the road from the beach. He always liked the sense of quiet that settled over him when he turned off the car engine and climbed out into the fresh Bruny air. This time, he was surprised to find the house locked. The cars were in the garage, so someone should be home. Perhaps his mother was out walking.

  He went for a stroll along the beach, waiting an hour or so before he returned. His mother rarely went out for long, and his father often visited friends during the day, so he wouldn’t be home for a while. When he discovered everything still locked, he pounded on the door in case his mother was in the shower. All was quiet for a few moments and then he thought he heard movement inside. He knocked again and called out to her.

  Finally she spoke to him from behind the front door, saying she was unwell and that he should come back next week. Her voice sounded strange and teary, and he knew then that something was wrong. Reluctantly, she let him in. When he saw the bruise around her eye, it was as if he’d been struck himself. He knew exactly what was happening.

  It had been a terrible afternoon. Leon tried to talk things through with her; he wanted her to leave right away. After all, if it had happened once, it would happen again. But his mother said that she and Reg had worked this out before and they could resolve it again. Leon hadn’t been so sure. His father was different now—so damaged and sullen. As a young man, leaving the drink behind had been possible, but now, with his life shattered, Leon couldn’t see any chance of reform. His mother would not be convinced. Between binges, his father was conciliatory, even charming. He loved her and she was certain he was trying hard not to let it happen again.

  Leon had grown frustrated. He couldn’t understand why his mother refused to help herself; he was angry she hadn’t told him sooner, and he told her so. But when she cowered away from him, he felt remorse. His mother had endured enough without him adding to her pain. He calmed and reassured her, a lump of sadness welling in his throat.

  Back in Hobart, his anxiety had increased. He rang her as often as he could, and he suspected the situation was deteriorating. Eventually he’d contacted Parks and found there was a job for a ranger on Bruny Island. The Parks service had been keen: his knowledge of the island would be useful. So he took the job and moved home. Someone had to be there to protect his mother.

  Being there for her was a commitment that imposed on every corner of Leon’s life. It drained him, physically and emotionally. His father resented his presence in the house, which only added to the tension. And his father was erratic. One day he was charming and rational, and the next day he came home sinister and aggressive. His mother didn’t realise how much she feared him, but Leon could see the change in her each time his father came in. He could feel the air prickling. Fortunately, if the old man became threatening, Leon was strong enough to fend off most of the blows. But he couldn’t avoid them all, especially when he had to manhandle his father into the bedroom and hold him down while he roared and bellowed and filled the air with fists.

  Leon always had a sense of guilt about his father’s rages, as if he were in some way indirectly responsible. By not insisting that his mother leave, Leon wondered if he was perpetuating the pattern of violence. Surely there would come a day when he was delayed at work and his mother was beaten again. By allowing her to stay, he was leaving her exposed to attacks. Maybe his continued presence was preventing his mother’s departure; if he hadn’t been there, perhaps his mother would have found the strength to leave.

  He figured there must be some way to help his mother escape from Bruny; he lay awake at night trying to devise plans, but they all came to nothing. And he’d reached a point where his mother avoided talking to him—she was afraid he’d pressure her and disturb that semblance of calm she managed to arrange so carefully around herself.

  Living at home with his parents was therefore the only solution, and Leon truncated his workdays to fit his father’s timetable. He had to be there when his father came home so he could take the blows that were destined for his mother. It was an untenable situation. It broke him apart. He didn’t want to hate his father, but the aggression left room for nothing but anger, and he carried it with him constantly.

  15

  Evening at Cloudy Bay was not a good time for Mary. Just when she ought to be relaxing and finding her way gently into sleep, she was gripped by urgency, and anxiety blossomed in her chest. Another day over and what had she achieved? Yes, she had managed to tick off Cloudy Corner, the farm and Clennett’s Mill today (getting all the way to Mount Mangana wasn’t possible, and at least she’d paid homage to the forest close to the mountain, so she decided to let that one go). But her list was not yet complete—she still had to visit East Cloudy Head and the lighthouse, the most important places in her pilgrimage . . . and God knows how she was going to achieve this. If she couldn’t organise it, though, she’d have failed Jack. And herself.

  Worst of all, the letter was still in existence. She’d been deliberating and arguing with herself for days, but she still hadn’t been able to destroy it. What was wrong with her? Did she really think she owed something to the letter bearer? And what would happen if she allowed the letter to be delivered? Unfortunately, she could foresee it all. Bonds would be severed. Faith and trust shattered. Could she bear the consequences? Not while she was alive. Giving credence to the letter would negate the purpose of her life’s journey. Jack wouldn’t be here to see it—that at least was reassuring. But did she have a right to rearrange the future by eliminating the letter? Should she display strength, deliver the letter and brave the outcome? No, it was too much at this stage. She couldn’t endure it. Her health was too diminished. It would be distressing and vexatious. She would die without peace of mind and security. And what about all the things she had fought to restore and maintain in her family? The letter would undo everything. It would break the skin of calm that she’d struggled to stretch over them all.

  She needed that thing out of her life. Disposed of. And now she couldn’t find it.

  Shoving the blanket aside, she levered herself off the couch and began another systematic search of the house—the third such foray in the past half hour. She had checked her suitcase and she was sure it wasn’t there. She’d shifted all the cushions, shaken out her pillowcase, flipped through the magazines, rumpled all her clothes. Perhaps she’d slipped it in among the pile of newspapers stacked by the fireplace. (When was she ever going to get around to lighting a real fire?) But no, she would definitely remember grovelling down there on the floor. And her knees wouldn’t handle it, of that she was certain.

  Maybe she’d left it in the kitchen, or perhaps, dear God, she’d thrown it away. In a panic, she jerked the lid off the bin and peered inside. Just a few cans, sticky with baked beans. And a milk carton. Leon had cleared the rubbish this morning. Had he thrown out the letter accidentally? Must she go out in the cold to find it?

  On the edge of tears, she scuffed into the bathroom for one last check, and there it was, sitting on the vanity beside the bathroom sink. She snatched it up. Why couldn’t she remember putting it there? Perhaps she had set it down while she was washing her hands.

  She carried the envelope into the bedroom and slipped it back into the side pocket of the suitcase. Then she struggled into her nightclothes. The cold here had weakened her, and her joints were stiff. It had become a tremendous effort just to lift her arms. In a nursing home she’d have help. But they’d stick tubes in her at the end. They wouldn’t let her go with dignity. It might please Jan, but it’d be a horrible way to die. And where was Jan anyway? She thought Jan would have visited by now, hell-bent on dragging her out of here.

  With the letter safely tucked away, she eased herself into bed. She’d done nothing all afternoon, and yet she was weary. Tonight, she’d get some decent rest.

  Sleep came quickly, but she woke sometime after midnight with a hacking cough that raked and barked and wouldn’t stop. Only upright could she control it, so she propped h
erself with pillows and sat up.

  It was a clear night. White light flooded the bedroom, perhaps from a full moon. She prickled alert. Jack might be near. She’d dreamed of him these past nights; whenever she tossed uncomfortably on the edge of consciousness, he seemed to place his brown fingers on her arm as if he was trying to stop her from saying something she shouldn’t.

  Part of her knew he was a creation of memory, but his face was so vivid—the prominent bridge of his nose, the speckled blue of his eyes, that slightly jutting chin, the dimple beneath his lower lip, the shadow of whiskers emerging. His lips were marbled with sun cracks and the dry lick of salt. And his eyes asked questions she couldn’t hear, expecting answers she couldn’t voice.

  Perhaps if she could reach out and touch him she might feel the texture of his skin, the roughness that came with weather and too much wind.

  Moonlight fell in streaks across the floor, and he seemed close. She peered round the room, straining against shadows, almost sure she could see him sitting on the chair in the corner. He was so still. Maybe he didn’t want her to know he was there. For long moments she breathed heavily, waiting for him to move or speak. Such a stubborn wretch he was. He didn’t utter a word.

  She called to him. His shadow was long and tall. She knew it was him. But in the dark she couldn’t make out his face.

  ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she asked. ‘I need to talk with you.’

  She saw his shadow shift slightly. Then she wasn’t sure whether he was there at all. Were those footsteps moving through the house? Or was it just the cabin creaking?