“Best not enquire. Not after…you know.”
“I know.” Will was anxious to avoid worrying Ernie. They chatted for a while, about Boy Jack, about May’s livestock and the lighthouse, the visitors who would come with the warmer weather. Will was relieved to see Ernie cheerful at the prospect of his new job.
“I’m getting used to the idea. Got all me patter off. Listen to this, see what you think.” He stood up and cleared his throat. “Prince Albert Rock Lighthouse was constructed in its present form by William Tregarthen Douglass, the same engineer responsible for the construction of Bishop Rock Lighthouse, which is positioned on rocks beyond the Isles of Scilly. It was completed in 1873 and is now one hundred and twenty-six years old. The lamp is hand made and for almost a hundred years nothing has been replaced except the bulbs. It floats on a bath of mercury and weighs three and a half tons. The beam is 1.2 million candle power and is visible for twenty-six miles.”
Will stayed silent, anxious to be as encouraging as possible.
“There are four ‘bull’s-eyes’ in the lamp and one revolution takes twelve seconds, which therefore means that there is one flash every three seconds – the signature of Prince Albert Rock Lighthouse.” He paused for a reaction.
“Very clear.”
“You’ve heard it all before, haven’t you?” He looked crestfallen.
“But you won’t be telling it to me. I think you’re doing well.”
“It’s a real bugger trying to stop it sounding too technical.”
“Well, why don’t you weave a few stories in?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. The story about the lighthouse keeper on Smalls. The one who died and his mate had to hang him over the side to stop the smell.”
“And that’s why there are always three keepers not two, so that the third one can provide…”
“The alibi,” they said in chorus.
“That’s it. And the three keepers on Flannan Isles who just disappeared.”
“The Mary Celeste of the lighthouse world.” Ernie’s eyes lit up. “That would be a spicy one, wouldn’t it? Perk things up a bit.”
“You’re a good story-teller and you’ve got all the yarns. Use them.”
“So long as Trinity House don’t mind.”
“Oh, I can’t see them bothering. Enjoy yourself.”
Ernie looked across the table at him. “You know, I think I just might!”
♦
By the time Will had walked back, the wind had strengthened and banks of ominous-looking purple-grey clouds were building to the south-west. Boy Jack sat on her shores. She looked as if she was itching to get back into the water. “It won’t be long now, old girl.” Will patted her hull and noticed an envelope from Harry Gwenver pinned to the planking. He pulled it off, tore it open and read the note it contained: “Fatlagena whye? Have done my bit. Over to you now. Hope you are pleased. Will send my bill when Mrs Gwenver has worked out the sums. Darzona. Harry Gwenver.”
He looked at the note and frowned. Fatlagena whye he remembered as meaning ‘how are you?’ but Darzona? He’d not heard that before.
He wandered down towards Florence Nightingale and called Hovis, who emerged towelling his beard. “Caught me at my ablutions, young man.”
“Sorry. Just wondered how you were at Cornish?”
“Ropy. Very ropy. What sort of Cornish?”
“Darzona.”
“Ah. Emphasis on the second syllable to rhyme with gone. Dar-ZON-a.”
“Meaning?”
“Very simple: God bless.”
Seventeen
Blacktail
Towards mid-afternoon the wind had built up to force five or six, and Will studied the props supporting Boy Jack. They would hold, he convinced himself, protected by the high jetty wall, which offered some shelter from the worst of the south-westerlies.
Halyards in the boatyard rang against the alloy masts with the insistence of unanswered doorbells, and Hovis was at work lashing down anything on his deck that was in danger of moving. Even the water in the boatyard was choppy, and the sea was becoming decidedly lumpy.
Will climbed the wall of the jetty and looked out towards Prince Albert Rock. White crests topped every wave. It would soon be an uncomfortable passage home for anyone not yet in port.
His thoughts turned again to Amy. The previous night seemed so far away now. Would she want to see him tonight?
His introspection was interrupted abruptly by the arrival of Len Gryler. “Your boat-builder finished, is he?”
“Yes. Down to me now.”
“When do you want her back in the water, then?”
“Probably by the end of next week, if that’s all right.”
“Should be. But I’ll need a couple of days’ notice. Need to make sure the machine’s up to it. Busy time coming now. Boats going in and out of the water. New shower block going up.” He tossed his head towards a small portable building being craned from the back of a truck alongside his peeling cabin. “That should please the punters.” But his entrepreneurial tone lacked its usual relish and he seemed distracted as he looked out to sea. “Bit rough out there. Getting worse, too.” He was edgy. Uneasy, thought Will. He wasn’t carrying his monkey wrench, and his hands were stuffed into his pockets. He seemed to be clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Is your lad still out there?”
Gryler’s gaze raked the waves for a sign of his boat. “Yes.”
“In this?”
“He should’ve been back an hour or more ago. Don’t know where he’s got to. Must have broken down.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Dunno. Wait and see, I suppose. He might have put in further along the coast and be walking back. Can’t see him on the water.”
“There’s not much of a view from here. I’ll climb the cliff path and have a look,” Will suggested.
“No. He’ll be back. He’ll have put in further along. Probably waiting for the weather to calm down.” Gryler looked at Will with a stubborn glare, then rolled off down the jetty to his shed.
“You sure she’ll be safe in this?” Will turned to find Hovis at his shoulder, looking up at Boy jack.
“I hope so. I’ve checked all the shores and the wall’s offering a fair bit of shelter. Nothing else I can do now. How’s Florence?”
“Oh, she’ll be fine. I’ve stowed everything that might blow away, and what I can’t stow I’ve lashed down so she’ll just bob about a bit until it’s over.”
“You look a bit pasty. Fancy a walk?”
“In this?” Hovis looked at Will as though he were off his head.
“Young Applebee hasn’t come back. Gryler reckons he’s put in further along the coast. I reckon he’s still out there.”
“Once a lighthouse keeper always a lighthouse keeper.”
“I suppose so.”
“I thought it was the coastguard who kept an eye on the movements of shipping?”
“I know, but old habits the hard. Anyway, the lad might be in trouble.”
“In more ways than one by the sound of it. You sure you want to get involved?”
“I can’t just mess around here if he’s out there.”
Will remembered his first encounter with Christopher Applebee, giving him the magazines. It was hard to think of the indolent youth as a smuggler. He was more than likely poaching lobsters. Nothing more.
“Well, I’m nipping up there for a look.”
“Let me grab my oilskin. It’s starting to rain.”
While Hovis went back to Florence Nightingale for his waterproof, Will nipped up the ladder on to Boy Jack’s deck, grabbed his sailing jacket and secured the hatches.
They met at the end of the jetty as heavy rainclouds passed overhead. The two men braced themselves against the strengthening wind as they climbed up the sandy cliff path between the tussocks of grass. They could make out a figure with a dog walking towards them as they crested the first knoll. It was Hugo Morg
an-Giles.
“Good afternoon. Not going out in this, are you?” He was holding on to his flat tweed cap and reining in the yellow Labrador. “Steady, Elsie.”
Hovis began, “We’re just – ”
“Out for a breath of air,” Will interrupted. “Before it gets too bad.”
“Bit grim, isn’t it? Even mad dogs don’t enjoy this,” agreed Hugo, trying to remain upright in the face of a stiff breeze and a strong dog. “Don’t get blown away.” He carried on past them, hauled by the Labrador in the direction of the Moorings.
The rain became heavier, and as the two men breasted the highest point of the cliff the full might of the sea came into view below them. There was a ten-foot swell, and white spume flew in the air to twice that height as the breakers crashed on to the rocks below. The thundering of tide on granite was deafening, and the rain stung their faces. Hovis reached into the pocket of his grubby yellow oilskin, pulled out a matching sou’wester and clamped it on his head, pulling the strap firmly beneath his chin. “You look like the man on the tin of pilchards,” teased Will.
“Yes, but at least I’ll be dry.”
They walked across to the edge of the cliff, planting their feet carefully on the uneven turf, strewn with rabbit droppings, and peered out to sea, scrutinizing the water between the boatyard, Bill’s Island and Prince Albert Rock as rain and salt spray blew into their eyes.
On the horizon a container-ship ploughed its course doggedly. “That’s about the only thing I’d want to be on in this weather,” shouted Will, his hair soaked and clinging to his head like a tangle of black serpents.
“I wouldn’t even want to be on that,” countered Hovis.
It was fully five minutes before they saw the boat, tossing like a cork on the heaving waves between Bill’s Island and the lighthouse.
“Christ!” Will reached into the pocket of his sailing jacket for the binoculars. It was difficult to hold them steady in the near gale-force wind, and impossible to keep them clear due to the lashing onshore rain. He tucked his elbows into his sides, the better to keep the glasses steady, and tried to focus on the small boat between the massive rollers.
“He’s still in there! Look!” He handed the binoculars to Hovis who finally located the buffeted fishing smack.
“Good God! His outboard must have packed up.” Hovis rubbed the lenses clear of rain again. “He’s got no oars, as far as I can see. We’d better call the lifeboat. Where’s the nearest phone? Pencurnow or the lighthouse?”
“Pencurnow’s nearer. You run there and call them out, I’ll get round to the lighthouse.”
The two men set off in different directions, Will unsure why he was heading for the lighthouse, but knowing that he needed to be there. He ran as fast as the gusting wind and rain would allow, keeping his eye on the little boat as it pitched and tossed ever nearer the rocks strung out like jagged teeth at the foot of Prince Albert. The nearer he got, the more clearly he could make out the tiny figure spreadeagled in the bottom of the boat, one arm braced against each side, clinging on amid a tangled mess of lobster-pots, fishing-nets and rope.
The rain was torrential now, flung sideways by the wind. Will reached the end of the path and began to pick his way over the rocks at the base of the lighthouse, spray thrown high above his head.
At first he thought he was seeing double and rubbed his eyes to clear them of salt water. Then he knew that his eyes were not playing tricks: there were now two small boats on the water: the fishing boat PZ 291, containing Christopher Applebee, and a smaller rowing boat manned by an oarsman negotiating the waves and travelling in the direction of the stricken craft. It took only a moment for Will to grasp that the second boat was The Gull and that the oarsman was Ernie Hallybone.
Rooted to the spot, rain running off his chin, he watched as Ernie, now a hundred yards from the rocks, rowed towards the other craft, which was still fifty yards away. The fishing smack tilted alarmingly from side to side and Christopher Applebee clung to the port side as the boat heaved to starboard. His right leg was entangled in the fishing net, which had been dragged from the boat by the waves. He fought to disengage himself, then lost his grip and slipped rapidly from view. The boat turned turtle and the outboard motor parted from the transom.
Will’s heart was pounding and he spotted Christopher Applebee’s head bobbing between the waves, then disappearing as he was dragged down by fierce undercurrents.
Ernie pulled rhythmically on his oars in spite of the towering waves, cresting one as though he were on the back of a heaving whale, then hurtling down into the hollows between the watery mountains.
He was barely twenty yards from the youth now, and closing, but all the while the two of them drifted towards the rocks at the foot of the lighthouse. As he watched Ernie battle against the water, Will could barely breathe, praying that he would reach Christopher Applebee in time and that he would be able to stay clear of the rocks until help arrived.
The head above the water seemed nearer to the boat now. Ernie was in with a chance. Without warning The Gull twisted in the water, pulled by the current and pushed by the wind, and a rolling breaker caught her beam on, flipping her over and tossing Ernie into the water like a crumb.
Will shouted, “No!” as the oars were flung aloft like matchsticks, only to tumble back into the sea and be swallowed up. The Gull righted herself, then caught the crest of a roller and was propelled toward the rocks. Under the thunder of the waves and the scream of the wind, Will heard the cracking and splitting of timber on rock as she was riven into splinters against the jagged granite below the lighthouse.
Fear seized him as he leapt from rock to rock, searching for Ernie amid the spray and spume. He scanned the water for him, hoping with every passing second that his friend would appear, but the only thing visible was the upturned hull of PZ 291, slewing and tumbling ever nearer to the rocks.
He tore off his waterproof and shoes, then breasted his way into the oncoming tide. Where was Ernie?
The waves slammed into Will as he tried to swim, sweeping him towards the rocks. He was powerless to resist their force as he somersaulted headlong into the next wave, which seemed to be coming from a completely different direction. Deafened and gasping for breath as the water swirled around him, he heard it echo thunderously in his ears. His head bobbed up, only to be submerged again by a towering roller.
His arms aching from useless exertion, he pulled even harder towards the spot where it seemed Ernie had been tipped out of the boat, only to be flung with violent disregard against a rock. He felt the sharpness of limpets against the side of his head and saw the redness descending in front of his eyes.
He held on to the image of Ernie, willing him with every fibre of his body to appear from the waves, and praying that the sea would give him up. Again and again Will dived forward. He wanted to let go, but struggled to keep his mind on what he was trying to do. The vision of the craggy face became fuzzy and another took its place: a younger face, framed with amber curls; a smiling, loving face. Another gigantic wave broke over his head, pushing him deeper into the sea. His body was willing to be taken now; Ernie had gone and he could feel the life being pounded out of him, sucked from his feeble grasp. But with Amy’s image shining like a beacon in front of him, and with one final burst of energy, he raised his head above the waves and looked for the shore, before another mighty wall of water picked him up, turned him round and scooted him like a surfboard towards the edge of the rocks.
Dragging himself upright in the few seconds between waves, he hauled himself clear of the tide as it sucked back the crushed shells and pebbles with a threatening roar. With the last of his energy he scrambled on to the grass above the granite outcrop.
As the lifeboat rounded the headland Will fell to his knees in desperation, his hands gripping the sodden grass until his knuckles turned white. He prayed pasionately for Ernie’s salvation, but above the howling din of the wind and waves his anguished entreaties remained unanswered.
&nbs
p; Eighteen
Sunk
“What on earth’s the matter?” She had opened the door and found him standing there, his face ashen, except for the bloody graze on his forehead. “Tell me.”
He found it impossible to speak.
“You’re soaking. Come in. What’s happened?”
“Ernie.” He sought for words. “He went after Applebee in The Gull. He’d lost his outboard. He just disappeared. Just went. One minute he was there and the next he wasn’t. Washed over the side.”
She wrapped her arms round him and held him. He shook with fear and cold. “Why did he go after him in a sea like that? In a bloody rowing boat?” He spat the words out angrily. “How could he even think of it?”
“Ssh. Ssh.” She rocked him from side to side as he clenched his jaw and fought back the tears.
“It was my boat. My bloody boat.”
She kept silent while his body went into spasms of shock. “Have they found him?”
“No.”
She tried to hold back her own tears. “And the boy?”
“Yes. Lifeboat picked up his body. They’re still looking for Ernie.”
For several minutes neither spoke until Amy said softly, “Let’s get you out of those wet things.”
She led him upstairs and took off his clothes as he stood and shivered. His hair was matted with brine and she towelled him dry, found him a pair of baggy canvas trousers, then slipped a T-shirt and a thick sweater over him.
“I have to get back to May. Her sister’s come over from St Petroc but I said I’d go back.”
“How is she?”
“Frighteningly calm. She’s going to stay with her sister tonight. Doesn’t want to be on her own.”
“Poor woman.”
“Yes. I have to go.” Will looked distracted.
“Will you come back?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I have to go to the police station at St Petroc. I’m not sure when they’ll finish with me. I don’t know what I’ll feel like…if I’ll want to…”
“Whatever,” she said, masking her disappointment. “I’m here if you want me.”
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 13