He dropped anchor further along the coast at a smaller, unpopulated cove, and a weak sun glinted though the thinning clouds. He tipped cat biscuits into a saucer for Spike, whose appetite had been sharpened as much as his own by the short voyage, then tucked into a Cornish pasty and an apple.
They bobbed gently on the water, the hook holding well, and Will watched as the head of a grey seal emerged above the water ahead. It blinked, then dived. Spike sat wide-eyed. It was the largest fish he had ever seen.
After an hour at anchor, Will switched on the winch and hauled up the hook before motoring down the coast. They hugged the shoreline pretty well and a germ of what it would be like to sail away from it all finally began to grow inside him. For three hours they cruised on autopilot, before Will changed course, came about and set off back in the direction of Pencurnow. The sky was still grey, but the wind had risen a little and the sea now had a distinct swell. He felt uneasy, unsure how the boat would cope with such conditions, and how Spike would take to the more violent motion.
Both questions were answered quickly. The boat turned not a hair, simply put its head down and pressed on, neatly parting the waves and snaking its way through the swell with a comfortable, predictable motion. Will rode the waves as though standing on the back of a bucking bronco, bending his knees to counter the rolling, and Spike made for the saloon, where he spent the rest of the voyage curled up on a cushion.
It was seven o’clock in the evening by the time they returned to the calmer waters of the cove, and Hovis was waiting for them, beaming from the pontoon as they came alongside. He caught the lines as Will threw them, and tied them to the rusty cleats on the pontoon before hailing the crew and asking how it had all gone.
♦
Will had hosed down the boat to remove all traces of salt, scrubbed the decks, checked the warps, eaten his supper and fed the cat. Boy Jack was ready. There was no apparent reason for him to stay here any longer. All he needed now were provisions for the first leg of the journey. He would go to Primrose’s in the morning and stock up. The tides would be right for a mid-morning departure. There was no sense in delaying. He might as well be off.
He picked up The Shell Channel Pilot. He put it down. He went up on deck. Dusk was falling. There was no sign of Hovis. Spike lay curled up in a coil of rope as if waiting for further instructions.
Will looked up towards the Roundhouse. The lights of the village glinted. A gentle breeze stirred the halyards in the boatyard. He would go for a walk.
He ambled down the pontoon, hands in pockets, feeling the walkway bob under his feet. He strolled out along the jetty and up the lane.
Through the windows of the Salutation he could see the orange glow of lights on glass fishing floats and brass binnacles, and hear the conversation and ribald laughter of tourists through the open door. He walked on, staying on the other side of the lane to the Roundhouse, from which a different sound emerged.
He paused, strained to catch a little more, then crossed the empty lane. Hesitantly he mounted the steps to the studio and heard more clearly what he thought he had caught from a distance. It was the sound of a cello playing Elgar. He felt his heartbeat quicken and found it difficult to swallow. The sound of voices in the Salutation died away and all he could hear now was the music.
Calmly he turned to face the sea, leaning back against the wall of the old building. In the pine and the granite he could feel the notes as they vibrated through timber and stone.
It began to rain, softly at first, then more heavily. He pushed himself away from the wall, walked silently down the studio steps and along the lane towards the beach. He approached the water’s edge and paddled through the waves, finally sitting down on the wet sand just beyond their reach. He could feel the damp rising through his clothing, and the sea against his skin. He could still hear the cello.
His breathing was slow and deep, and the rain eased off to a steady soaking drizzle as he sat on the sand and looked out to sea. His head felt clear. A calm acceptance took the place of the self-pity that had gone before, and for a long time he sat motionless in the cool, wet evening, gazing out towards the horizon in the direction of the rest of his life.
Twenty-Eight
Bishop Rock
The popping of webbing carried from the back room of Pencurnow Post Office and General Stores as it had every morning since heaven knows when. Will waited patiently for the proprietress to appear and finally, after much snipping of plastic and muffled cursing, Primrose Hankey bustled in with the piles of newspapers to dump them on the counter in front of her. Will waited for her to start asking questions, but she did not refer to his domestic life, his travel arrangements, or even to the news that shrieked in banner headline from the front of the local paper: PENCURNOW COUPLE HELD IN DRUGS SWOOP. She spoke quietly and simply: “We’ll be sorry to see you go, Mr Elliott. What can I get for you?” This was not at all what Will had expected. Surely Primrose had never had a better time for gossip, what with the Morgan-Gileses’ arrest and his own departure. There was enough material for conjecture here to keep Primrose in inquisition mode for the better part of a year. But she seemed reserved, preoccupied.
Angela came out of the back room, pulling on a jacket and munching a slice of toast. She tossed a cheery goodbye in the direction of her aunt and opened the door with its customary ping. For the first time, Will noticed that it sounded slightly flat.
“I’ve got a list.” Will pushed the sheet of A4 paper across the counter.
“Mmm. Shipping order.” And then, realizing her unintended pun, “Oh. Sorry.”
He watched as Primrose mumbled to herself as she worked her way through the list, slowly piling his goods upon the counter.
“You setting off straight away?” she enquired.
“As soon as I’ve said goodbye to Mrs Hallybone.”
“I see.” Primrose ferried packets of cornflakes, cans of pilchards, bottled water and tins of five-minute rice towards the ever-increasing mountain of groceries.
“You’ll never carry all this. I’ll ask the postman to drop it off on his way down, if you like. He’ll be here in half an hour.”
“That’s very kind. Thanks.”
“Funny to think of the two of you leaving at the same time.”
“Sorry?”
“You and Amy Finn. You arrived in the village within a week of one another and now you’re leaving in the same week. Strange, really, how things work out.”
Will was numbed by the news, even though he had suspected what was about to happen. She had decided to leave the studio after all. She was going away with Oliver Gallico.
“Why has she…?”
“Angela’s going to look after the gallery for three weeks. They had a good bank holiday weekend, sold quite a lot of stuff, by all accounts. Nice, after all this time, to have a success story in the village. I think Amy just wants a break.”
He was half relieved, half disappointed. Relieved that it did not appear she had gone back to Gallico. Disappointed that she seemed to be sorting out her life without him.
As Primrose systematically piled up his provisions, the truth of the situation hit him with the force of a fifty-ton juggernaut. With a clarity of mind that he had not experienced for a long time, he saw clearly what he must do. He could only hope he had not left it too late.
He excused himself and walked smartly out of the door, sprinted down the lane and slowed up only when the Roundhouse came into view. He paused at the foot of the old stone steps, hesitated, then climbed up and pushed open the door.
The studio was empty, apart from the two figures standing on either side of the counter. He stood just inside the door, suddenly self-conscious. Amy looked across at him, paused, then said to Angela, “Could you go and get some milk? And a packet of biscuits or something?”
Angela took in the situation quickly, grabbed her coat from the hook behind the counter and walked out as fast as she could, without breaking into a run. She closed the door quietly behind
her. Will and Amy stared at each other.
It was she who spoke first. “I thought you’d gone. I saw you setting off yesterday and I thought you’d gone.”
“No. Just seeing how she sailed, that’s all.”
“I see. When do you go?”
“This morning. I was going to go this morning.”
“Going to go?”
“Yes.”
“But…not any more?”
He sighed and turned towards the door. She thought he was about to leave. Perhaps the tides were wrong or something and she ought to have realized. But he turned the key in the lock, flipped the Open sign to Closed and pulled down the blind.
“I saw Oliver leaving the gallery.”
“Yes. I finally got rid of him.”
“But I thought…”
She looked at him, disappointed.
“And I just wanted to go. To run away from my past and start again. That’s what I was doing before you…”
She nodded resignedly and looked down. “I know.”
“But I got it wrong. It isn’t the past any more. It’s now. The past has sailed away on its own, without me having to sail away from it. There I was, heading off in my own direction, expecting you to fall in with my plans and thinking that if I offered to take you with me you’d give up everything and come. I thought you must, if you loved me as much as I loved you.”
She looked up.
“I’d been so wrapped up in this voyage. It had become so important – all my life was pointing towards it – so the need to do it became…a mission, if you like.”
“I know.”
“But when it came down to it, when I really thought about it, there was no reason to go. Just one big reason why I should stay.”
She looked at him, hoping that what she had heard was what he really meant. “But what will you do if you don’t go?”
He answered without hesitation. “I’ll look after the lighthouse and live with you.”
It took her breath away. She gulped. “But you can’t. It will drive you mad. You’ll hate all those people.”
“Not half as much as I’ll hate being on my own without you. Evan Williams doesn’t want the job full time and they’ll be happy to let me do it if I want to.”
She stared hard at him, half afraid to let go, then ran into his arms. “You can do the last bit but you don’t have to do the first. I can’t have you being in charge of a tourist attraction. It’s just not you. Build model boats. I’ve sold out. You’ll earn far more doing that. Here.”
She opened the drawer of the till and took out an envelope on which was written ‘Will – £500’. “They walked out of the studio. Couldn’t price them high enough. You’ll just have to work faster.” She stuffed the envelope into his shirt pocket and grinned at him through her tears.
He wiped them away with his fingers as she looked up at him and said, “You know why I wouldn’t come, don’t you?”
“I do now. I didn’t see it then.”
“I’d had my fill of being at the beck and call of men. However much I loved them. I needed to know that someone loved me enough to give up what they had just for me. Until now I’ve always been the one to give it up, and then it’s always seemed to go wrong.”
“I know.” He threw his arms around her and held her tightly. “I know, I know.”
“I’d have given up anything for you – painting, dancing, studio, anything – but I had to be sure you would do the same for me, and it didn’t seem as though you would.”
“Well, I have, and I’m here, and I will.”
“Don’t sail away without me,” she sobbed.
“I won’t, my love, I won’t.” He stroked the back of her head and the deep love that had eluded him since their parting came flooding back. He was home now.
They stood for a while, until Amy broke the silence. “What about Boy Jack?”
He smiled, but sadly. “I’ll sell her.”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t. Boy Jack was meant for you, I’ve always known that.” She eased away from him. “Wait a minute.” She turned and ran up the spiral staircase, returning with a package wrapped in brown paper.
She held it out to him with both hands. “Here. I didn’t have time to wrap them up. I got them a couple of days ago from one of my artists, then when you sailed yesterday I thought it was too late, so they’re still in the paper from the shop.”
He looked at the package and felt its weight. He knew instantly what it was.
“Hey! Open it!” She watched him with sparkling eyes as the brown paper fell away to reveal the five gilt-decorated volumes of Frank Cowper’s Sailing Tours. “Only now, Mr Lighthouse Keeper, there is no way you’re going on your own.”
He gazed at her through his own brimming tears.
“We’re not going to do it all in one go, but over the next three weeks you can take me exactly where you want.”
“Any preferences?” he asked, his eyes gleaming.
She smiled. “Well, I’ve asked a friend of mine who owns a Cornish yawl, and he tells me that of all the places around Britain there is one particularly sheltered and secluded harbour in the Isles of Scilly called New Grimsby. Now, it doesn’t sound much like the Bahamas, but I expect it will be quite pleasant when we bump ashore.”
EOF
The Last Lighthouse Keeper Page 22