The Light Keeper

by Cole Morton

  Eleven

  She hangs in the morning air, caught between the sea, the earth and the sky. He has nothing but a thought, a feeling that Rí is out there, outside the lantern room, looking in through the glass. Watching him. It’s impossible. He is thirty feet above the ground at the top of the tower, more than four hundred feet above the sea. But he won’t look up from his work, in case the feeling goes. ‘I saw you on the hill today. I shouted out but it was someone I have never seen up here before.’ He could have sworn it was her, walking like an adventurer, striding out, head wrapped in a bright scarf with a long coat trailing behind. ‘Must have frightened the life out of her.’ The window frame rattles somewhere. His yawn is long and hard. The coat was the right shape, but it wasn’t made of patchwork, velvet and silk, fragments of colour and texture stitched together by a magpie mind like hers. It wasn’t the first time. What they don’t tell you, what the counsellor with her tissues doesn’t say, is that it all gets so bloody routine. After the adrenaline wears off, after the challenge of survival has been met, the grinding grief remains. The yawns never end.

  ‘I’m sick of it. This. Without you.’

  The Keeper is on his knees, digging into the soft wood of a rotten window ledge, causing the paint to buckle against the blade of his chisel. Clearing the bad from the good, dislodging flakes of wet, black-brown wood, spraying tiny splinters over his knuckles. Working away to the song of the wind, and talking as the red light of the mini-recorder glows by his side. If he sits and tries to talk, he can’t do what the counsellor asked; but if he works, he forgets himself. ‘In the morning . . . when I wake up . . . sometimes in that moment, before my eyes are fully open, you could be there.’ Beside him. Supple and close. Breathing lightly. She’s here now. ‘Your knees in my belly. Your hand over your eyes. Your pillow all scrunched up under your neck. I could reach out and stroke your head and kiss your neck and smell you, sweet and dark. But the moment I think of it, you’re gone.’

  His hands have stopped working. His eyes are closed.

  ‘Then I’m falling. It feels like I’m falling. My insides, my spirit, my person is still there, still up there with you, but my body is falling away, to the truth.’

  Just the dust, and the whisper on the wind. His voice is barely there.

  ‘I can’t breathe then, or move. I want to stay as I am, between the sleep and the dream.’

  He could sleep here and now. Why not? Who cares? He doesn’t sleep in the night time, so why not sleep in the day? For the same reason that he still gets dressed properly, still washes, still shaves. Still works. Whatever that is. He has to get up in the morning. Make a coffee. Turn on the radio.

  ‘Sometimes I turn it over because you like music in the morning and the DJ is blethering on about some old nonsense, then he puts on a song and it’s one of your songs and I just can’t do it, I can’t do it . . .’

  Eyes open, seeing nothing. This is not the absence of feeling but the overwhelming presence of it: sorrow, grief, loss, confusion, pain, frustration, fear, all fighting for the air inside him. If he could open a door in his chest, it would be like a medieval painting of hell in there. Bodies writhing. Open, screaming mouths. Wild animal panic. He does not dare open the door; that’s why the counselling had to stop. The effort of keeping the door closed exhausts him as it is.

  ‘I have to keep on. I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m dressing for the memory, like this . . .’ His fingers touch the piebald stone hanging from his neck. ‘I wouldn’t wear this. And then . . . and then . . . I have to start the day. Do the work. Make this place comfortable for people to come and stay, but I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want anyone to be here at all, except me and you. All I want is me and you, like it should be.’

  Rí knew this place as a ruin in her childhood, but someone had worked on it and built rooms, made it just about habitable, before running out of money. This could be their place, she said. Their tower. He used his redundancy payment, along with what she had. Everything she had. When they got the keys it was cold and dark. They climbed the steps to the top and the lantern room, lit an old heater, spread a rug and lay down together in the glow of it, ignoring the heady stink of damp and paraffin. El fuego que calienta mi corazon. The fire that warms my heart. Maria had Spanish and Irish blood, the wildness was in her, she could speak both languages. The wild woman had shaved off all her raven hair and he was shocked by the pictures of her in the past, but she loved him to stroke that soft stubble, and her pale blue eyes would close in pleasure. They would flash open again quickly if he said the wrong thing, though.

  ‘You argued with everything,’ he says, softly.

  No I didn’t!

  A shadow shivers through the room. Outside, there’s a flash of bright colour, a half-moon of silk, a canopy gliding by the window. Beneath it a figure in black. A parascender riding the thermals like the spirit woman in an old Irish song she used to sing. ‘I am come to you from among the waves, riding on the wind.’ And gone. She’s gone.

  He is as high as he can get, at the top of their tower, between the earth and the sky. She comes to him here, but when she leaves again like this, he cannot follow. He feels as though he’s falling, like the parascender, like Icarus with melted wings.

  ‘I ought to leave this place, Rí. I ought to go. I don’t know why I stay. Because I can’t go . . .’ The man they call the Keeper steadies himself with a hand on the window ledge and looks directly to the south, to the sea, to the light skittering off the water.

  ‘Where on earth would I go?’

  Twelve

  The bell rings. A proper old ship’s bell hung on a rope, echoing up the steps. But that’s odd because it never rings, there’s never anybody at the door. Those who come to the cliffs look in or rest by the wall but then walk right past on their way to the Head or the Sisters; and those who lurk on the edge at dawn and dusk with thoughts of going over seem to avoid the grey stone tower. That’s the way he likes it. Until he’s stronger. No vacancies, no visitors. Nobody he has to speak to. The lighthouse keeper goes slowly down the spiral of steps, wondering. Down another level, past the desk that is meant to serve as a reception. One day. Maybe. Through the toughened, frosted glass of the new front door he sees a figure in silhouette like a scarecrow: dark, skinny, long-limbed, with a shock of dark, messy hair.

  ‘I’m looking for my wife.’

  It’s the boy from the pub. He doesn’t look drowned any more, but he hasn’t slept, that’s obvious. He’s looking in, trying to see through the darkness of the lighthouse. The boy hasn’t shaved for a while, thinks the Keeper, touching his own stubble. Ah. Yes.

  ‘You do bed and breakfast, don’t you? Is she staying here?’

  He must take the sign down. It went up far too early.

  ‘Talk to me. What’s the matter with you? Are you shitting me? She’s in there, isn’t she? Sarah! Sarah! I’m here!’ Now he’s shouting. This could get out of hand. On a better day, the lighthouse keeper might have taken the boy in, offered him a cup of tea; but right now, his head is full of his lost love. That wasn’t the boy going past the window just now, was it, with a parachute? No, surely not.

  ‘Let me see her. Where is she?’

  This startling scarecrow tries to push into the lighthouse, and without thinking the Keeper steps across him, accidentally grinding his arm against the wall.

  ‘Shit, what are you doing? Man! Jesus!’

  The boy throws a sudden punch, fist whipping in from nowhere, catching him on the eyebrow, stinging. Bad move. The old instincts kick in. The old training. He grabs the boy’s swinging arm and pulls him in close and tight, their faces almost touching. Hot breath, a fleck of saliva landing on his lip. There is no choice but to speak now. ‘Listen. Understand. She is not here. This place is closed. We’re not . . . I’m not . . .’

  The confusion in his voice gives the boy his cue to wriggle free, and he jumps back, bo
uncing on the step, waving his arms. ‘You hurt me! I’m getting the cops! Sarah? Sarah!’

  The Keeper stands with his arms by his sides, waiting for the manic young man to shout himself hoarse. Deep breaths. Some­one has to be calm. ‘Please.’ He speaks very quietly, very matter of fact, as he learned to do from policemen and soldiers at crime scenes and in war zones. ‘Let’s start again. What is it that you want here?’

  ‘Jesus. I want my wife. Sarah. She’s missing. Don’t I know you? Is she in there? I’ve been walking, looking for her, I can’t find her. These hills are so steep. I’ve been walking and walking, she’s not here. I can’t see her, she must be there, inside your place; that’s the only place, there’s nowhere else she can be. Is she there?’

  ‘I’m on my own.’

  ‘Sure?’

  The lighthouse keeper does not answer but his eyes say yes, trust me.

  ‘Jack. I’m Jack.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that? How? Shit! Get her, will you? Just let me talk to her.’

  The Keeper tries to fill the doorway. Of course he doesn’t know this person’s name, he was just responding. This is what always happens. Misunderstandings. He’d like to help this Jack, he’d like to help him look for this Sarah, he’d like her to be here . . . but his eyebrow smarts and his head is thumping and he just wants it over, to get this guy out of here, away. ‘Please, go.’

  Surprisingly, Jack does. ‘Tell her. I’ll be back,’ he says, stumbling over the gravel, out of the gate, looking back over his shoulder, then disappearing behind a wall. Thank God. The glass is cool against the lighthouse keeper’s forehead. So one man stands in the darkness of his hallway, another slumps in the sunshine, his back against a drystone wall.

  Neither sees the other’s eyes filling up with tears.

  Thirteen

  This is ridiculous. The boy has got to him. He’s been threatened by far more dangerous people than this, but his hands are trembling. He can’t stay here, he’s got to do something, so he chooses to run. He puts on his shorts, an old T-shirt, a thin Lycra hoodie, then his trainers – silver Nikes with a rip in the right toe, a bit battered like himself – and he finds his phone and earphones and runs down the steps, through the gate, along the path, in the opposite direction to the way the boy went.

  The air is heavy, the sun is still shining, but there’s a breeze blowing up from the valley, across his body, from land to sea. He presses play with his thumb and on it comes, the track that gets him going, the one he always runs to first: ‘Move On Up’ by Curtis Mayfield. His left foot goes down on the one, right foot on the two. His hips jolt as his feet find rabbit holes, and dusty chalk patches to slide on, but otherwise the ground is soft, springy, a wide carpet of flattened grass along the back of the hill with the drop on one side and a line of gorse bushes on the other.

  It’s a long, downhill slope towards the Gap and gravity drags him along faster, his pace getting ahead of the song; but as his shoulders shake down and his hands loosen at the wrist he begins to relax and let his breathing come naturally, listening to the scratchy guitar, the stabbing horns, the swooping strings and the rattling congas. As always, the memory comes. They were in the car, on a hot, sunny day. The soft top was down, the wind ruffling his hair. He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching out along the top of Rí’s seat. Her bare feet were up on the dashboard, the summer dress riding up to the top of her legs where the last of her hidden stars were waiting. The tattooed stars that cascaded down one side of her body, spilling across her stomach, burning out on the soft, pale skin of her inner thigh.

  ‘Hey, Jensen Button! Watch the road, will you?’ she said, laughing, pinching the hem still further up, until he really did see stars. The country roads were winding, the Triumph Spitfire was on song for a change, he was steering into the turns, going much too fast, hoping there was nothing coming the other way. Knowing there wouldn’t be. The road stretched out ahead, appearing from behind trees and barns, towards their destination. The Gap. A birthday trip down South with a proper wicker picnic hamper and a coolbox of wine. That was the day she made him drive on to the lighthouse, marched him up the hill and said, ‘What do you think?’ As if it was a work of art, not an abandoned building. As if he should have been able to guess what she was thinking. How ridiculous.

  Now he’s running back down the hill with her in his mind, in his eyes, in the music. ‘Move on up.’ One-two, one-two, one-two, running, breathing, banging out the rhythm on his chest as his hands rise and fall, tripping and slipping over the grass, down towards the steps, down the steps, across the gravel of the car park, past the pub. Down more steps to the beach, the drum break echoing from ear to ear, the bass kicking in at the base of his neck, still in time as he hits the pebbles, losing it then, falling over, laughing. Getting up with a push, pulling out the earphones, losing the music and hearing it crackle as he wraps the phone in his T-shirt and leaves it on a flat white table of chalk and runs towards the water, still in his shorts and trainers. Still keeping up the rhythm of the song, bam-bam-bam, still banging his chest, running over the chalk bed, over the sand, into the sea, feet slowing, hands scooping up water for his face, feeling the salt-sting, going deeper and deeper then diving, straight and flat, into a tiny wave.

  He stays under as long as he can, eyes open and hurting, then comes up gasping, into the light, flicking his head, seeing more stars and diamonds and dazzling beads of sun-caught water flying around him. God, it’s cold, it’s freezing, his body in shock, his breath gone; but how wonderful, how wonderful, how wonderful to be here, falling backwards, arms out, lying like a starfish under a cobalt sky. Move on up. She’s singing to him, and he loves her, he loves her. He loves her. He loves this life. With her. He loves her. You’ll be okay. He hears her. Move on up. You can do it. Move on up!

  *

  Zinging from the swim, he lies on the hill with his hands behind his head, thrilled by the glory of this place, the profound energy that shines in the grass, the chalk and the sky, that skitters over the sea. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now, other than here under the passing sun, wrapped in the warm breeze, loved and loving in the landscape that is his home. He puts in his earphones, pulls up his hood and lays back to listen to a piano, the music of Erik Satie. The sound of calm. The pianist plays slowly, so slowly it is almost awkward, leaving the notes to fall into stillness. Rí is beside him now, he can sense her in the warmth of the ground, the scent of the grass and the flowers, the kiss of the breeze. The flecks of jade in her eyes, the flashes of blonde at the tips of her lashes, the tiny, light brown mark on the skin of one cheek that nobody had ever seen before him. Tracing her cheek with his lips, down to her neck and throat and to the stars, the stars, falling and flying, far away.

  Fourteen

  ‘You okay, mate?’ The Guardian approaches with caution, seeing a male of uncertain age and origin on the ground a little way back from the edge, lying on his side with his hood up. ‘Everything all right there?’

  Michael Bond, a big man with a cannonball belly and a black, piratical beard flecked with grey, stops for a moment to lean on his carbon graphite trekking poles, catch his breath and assess the situation. He knows exactly what the Guardian training manual tells you to do in a situation like this, because he wrote it: keep your distance but stand within earshot, stay calm, begin a conversation. ‘Frontline Alpha to Frontline Zulu,’ he says into his radio, contacting his colleague back in the lay-by, who is watching him through binoculars. ‘Male, hooded jumper, running shorts and trainers. Lying down. Not responding. Will attempt contact again, over.’

  ‘Roger, Frontline Alpha. I have you in sight. Advise if help required, over.’

  ‘Roger. Will do. We’re okay for now, maintain contact. Out.’

  His eyes are on the man. His prayer is quiet. ‘Lord, guide me.’ This one could be drunk or high, he could be sick or desperate, he could ge
t up suddenly and run. ‘Can you hear me, mate? Are you okay? We’re on patrol up here, really just trying to see if anyone needs help, if they are feeling down. Because, you know, this is a place of suicide . . .’ Call it what it is. That’s the word that makes people turn around, usually. Not this time, though. ‘Look, mate, I’m sorry,’ he says, keeping a good six or seven feet away, because you don’t want them to grab you, definitely not. You don’t want to be in a wrestling match. Talking is much better. ‘If you were sitting on a bench in a park, I’d leave you alone, but you’re not. I just felt a bit of rain and this is a fairly remote spot. Can you hear me? You are close to the edge of a cliff. This is not a normal situation. Do. You. Understand. What. I. Am. Saying?’ He can’t see the face but this man might be an illegal with no English. That will be tricky, there are no translators up here, they’ll need to get the police involved. Hope not then. ‘We have a duty of care to the people we see here. If there is something bothering you, can I help? Come on, son . . .’

  The lighthouse keeper whose love has gone hears none of this. He is lost in the memory of her skin, the softness of her lips, until a shadow across his face calls him back. Somebody is watching, from behind a disguise. No, a beard. It’s a big man with a black beard and shades. A white shirt open at the chest, under a red fleece. Oh great, that’s all he needs to spoil his mood. The Guardians do a lot of good, there’s no arguing with that, but they will keep coming up and asking if he’s okay. He’s seen this guy before but they’ve never spoken and right now he really doesn’t want to have to explain his presence here yet again. But here we go anyway. This one has bushy black eyebrows and eyes that are expectant, so he pulls out his earphones to get this over with.