by Lyn Aldred
“I thought I saw someone out on the rocks, Dad. I really did. When I went to help, he disappeared.”
The frown deepened. “What? On the rocks? Was there a boat?”
“Couldn’t see one. Just a person. Then he disappeared.” Jack felt silly. He hardly believed it, himself.
His father’s look was inscrutable. He continued to look at Jack, steady and unblinking. Jack felt unnerved. It was like being a bug under a microscope.
“Damned if I know what you are going to wear tomorrow,” he said at last, with a laconic sigh, and dropped his gaze. Jack thought he knew what a fish felt like when the hook suddenly lost its grip on its mouth. There was a small feeling of surprise, followed by relief.
“I saw someone, Dad. Really. I saw someone on the spit today, after I came across.”
“I think you need a bite to eat, son. You’re hallucinating. Off you go! And get dried off too,” he added. Wet clothes were the devil. Chills came from nowhere in these parts.
Jack was bewildered. “Didn’t you see the light, Dad?” he asked. “Not a thing, Jack. I’ll keep an eye out though. Off you go now.”
As Jack left the tower, he failed to see the expression on his father’s face. Far from disbelieving him, Henry’s face was very thoughtful.
There was no frantic summons from the lighthouse to help rescue a stranded sailor that night. Henry Lambeth saw nothing, he told Jack in the morning. The rain pounded away most of the night and by morning, torn clouds retreated, apologetic, allowing the sun through once more. Another hot day, by the look of it. Summer squalls and showers were no match for the heat until February was over. Even then, March could burn your hide off. It was December and only two more days left of school. For Jack, it would be forever. His education would be completed in the shining white lighthouse on Narrowgut.
CHAPTER 5
Jim Madigan was up early next morning. His makeshift, wooden shelter was no place to spend the day. It was small, dark, depressing and hot. Jim was an outdoor kind of person, anyway. Being cooped up indoors was like being in a prison as far as he was concerned. The hut was on the western shore of the island and visible from the mainland. The island sheltered him from most of the weather. Cold winter westerly’s made things unpleasant for a while though. There was no escaping those. They made it their business to seek out every crevice and cranny with cruel, icy fingers.
As soon as the brittle morning sun announced the rain was gone, he donned his canvas hat, gray and stained from his labors, and went outdoors. The shellgrit he mined littered the shore around the island. There was a sandy beach on the mainland side of Narrowgut, part of the spit. The rest of the coast line was rocky, except for tiny beaches of sand settled in patches between the rocks. Shellgrit got caught up in the hollows between rocks and in sandy crevices. It was deep and plentiful, enough to keep a fellow’s days occupied. It was hard work lugging sacks of grit about. Jim’s small launch could not get close to his workplace. It was beached on the sand, tied to a tree for safety not far from his shelter. Jim had to lug the bags of grit to his boat and then go round to Guthrie’s Bay where a truck took most of it to the city.
Jim was going to Guthrie’s Bay today in his boat and had promised to give Jack a ride. It cut down his traveling time enormously. Even better, Jack was able to sleep in for a while longer. He was lying in bed now, pondering his two sightings from the day before. He could believe his eyes could play tricks on him once but twice was a bit of a coincidence. Whoever the boy was, he liked being in water. Jack could relate to that. He was more like a fish than a boy, himself.
He made up his mind to ask Jim about him. If there was anyone about, Jim would know. He saw everything there was to see on Narrowgut. He enjoyed watching the boats go out and come back in, lower in the water, their holds full of fish. He admired the bronzed fishermen. Theirs was a difficult life for the sea was cruel and unforgiving. Jim had been there when Merv drowned. His launch arrived in time to drag his body from the shallows and take him to Guthrie’s Bay where a small cemetery lay quietly beside the tiny wooden church. The sea was swift to exact its penalty. Jim never forgave himself for being too late. He kept saying, “I should’ve known. I should’ve known.” Just what he should have known was not clear to Jack. No one knew Merv was going to attempt a risky crossing.
Jack’s clothes were still a bit damp. They would have a mildew smell today. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. Worse things had happened to him. He found the ones he wore the day before. They were a bit dryer than those he wore last night. The late afternoon breeze took out most of the water. They were still damp though. He pulled on his trousers while they fought him every inch of the way. At last he was successful and he went into the kitchen to get some breakfast.
The cereal was in a tin in the cupboard. He helped himself and poured some milk over it. Bill liked the milk on the island when he visited. It was goat’s milk. They roamed around cropping the long grass down to size and eating everything that wasn’t nailed down. The great thing was, goat’s milk tasted different. Jack was so used to it, he thought Bill was crazy.
During breakfast, Henry Lambeth came in. Bob relieved him in the mornings, this week. They took week and week about to do night duty. There was a lot to do. All the boats passing had to be recorded. Which way were they headed? What time was it? The log book must be kept up to date. During the day, the salt spray had to be washed off the windows, the kerosene filled in the lamps and any repairs and oiling of the works of the rotating light done.
Henry took off his coat. The day was warming up. It promised to be another scorcher, steamy after the rain.
“I’m going in with Jim today, Dad,” said Jack
“Good,” he said. “When’s he coming back?”
“Late. He’s going to the city with his grit. I’ll look for him after school. Two more days. That’s all I have left. I can’t believe I can leave school.” Jack was not a bad student. He was a disinterested one, that was all. Solving problems about carpeting rooms, cost of ridiculously large sums of goods and the like had no practical application in his life. He needed to learn about the sea and the lighthouse. Everything else in his life was common sense. He learnt what he needed here on the island.
Henry smiled to himself. Well did he understand Jack. He longed for the freedom of the island when he was the same age. He kept this to himself for the moment. He knew Jack was under no illusions about the work to be dome here, the loneliness and monotony of doing the same thing each day with no days off. It was like doing housework only to have a bunch of unruly kids wreak havoc as soon as it was done. A lighthouse keeper’s work is never done. You see? Just like a housekeeper.
“Can’t do without an education. Some boys have to leave much earlier than you and have been working for a couple of years by now. They have worked hard, like men. Make the most of those two days, Jack. They’re not so bad.” Henry said what every other adult he knew said. “You’ll know you’re alive when you have to work, if you can find work.” How often had he heard that, both here and in the shantytown at Sandy Bay? It was not worth getting into a discussion over it so Jack changed the subject.
“Did you see any more lights last night, Dad?” he asked.
“I didn’t see any in the first place,” came the answer. “I’m not sure what you saw. It might have been a trick of the lamp,” he said, referring to the lighthouse beacon.
“Maybe,” said Jack. He made up his mind to ask Jim if he knew anything about a boy on the island. He could be a runaway or something. “I’ll be off, Dad,” he said, shoveling the last mouthful in. “See you this afternoon.”
“You’ll be good to be near,” said his father, as a whiff of Jack’s damp trousers passed him. “Did you hang out your other clothes? They were a bit damp.” Henry Lambeth was a master of understatement.
“Yeah. I rinsed them out. They should be all right..”
He headed straight for the spit. He would find Jim’s boat around the corner, where an indent in t
he shoreline protected it from the weather. Jim would be there, he felt sure. It would be unthinkable to hold him up. Sure enough, Jim was sitting on the sand looking out over the spit. His eyes were slits as he peered into the sun, making him appear older than his years. All the fishermen had squinty eyes too, thought Jack. The sea was glary with the sun reflecting off it.
“Hello, Jim. Sorry I’m late,” he began.
“Not to worry. There’s not a lot to hurry for these days. Where’s your schoolbag? Not planning to do much work today?” Jim didn’t miss a trick.
“Over on the beach,” said Jack, pointing to False Bay. “I had to leave it there yesterday.”
“Bit of a detour then,” said Jim. “Come on.” Without looking at Jack he said, “I saw your escapade yesterday. I had the boat ready.”
“Did you? I didn’t see you.” Jim could materialize from nowhere. Mind you, thought Jack, he’d been too preoccupied to see if he had an audience.
“Not real clever,” he said
“No,” said Jack. “I got caught up playing with Bill’s new billy cart. It’s a beauty. It’s got a real seat and everything.”
“Hmmmf,” came the reply. “Oh well, you made it. That’s the important part.” As long as Jack had known Jim, he had never seen him fuss about anything. He used all his energy solving problems, not finding ways to create new ones. The whole process always looked effortless.
Jack helped Jim drag the boat to the water’s edge. He climbed in when the boat began to float and Jim fired the motor. The water was deep blue today. There was no color in the world like it and Jack drew in deep breaths, savoring the moment. He wouldn’t be anyone else for the world. He was in a boat near his beloved Narrowgut with Jim, the enigmatic shellgrit farmer, with the smell of the salty water filling his nostrils.
The boat chugged across to False Bay. Jim allowed the launch to get as close to shore as possible without beaching it. It was going to be an uncomfortable day anyway in his smelly clothes, but Jack was darned if they were going to get any wetter. He pulled off his trousers and threw them on the deck. He leapt out of the boat into the shallows and waded ashore to retrieve his bag and shoes. The bag was where he left it. No one lived out here so there was no danger of it being stolen.
They could have it, thought Jack. Useless thing it is to me.
Once back on board, Jim turned the boat and headed for the open sea to skirt the island. He could have gone over the spit this morning and not foundered but he chose not to. Jim understood people. At any rate, he understood Jack. Crossing over the spit in a boat would be rubbing it in a bit after Jack’s adventure of the day before.
Jack loved the sight of the lighthouse standing steadfastly on the rocky island. It gave a sense of solidarity; of the certainty of things. In this uncertain world, it stood for a promise of survival.
The water was a little choppy after the rain and the boat bobbed up and down on the swell. The lighthouse glistened in the morning sun as they passed. It was a commanding sight. The water washed the sand from his feet and Jack put his sandals and trousers back on. He was one of the few who wore shoes to school. He had furthest to walk so no one roasted him about it. Well…. not much.
“Jim,” Jack blurted. “Have you ever seen a boy on the island?”
“I see him every day. Sometimes I have to stand by in case he needs rescuing.”
“Very funny. No, not me. I mean, have you ever seen a strange boy on Narrowgut”
Jim was about to keep his brand of humor going but something in Jack’s expression gave him pause. He eyed the boy thoughtfully for a moment.
“’bout your age? Bit older?” he said.
A million prickles stung Jack’s skin all at once, like electric shocks. Jack was not sure what he would feel if Jim said he had seen someone like that. It felt like delving into a forbidden secret, a place where he should never go. It was frightening and exciting all at the one time.
“You have!” he accused. “Tell me.”
“When did you see him?” Jim could be maddening on occasion. That was no answer. Jim’s expression was inscrutable.
“Yesterday. Twice. Tell me about him. Who is he?”
“I’ve never seen a boy other than the dope I saw crossing the spit yesterday.” Jack let out an exasperated sound. Jim was teasing him.
“Just me? Are you sure?”
“Positive. Now if you asked me have I heard about a boy, now that would be a different thing.”
Jack knew he was on the verge of discovering something. This would be a discovery of note, he knew it. Jim must tell him.
“All right,” he said, calming his voice as though the conversation were commonplace. “What have you heard?”
Jim took his time before he answered and Jack could feel his impatience rise. The answer drove away his annoyance.
“The story goes, The Kestrel – the wreck over the way there – went down in a gale. There was no lighthouse then. Only a beacon fire if a boat was due.”
“Good grief,” cried Jack. “A history lesson! Are you kidding? I know all this.”
“Shipping was scarce in those days,” went on Jim, unconcerned about Jack’s outburst and long-suffering expression. “There weren’t many people living in these parts so supplies came once in a blue moon. The night of the gale, no one could cross over to Narrowgut. It was wild and woolly from what I hear.
The supply ship was due but no one believed it would arrive. Any captain with sense would wait till the weather was over and come then. I don’t know what he was carrying that was so darned important, ‘cos he came anyway. The island was in darkness and the ship foundered and was lost.”
“Jack was sure this was irrelevant. He wanted to know about a boy.
“But….” he began.
“Hold your horses, Mister Impatient. I’m getting to him.” Jim was silent for a bit, ruminating. Jack was like a child who was not permitted to open his gifts until Christmas arrived. He sat with his breath held, in a capsule of time outside the real world. Jim was daydreaming, shutting him out, making him wait. Jack mustered all his control and waited. Finally Jim said:
“There were two survivors, though. Most people won’t believe it ‘cos it is a bit hard to swallow. But it’s true, nonetheless. A boy – it was commonplace back then, a lad doing a man’s job – and another much younger boy, about eleven. The youngsters could do things grown men couldn’t so they were taken on. Bad, that. The younger one was a stowaway that came from Dublin in Ireland. When he was discovered on board he was put to work. No thought of sending him home.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The old wreck over yonder,” he said, indicating over his shoulder with his thumb. “The two boys probably weren’t the only young ones on board either. Anyway, of all the crew, they survived. The older one lived on Narrowgut for a bit so he might as well have been invisible. Most folks believe he came from another settlement, not from the sea.”
“Gosh, how did he survive? What did he eat?” Jack could not imagine his vegetable garden ready and waiting for a shipwrecked sailor.
“When you’re hungry, you learn fast.” There was no disputing that. The alternative was not recommended. “Oysters were pretty easy to get, for a start. You can bash them open with a rock. I’ve probably got his left over shells in my bags of grit. There are always birds near the sea. A slingshot or something is probably how he did it. And there are lots of ways to catch fish. Anyway, he managed. He learnt about the spit quickly, too. As you know, there’s no water on Narrowgut. He had to get to the mainland for that. Word is he avoided people and hid if they came near till he was older.”
“What about the other one?”
Jim’s eyes twinkled in his lined face. It was hard to tell if he was winking or squinting as he looked into the morning sun. “You know his family well, I’ll wager. He made his way across to Guthrie’s Bay. There were only one or two houses there then. He stayed, later on married, and his family are still here.” Jim stopped for this to sink in.
“Really? Who?”
“His name was Edward McPhail.” A shocked silence met this announcement. Why had no one told him this before?
“McPhail? Are you sure? That was my mother’s name.” Surely Jim was mistaken. “That’s only rumor, isn’t it?” Stories like that got twisted around with time and who would know what was right and what was wrong?
“No mistake. He was a hard man. He was Irish. From Dublin, as I said. He came from a good family with money. Few people took to him, though, from what I hear. He was a bad-tempered man and best left to himself.”
“He’s my grandfather, isn’t he?” Disbelief and wonder vied with one another. He did not expect an answer. “I never knew he was on The Kestrel. The poor old thing stares at me at low tide every day. Dad didn’t mention him.”
“Like I said, he was a hard man. Most people were afraid of him or disliked him. I don’t think your dad liked him much either. He tolerated him for your mother’s sake but when he married her, it was no longer necessary to come in contact with him. Your parents lived here at the lighthouse. Mind you, if the tales are true, Edward McPhail had a rough deal. Who knows what makes a man hard? Anyway, he ran away from home and stowed away on a ship going to Australia.”
“He ran away from home? Why would he run away from a rich family?” There was no logic here. The Depression made paupers of everyone. The idea of running away from money was unbelievable. To have some money was a dream.
“He lived in Dublin, as I said. City boy. His mother died when he was quite small. His father remarried. That was all right as far as it went. But then his father died and his stepmother remarried. That left him with two stepparents and neither of them wanted him. They probably began a family of their own and he didn’t fit in. His life was intolerable – or so he believed – so he ran away. Life was about to get harder than it already was.” It all sounded incredibly simple.