‘Let’s have a look,’ said Colette, but the others didn’t follow so she picked her way alone around mounds of sheep droppings and uneven juttings of land, zigzagging back and forth so it wasn’t too steep. The lighthouse-keeper’s daughter would have been beautiful, she thought. Long hair, probably green eyes, slender wrists. Small, sharp teeth. Every day she would have swept the spiral staircase, polished the brass fittings, the scrolls and twists that evoked the shapes of shells, dusted the big glass bulb so it shone for miles across the sea. And every night she would have gone to sleep in her round bedroom, and listened to the sound of the waves below, and tried to make out what they were telling her, if it was the name of the man she would marry.
The grave was not what Colette imagined, not what she wanted. There were no grieving angels, no marble flowers. No stone at all, just a white wooden cross, and the words Josephine Thomas, 30 March 1896, aged 6. Another disappointment. The lighthouse-keeper’s daughter was a child when she died.
On the way back to the track, Colette was so careful to avoid the piles of glossy black pellets that she almost stepped on an old white rag. When she bent closer, she saw four small hoofs among the folds. A dead lamb, or the skin of one. It was the sort of thing she would have shown Dominic once, when they were little. Now, however, she hugged the secret to herself, kept for herself the image of the lamb slipping out of its skin and dancing away naked. Besides, Dominic had already reached the lighthouse and was leaning into the wind, holding his jacket open like wings, and Nina was laughing.
It was growing dark very quickly as they climbed back over the stile. The sea faded, blurred. The ground was damp now and they made their way down the hillside slowly, knees bent, grasping at rocks and tufts of grass and bare clay banks. In the half light the sheep were woolly phantoms. Colette could feel their yellow eyes watching her descend and disappear, making sure she really did go. Dominic’s and Nina’s faces were indistinct, and Colette felt she could have been walking with anyone, with two strangers.
Dominic wiped the moisture off the windscreen. He let the engine run for a couple of minutes, trying to clear the back window. Colette watched the panels on the glass dispel the condensation, shrink the frosty bars to silvery, transparent lines.
‘Maybe we’ll see some penguins,’ said Nina.
‘You never know,’ said Dominic. ‘I’ll stop if we do, and you can get out and have a look.’ He spoke as if interesting wildlife crossed the road all the time, but Colette had never seen a penguin in her life, and was fairly certain her brother hadn’t either.
They drove past the antique shop, and Colette looked for her Spanish lantern, but she couldn’t see it in the window.
Her legs were aching by the time she arrived home, and she could barely climb the steps to the front door. She declined Dominic’s invitation of getting a coffee with him and Nina. All she could think about was soaking in a hot bath and going to bed. Nathan was watching Crimescene on television; pictures of stolen cameras and watches and missing dogs filled the screen. Colette was glad Nina wasn’t there. Even the crimes in this country were boring.
‘What happened to you?’ said Nathan.
‘Lighthouse.’
‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘Bath. Bed.’
‘Have you seen this man?’ said the television. A blurry security-camera shot of someone presenting a stolen cheque appeared on the screen.
‘That’s what we need in the bathroom,’ said Nathan. ‘A good surveillance system. Nina’s been nicking my shampoo, I’m positive.’
‘I’ll buy you some more shampoo, Nathan.’
‘That’s not the point though, is it?’
‘No. The point is, you want to see naked women for free.’
‘Where is she, anyway?’
‘Out with Dominic. Having coffee.’
‘Ah. Coffee, right.’
Colette dried between each toe, pushed the soft cuticles back with her thumbnail. There was a small chance, she thought, that the lantern had just been shifted. She would go in the next day and ask. It might still be there, in a side window, perhaps, tucked away behind a clock or a chandelier, its sharp leaves glinting in the dark.
She tried to read in bed, but couldn’t keep her eyes open. Through the wall she could hear the television blaring away. There were crimes in the airwaves; houses across the country were filling with recreated robberies and rapes designed to jog the memory. Do you recognise this car? Do you know this man? She pulled the duvet right up to her ears, breathed in the muggy, sweet scent of inhabited sheets. She thought of the abandoned lamb’s skin and shivered. Have you seen this woman? Did you hear anything strange? Perhaps, at night, the lighthouse-keeper’s daughter rose from her picket-fenced grave, slipped inside the woolly pelt and went running across the hills, jumping and dancing in the moonlight.
‘I was in your shop yesterday and there was a Spanish lantern hanging in the window.’ Colette forced herself to sound relaxed. ‘Is it still around?’
‘I know the one you mean,’ said the man. ‘Lovely thing. Very unusual.’
‘Yes,’ said Colette.
‘My wife picked it up on her last buying trip. She has such a good eye for these things. I’m more of a furniture man, myself.’
‘Yes,’ said Colette. ‘Do you know if it’s been sold?’
‘Well now,’ said the man, ‘let’s see. My wife’s not in today, otherwise she could tell you straight off. She does Saturdays and I do Sundays, that’s our arrangement.’
‘It was hanging in that window,’ said Colette. ‘Just above the oakcoffer.’
‘One of my better finds,’ said the man. ‘I’m almost tempted not to sell it. I’ve got just the spot for it, in our hallway, but my wife says there’s too much clutter in there already. She’s a very strict woman.’
‘Perhaps you could ring and ask her,’ said Colette, trying not to shout.
‘Oh, goodness me, no,’ said the man. ‘She’s fed up with me pestering her about it. No, what I’m thinking of doing is getting it delivered to the house for her birthday. I’ve got a space all ready for it. I do love oak.’
‘The lantern,’ said Colette slowly. ‘I was talking about the Spanish lantern.’
Some people had taken it home, it turned out. They wanted to try it in their conservatory before they bought it, to see how it looked. It was too ornate, though, and detracted from the orchids and the African violets, so they were going to return it and buy the French doll instead, the one with bisque hands, head and feet.
‘I see,’ said Colette on the phone, and, ‘Yes,’ and, ‘French, how lovely.’
‘My wife says the lantern will be back tomorrow, if you want to come and look at it,’ said the man.
‘Thank you,’ said Colette. ‘Tomorrow, yes.’
It was late by the time she rang Dominic.
‘I was wondering if I could borrow a couple of hundred,’ she said. She could hear someone laughing in the background, a deep, male laugh.
‘Let me guess. Would a certain Mexican lamp be involved?’
‘It’ll only be till the end of the month, promise.’
‘What about all your child-care money? And Dad’s cheques, what’s happened to them?’
‘I’m saving for something important,’
‘You still owe me for Mum’s birthday, remember.’
‘I know, you’ll get that at the end of the month too. Please?’ Again she heard laughter, and a man’s voice. ‘Have you got the TV on?’ she said.
‘Listen,’ said Dominic, ‘I’m cooking Nina dinner tomorrow night. Why don’t you and Nathan come?’
‘He’s only my flatmate.’
‘You slept with him.’
Colette lowered her voice. ‘It’s kind of sick, don’t you think? Your little Nina obsession?’
‘Me obsessed!’
‘She’s your first cousin, remember,’
‘I’m just trying to make her feel welcome. Don’t worry, she’s not my type.’ More d
istant laughter.
‘She’s gorgeous.’
‘Colette, listen—’
‘It’s a lantern, by the way. And it’s Spanish.’
When Colette returned to the antique shop, the lantern was hanging in the window. She browsed among the furniture for a minute or two, opening drawers, turning keys. Behind the counter, the woman flicked through a magazine, her husband nowhere in sight. Slowly Colette made her way to the lantern.
‘You were in on the weekend, weren’t you?’
Colette smiled, fingered a brass leaf. The lantern was smaller than she remembered, and as she examined it she noticed that one of the panes of glass was cracked, and three of the leaves damaged. The hinge, too, was bent out of shape.
‘Ah,’ said the woman. ‘You’re the girl who was interested in the lantern. My husband rang you about it.’
Colette looked through the cracked piece of glass and through the shop window to the beach. The sea was crooked, split in two.
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it. I’ll take a Polaroid photo of it for you if you like, so you’ll remember it. It’s hard to recall where you saw what when you’re looking for something in particular.’
Now and then, in upmarket antique shops, Colette had seen Polaroids offered to well-to-do customers, but she had never been approached herself. The woman squeezed between a Scotch chest and a cabin trunk and pointed the camera and before Colette had time to move away she had taken the photo.
‘There now,’ she said. ‘That’ll help you remember.’ She handed Colette a glossy grey square that looked like a picture of storm clouds.
Thank you,’ said Colette, ‘but I didn’t ask about it. It wasn’t me.’
When she was outside she looked at the photo again. The grey was disappearing; in its place was a murky outline of the lantern and, to one side, herself. She looked disappointed, dissatisfied, and although the picture was still quite dark, it was growing clearer every second.
She’d wanted to wear it herself, but Colette ended up lending Nina her red dress.
‘You look fantastic,’ said Nathan. ‘You too, Colette. What’s the occasion?’
‘Nothing special, just a family dinner. We won’t be late back.’
Dominic kissed them both on the cheek. ‘I thought you were bringing Nathan?’
‘He’s busy,’ said Colette, avoiding Nina’s glance. ‘I’m thinking of moving, actually’
‘But it’s a great place!’
‘I don’t know. It gives me the creeps sometimes.’
In the living room was a young man Colette hadn’t seen before. He rose to his feet and shook hands.
‘Colette, Nina, this is Brendan.’
While Dominic prepared dinner, Brendan poured drinks.
And how long are you over for, Nina?’ he asked.
Nina crossed her legs, toyed with the buckle on her strappy sandals. She looked stunning in the red dress, better than Colette ever would. She laughed at all of Brendan’s jokes, and when he laughed too Colette realised she’d heard him before. The previous night, when she’d rung Dominic so late. She stared at Brendan.
‘Everything okay?’ said Brendan.
‘Yes,’ said Colette, yes. Fine thanks.’
She watched Nina lean in close to him, pout, run her hands through her hair, and she smiled.
‘Hey, I can lend you the money for the lantern,’ Dominic said as they were leaving.
‘Thanks,’ said Colette, ‘but I went and had a look at it again and it’s not right. Tell you what, though,’ she said, ‘I could use a loan for my plane ticket.’
‘Plane ticket? Are you going to visit Mum?’
‘I’m going to England, next month. I want to finish my round-the-world trip, and visit a friend in hospital. A very good friend.’
‘I’m surprised I’ve lasted as long as I have,’ said the man’s mother. ‘Usually when one goes the other follows, but your dad’s dead twenty years next week. It doesn’t seem that long, does it, but it is. Nineteen seventy-six. I doubt I’ll see the century out, mind. I doubt I’ve got a year left in me, let alone four.’
Here we go, thought the man, another one of her speeches. She always gave a speech on something when he visited. The danger of owning too big a dog, the rubbish on television these days, the trouble with people buying up fancy new apartments. It was during her speeches that he was tempted to tell her about his idea. He’d kept it to himself for eight years while she prattled on about how brainless he was. He’d sat on her couch and said nothing, even when, the previous year, he’d seen in her newspaper the picture of the girl playing tennis.
‘I’d like to be cremated, not buried,’ his mother went on in the background. ‘Plots are so expensive these days, and it’s not as if I can be put with your dad, unless you want to fly me there. I don’t like the new cemeteries, anyway. They’re all flat and there’s no style to them. I like the big statues in the old ones, but the new ones all look the same. It’s so the gardener can mow right over the top of them. They do that, you know, just mow right over the top in their big lawn-mowers, they look like tractors, those things. And they squeeze everyone in so when you go to visit the grave you’re shoulder to shoulder with whoever happens to be visiting next door. No privacy. They don’t even lay you side by side in double plots now, did you know that? They just plonk the husband in on top of the wife, or the other way round. It’s indecent. And they don’t mind charging you double. Oh no. They’ll start charging for the water to fill up the vases soon, you wait and see. Are you listening to me? Have you heard a word I said? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother with you, really I don’t You’re useless.’
At the public library the man skimmed eight-year-old bundles of news. He knew what he was looking for and he couldn’t sit still; his feet tapped, his lips twitched, his thumb flicked through the pages as quickly as if they were banknotes. And then he found them: the death notices. The names of all the people who had died at the start of March 1988. And his finger raced down the columns, over the As, the Bs, the Cs, and when he found the Hs he became completely still. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to erase themselves. Walter Hicks, loved husband of Edna. Taken from us in his 80th year.
He gulped down a can of beer as soon as he got home, the bubbles making his eyes water, filling him with air. Eighty years old. That meant Edna must be getting on too. She could go at any time. Perhaps, he thought for a moment, she had already died and was buried somewhere else entirely. Or perhaps she had remarried, and would eventually be buried with a different husband.
At the cemetery he found the place without any trouble. There was a headstone marking the grave, identifying the occupant as Walter Ian Hicks, stating in gold the date of his birth and his death. And, at the bottom, was a space for a second name.
The bitch, was all the man could think. The fat old stupid bitch. He didn’t know if Edna was fat, or stupid for that matter, but those were the words that came naturally to him in moments of rage. Words like ugly, dumb, dirty, useless. There were too many people in the world, thought the man, too many stupid, boring people, and not even enough room to bury them all in separate plots. Everywhere you went people banged into you, rammed their shopping trolleys into you, jostled against you in the bus, almost ran you down in their cars. And most of the trouble-makers were female. Ancient old bitches who saw their husbands to early graves, little schoolgirl tarts who offered you a ride and then, once they’d made eyes at you, wouldn’t follow through.
The man made reading the death notices part of his daily routine. He didn’t know what he’d do when Edna Hicks died, he realised; his brilliant plan hadn’t extended that far. At least, though, he would have some time. A day, maybe two. Enough time to pack a bag, go underground.
It was inconvenient for him, this daily checking of death. He couldn’t get away from it; it came off on his fingertips and blackened his mood. Sometimes, if he’d had a few drinks, he considered it his punishment for inviting the girl to his flat and let
ting things get so out of hand, but mostly it was just another thing to be done, like emptying the rubbish. He didn’t bother with the rest of the newspaper, just the death notices, but once in a while a missing child would loom from the front page and sometimes, somewhere down the bottom, there would be a photo of the girl.
As the years passed the man became accustomed to his task. He learned the language of the obituary, its special codes. Passed away peacefully meant the person had died of nothing in particular, just old age. Edna Hicks would probably pass away peacefully. The word suddenly, if a young person had died and there was no mention of an accident, usually meant a suicide. In lieu of flowers, donations to often indicated the cause of death: cancer, heart attack. After a long battle meant relatives would be speaking of thankful releases, blessings in disguise.
And, gradually, death lost its grasp on the man, and his bad dreams about the girl became harder and harder to recall, because people died every day, after all, columns of them, and they were just names, each one as unimportant as the last, and if he hadn’t done it then it would have happened sooner or later anyway, because people were dropping off all the time, you just had to read the papers to see that.
The sheep and calves and goats on either side of the river had taken no notice as his car left the bridge and plummeted. The deer in the forest, the squirrels, the pigs and the hares all carried on as before.
The water was ice-cold when it met his skin, although it was a sunny day.
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