Tide of Stone

by Kaaron Warren

  Louis La Rocca whispered, “The boatman will try to come in with you. Don’t let him. It’s a curse if you do, and even he knows it. And what’s the point? He thinks they’ll remember him as the best ever keeper, even though we’ve all told him they don’t even remember him at all.”

  I took photos of them all. Some of them posed; others preferred to be candid. I’d be away a year; who knew what could happen in that time? I’d asked my photography teacher to take the funeral photos while I was away. He’d be happy to do it. What else did he have to do?

  Jerry Butler, 1990, gave me a thumbs up as he left.

  “Say hello to Mrs. Palmer and her five daughters, Jerry,” someone said, wriggling their fingers.

  Men exchanged glances and a couple of them imitated wanking. It was a bit pathetic, really. Boys at high school made this masturbating joke; I couldn’t believe men still did it.There were after dinner mints with coffee, and then Kate Hoff took me into the office and pulled out my file. “Now, we’ve got twenty grand to go in once your arse hits the boat seat. Then forty grand each solid month you’re out there, with pay docked five thousand a day each day you’re not out there. Fair enough? Then, there’s a bonus of fifty thousand at the end if you’ve never left the tower. Sum total five hundred and fifty thousand, interest-earning, for the easiest job ever devised. Considering. You won’t have to worry about a degree or anything else.”

  They knew everything about me, it seemed, including my failure to complete even a year of Tech. If I’d gotten into the course I wanted, it might have been different. How do you stay motivated when you’re doing something you hate?

  “You can talk to Kenny Campbell, 2001, about your investments. Or he’ll be in touch. He’s a genius with funds. He’ll also help you sort your will. You have to have one of those.”

  I was going to leave it all to Renata. The money I’d earn, all my stuff. All of it. She needed it the most.

  Kate led me to a two-drawer filing cabinet, covered with stickers and fridge magnets: Albert’s Car Works and Sunny Queensland, and a large black cat and many more. I saw a tapestry that read, Cut Nice.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re observant. Most people wouldn’t notice that. It’s one of those things you’ll find out once you’re over there. Another one of our little secrets.” She pulled out a handful of files.

  She tapped her finger on the one labeled Burnett Barton: The Time Ball Tower Keeper’s Report 1868.

  The folder was blood red, thick. Inside, handwritten notes. Ornate, hard to read. It was a photocopy, though.

  “The originals are in the tower.”

  “This is pretty cool.” It was cool. I knew how old Burnett was, of course, and I’d seen his history. But this was different. The history was sanitized, written after the fact, as a much older man. This was when he was, what? Only about sixty? And living what I was about to live.

  I couldn’t wait to read it.

  “Yep. We’re lucky to have this stuff. It’s like a bible.” She rapped the filing cabinet. “It’s all in there. Nothing can really prepare you, but this does help. You can take them away to read, but don’t let anyone else near them. Not even a look at the cover.”

  “Have you got a lock box or something?”

  “Best not. People will think they’re valuable and want to take a look in.” She tapped her skull. “Up here for thinking, in there for drinking. Speaking of which, must be about that time.”

  She showed me to a chair. “John Barton, 1873, barely left that chair, for decades. Someone would carry him there in the morning, carry him away in the evening.”

  I’d ask Burnett more about John Barton, Harriet’s son, I thought.

  “It’s a lot to absorb. So much to take in.”

  “You’re only just beginning. And I should talk to you about something. While you’re here. This is going to sound strange, but I figured you’d rather hear it from me than one of the men.”

  I was sure whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it from anyone at all.

  “They can be easily stimulated, and that makes them difficult. Women keepers in particular. Smell of a woman. You’ll need to take a good supply of highly scented douches.”

  “No way!”

  “Seriously. You do not want your scent to reach them. Lemon scent is good. Some women use ordinary bleach, but I think it smells a bit like…you know.”

  “Are you trying to terrify me?”

  “I just want to be really clear. You can never be in a state of sexual desire around them. They can use it against you. They’ll find anything to manipulate you. The men take magazines out there to take the pressure off. There’s a pile left behind, but I think take your own if you want them.”

  “You mean you want me to masturbate a lot?”

  “Yep. You can be prescribed with a drug that lessens sexual desire if you want, but the long-term effects aren’t so good. Now,” she said, as if that was done with, “these are the most honest pieces of writing you’ll ever read, probably. We put our hearts, our guts, our feelings into them. Only keepers ever read them. People like you, about to go. And sometimes us old farts will read back, or read the new reports, just to get that feeling again. Some of them are about as long-winded as you can get. But who are we to say what people can write? It’s important to get it down, get the thoughts and impressions down.

  I didn’t tell her I already knew about the reports, that’d I’d started mine a month ago. Something occurred to me, though. “So, any of them can read it? My parents were both keepers. And my brother Cameron. What if they read mine?”

  “They’ll read as keepers, not as your family. I think they’ll probably choose not to read at all, though. There are some things you don’t need to know.”

  “But I’ll be reading theirs. And my grandmother’s.”

  “And you’ll have to read as a keeper, not as a daughter or granddaughter or sister.” With that, she led me back to the bar. The others were all settled into conversation, all of them looking up at me, inviting me to join their circles. I wanted some time to process, though, so I got a big glass of wine from the bar (Dad always said they had an excellent cellar), curled up in an armchair in the corner of the bar, soft leather worn smooth from decades of use. Good bright light over my shoulder.

  On the cover, a handwritten, carefully-wrought message: It calls to the best of us.

  Susan Mosse, 1982, came in with a plate of tiny crispy toasted cheese for me. Some gherkin. Some pieces of dark chocolate. And another drink. Coffee with, I realized on sipping, whisky in it.

  “Take your time,” she said. “The place stays open twenty-four hours. Most of us will head off in a while, though.”

  I wondered how long I was supposed to stay. I was tired, and the air was thick. I wanted to be outside.

  I made my quiet farewells then I headed home.

  

  Mum was in a state; almost incoherent. Dad’s sisters had organized a big party for my grandmother, Frances. Mum needed to do nothing, and she pretended to be offended by that.

  “Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll let them do all the work. We’ll just have a good time.”

  Mum was sure it would kill her.

  “I’ll drive. You can lie down in the back with your head covered the whole way. It’ll be fine,” I said.

  “I can drive. I can drive myself.”

  “We’ll do that, then,” I said, knowing there was no way she’d get in the driver’s seat.

  

  The next day, on entering the ward, I heard a thin, constant wail. All of them made noise; that was standard. But this was higher, more distressed than usual.

  “We thought we’d leave him to you,” one of the nurses said. “We’re behind the eight ball today. Poor old Mr. Madden died last night. The residents know it. Doesn’t matter if we try to keep it secret. They’re like dogs, sniffing it out.”

  I went to Burnett. Somebody had dressed him in a Wiggles T-shirt and it was s
o bizarre I laughed.

  The noise was coming from him. He’d been shifted sideways. “He dragged me,” Burnett told me.

  One of his brittle, dry fingers had snapped off.

  “Ouch!” I said, wincing.

  “No—pain,” he said. “Loss.—Loss.”

  I sewed the finger back on and hoped that would do.

  “Are you sick apart from that?”

  He shook his head. There was a register of his illnesses, sporadically kept up-to-date. Chicken pox, measles, rubella—he caught and was scarred by all of it. It wasn’t as noticeable now that his skin was so old.

  I saw he hadn’t touched the beer I’d set beside him. I stretched, took one for myself from his fridge, and settled back into the armchair, which now rested in direct sunlight. The cushions sagged, and the arms were greasy from the touch of many visitors, all of them hoping for solutions or salvations from the wise old man. It was positioned so that visitors didn’t have to look at Burnett directly, and that suited most people.

  “I went to the Club. They gave me all the reports. Yours is first!” I thought this might give him a moment of joy.

  “You’ll—understand…soon.”

  He began to shake. It was a revolting thing to watch.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He squeezed his eyes as tightly as he could manage. “Thought—I—saw—someone.”

  “A ghost?”

  He said he didn’t believe in them, but I was pretty sure he did.

  To comfort him, I picked up a ball of purple glass, set inside with small red bubbles. Such a beautiful piece, and old.

  “Mary—Louisa—Barton—gave—me—that,” he said. His voice weak now, almost inaudible. Thinking of times past made him sad.

  I had loved this piece forever.

  “Take—it.—Reminds—me—of—my—beautiful—Harriet.—My—love.”

  “When I have my own place,” I said. I imagined the glass would be lost in moves. Taken by flatmates if I ever moved to the city. “It’s safer here.”

  I carefully replaced it.

  “Did the town love Harriet? Apart from those who thought she was too loud, of course. I’m surprised more effort wasn’t made to find her when she disappeared.”

  He said, “Ran—away.—Anything—in—the—news?” He only meant one thing by that. He was waiting for the day when his forgotten village was re-discovered, hoping to hear news of “Precious watchmaking tools found” or whatever.

  He had this fantasy of Little Cormoran rising from the ashes.

  There was none of that in the paper. I read to him for a while, then he sighed. Sometimes I think my voice moved too fast for him.

  “Show—photos—of—town.”

  I reached over and turned on his bedside lamp. His eyes watered, even though the wattage was low.

  On the wall were his beautifully-framed copies of drawings by Sir Joseph Banks. One was an original, with the rest long since sold and the money invested.

  Living a long time made you a rich man, he would say.

  He’d received them as a farewell gift from a man he greatly admired, William Barton. I loved the original. I’d already penciled my name on the back for when and if he decided to disperse his things. He also had a drawing he’d done himself, of the cameo William’s wife Louisa had given to Harriet. I loved that more than anything else.

  They weren’t all by Banks, though. One was signed “Eugene.”

  “Who was Eugene again?” I said. He loved to talk about the past.

  “My—adopted—son.—A—very—special—man.”

  The Ball dropped.

  There was a tap at the door, and I opened it to reveal a group of people waiting to talk to Burnett.

  Some of them held parcels and boxes. They’d show him the contents, items they considered of great importance and worthy of secrecy, much of it dull.

  An elderly woman said, “Ask him if I should go today or tomorrow. He’ll know.”

  I whispered to Burnett.

  “He says tomorrow. He says today you should stay home and bake and freeze what you bake for later.”

  Burnett’s fingers twitched, although not his newly-repaired one. Even that small movement caused his bones to crackle.

  He liked me to sit and watch over him. People stole from him.

  Or took liberties.

  

  The last of the visitors left, so I laid Burnett down and settled him with a podcast playing (History of the World, variations). I needed to do some work out on the ward, otherwise they’d stop me coming at all. If I actually had a nursing qualification, maybe not. They never let me forget I was just a nurse’s aide.

  Renata was on shift and said, “Help me move the bodies around.”

  “You really shouldn’t call them that,” I said. “’Specially not with Mr. Madden passing away.”

  “They’re all as good as dead. Seriously. Look at them. You know I’m right.”

  I was the only one who knew about her. Knew the truth. She didn’t want me to tell anyone else. She didn’t want to be stopped.

  She hadn’t done many. Three, to my knowledge. Mr. Madden was the fourth. I figured, with my stint as keeper coming up, that if I let her do her thing, she’d let me do my thing, and it would all even out.

  I helped her shift them about, moving them like random pieces in a game I didn’t understand. I stopped to photograph each one; I might not get the chance again.

  “You’re in denial, Phillipa, telling me not to call them the bodies. Look at you. Why are you taking photos if you don’t think they’ll all be dead soon?”

  “I’m going for a year. And I’m not saying they’re not all close to death,” I whispered. “Just that at least you could pretend in front of them.”

  “Death is nothing to fear. It’s the great beyond. The next big thing,” she said, but she was particularly kind to the rest of them.

  I was helping to sort out the lunches (mushy, extra-mushy, sludge) when there was a call from hospital. My mother had run into a brick wall and they needed permission to operate because Dad was incapacitated.

  I tidied up, got changed and drove to the hospital.

  She’d smashed into the wall on purpose. That was clear. She was making a point. “You see I can’t cope. I can’t go out,” about her mother’s ninetieth birthday. “This is why I don’t leave home. This.”

  I waited at the hospital for two hours until she was allowed to go home. Dad was blind drunk somewhere.

  They wheeled Mum out. I almost cried at how tiny and vulnerable she looked, hunched over, withdrawn. I had her favorite scarf which I wrapped around her shoulders and over her head, making a colorful cave for her. She kept her eyes closed until we got home, then opened them wide to absorb the comfort of the familiar.

  “Thank you, Phillipa. Beautiful girl,” she said.

  I made us a cup of tea.

  “Can you tell Grandma? That I can’t go because of my accident?”

  I nodded. It wouldn’t achieve anything to force her.

  

  I was hoping to catch my father in a sober mood, but I’d missed the moment. My mother had joined him in a booze up. Her leg was in a cast, her face covered with bruises. She seemed to be happy about that. At least when they drank together, he was less depressed. Less likely to have a go at me. But the more he drinks the angrier he gets at himself, so no one wins.

  He was sitting in his chair, bottle of brandy beside him. He had a very small glass in his hand. Some days he said he drank that way because it felt like less. Some days he said it felt like more.

  I said, “I was thinking we should all skip Grandma’s party. I’ve only got a couple more weekends and I’d kinda like to hang out here with my friends.”

  Dad started shoving things into a bag.

  “What are you doing?” Mum said. “Leaving me?” That cracked them both up.

  “I’m going to Mum’s for the party,” Dad said. “Phillipa, you’re coming with?” />
  Mum clutched at my arm.

  “Nah,” I said. “I don’t mind staying home. I’ll keep Mum company.”

  We all knew it should be him staying home, me going to Perth for the party. But I didn’t mind, really. The idea of the long drive, and all those hours having to talk to people?

  Ugh.

  The Ball dropped.

  It was a nice week. I called in sick to work, and just hung out at home. Did a bit of shopping. Took a lot of photos. Watched bad TV with Mum. Ghost stories, things like that.

  Mum said, “I was possessed while I was in the tower. A spirit entered me, four spirits, and they sat waiting there until you four were born.” She bent her ears forward to show where they hid. “You are those spirits. That’s why you’re so drawn to the place.”

  “Doesn’t that make you scared of us?”

  “Ay?”

  I said again.

  She looked at me then, studying me seriously.

  But she didn’t tell me otherwise.

  

  I felt musty, as if the dust of years covered me, so I went for a swim, carefully, amongst the rocks. I tread water for a while on the shadow side of the old pier. I liked it there. Such silence and privacy. People liked the sunny side.

  

  On the way home, I checked out all the buildings named for keepers, built with money donated by the keepers. As Burnett said, live long enough, anyone can become rich. You just have to be patient. And money buys recognition like street names. Park names.

  

  Dad came home with a scarf my Grandma had sent for me. He said, “She made me take it out to the tower, too. Disgusting thing, really!”

  Last time I saw her was when I spent a week in Perth, maybe six months ago. Grandma lived in an apartment looking over the harbor.

  My grandmother is amazing. Wild, adventurous, brave, a successful children’s author with a whole shelf of delightful books about children who became what they wanted to be, not who they were born, in all the variations.

  “I wrote the first one in the Time Ball Tower,” she said as we stood by the bookcase. “You’re going to be transformed out there, if you’re willing.”