by Emma Stonex
Whatever you’re doing out there, the set-off’s the only bit of fresh air available on a tower. You can’t just poke your head out of the windows on account of the walls being so thick; they were built with double windows, you see, an inner and an outer, three or four feet apart, so you’d have to sit in the little space between and I shouldn’t think that would be very comfortable. You could go out on the gallery, that’s the walkway up top that goes around the lantern, but there’s not much room and, besides, you’d need a jolly long fishing rod, wouldn’t you.
One of them, and I wouldn’t like to guess who, but it could have been Arthur because he was one for having time away from people, being on his own, he liked that. He could have gone out on the set-off and been sitting there reading and the wind was quiet, a force one or two, then out of nowhere a big sea swells up and sweeps him away. The sea can do that. You’ll know it can. Arthur was caught out once at the Eddystone, early on; he’d just made AK – that’s Assistant Keeper – and he was out there drying his washing when a giant wave came out of the blue and knocked him off his feet. He was lucky his mate was there to grab hold of him, otherwise I’d have lost him years before I did. It rattled him, but he was fine. The same can’t be said for his washing; I’m not sure he saw any of that again. He had to borrow the others’ clothes until the relief was due.
But things like that didn’t affect Arthur. Lightkeepers aren’t romantic people; they don’t get nervous or look into things too much. The point of the job is to keep a level head and get on with what needs to be done. Trident wouldn’t hire them otherwise. Arthur was never afraid of the sea, even when it was dangerous. He told me how, on a tower, the spray from the waves can come right up to the kitchen window during a storm – bear in mind that’s eighty or eighty-five feet above the water – and the rocks and boulders roll against the base, so it shudders and shakes. I’d have been scared, I think. But not Arthur; he felt the sea was on his side.
When he came ashore, he seemed, at times, out of sorts. Like a fish out of water, that’s exactly it. He didn’t know how to be here, whereas he knew how to be on the sea. I’d say goodbye to him to return to the tower and I could see he felt very pleased indeed at the thought of seeing her again.
I’m not sure how many books you’ve had published about the ocean, but writing a story about it isn’t the same as writing how it really is. The sea will turn on you if you’re not paying attention; it changes its mind in the snap of a finger and it doesn’t care who you are. Arthur had ways of predicting it, such as what the clouds looked like or how the wind sounded against the window; he could tell you if it was blowing a six or seven just by how it sounded – so if a man like him, who is the most experienced person I can think of in these things, could be caught, then that proves it can change suddenly. Maybe he had time to shout and the others came running; the set-off’s slippery, there’s panic in the air and it wouldn’t take much, would it, for all three of them to get washed away?
The locked door’s an oddity; I’ll give you that. My only thought is that those entrance doors are thick lumps of gunmetal – they have to be to hold up against the battering they get – and they’ll slam on you without any trouble at all. And as for it being bolted from the inside, that’s one of those details that plagues me. But on a lighthouse, you’ve got these heavy iron bars that go across the door to keep it in place, so what I’m thinking is there’s a chance those bars fell when it closed, if it closed with enough force . . .?
I don’t know. If it sounds daft to you then ask yourself what other reason you’d come up with, then see which one you prefer when you start turning these things over in the middle of the night. The stopped clocks and the locked door and the table being laid, it sets your imagination going, doesn’t it? I look at it practically, though. I’m not a superstitious person. Whoever was on cooking duty that day was probably being organized in setting the table ready for the next meal; there’s a great emphasis on food on a lighthouse and keepers stick to routine like limpets. As for there only being two places, well, perhaps he hadn’t got around to laying the third one yet.
And two clocks going at the same time? That’s peculiar, but not impossible. One of those whispers that gets distorted the more it’s said; some bright spark made it up then one day it’s fact, when it’s not, it’s just an unhelpful person saying hurtful things.
I’d hoped Trident would settle that they’d drowned so there wasn’t this uncertainty for the families, but they never did. In my mind, it’s drowning. I feel lucky I know what it is in my mind because I need that, even if it isn’t made official.
Jenny Walker, Bill’s wife, she wouldn’t say the same. She likes there being no solution. If there were then it would take away any last chance she thinks she has of Bill coming back. I know they’re not coming back. But people deal with things how they want. You can’t say how someone should grieve; it’s very personal and private.
It is a pity, though. What happened to us should have made us come together. Us women. Us wives. Instead, it’s been the opposite. I haven’t seen Jenny since the ten-year anniversary and even on that day, we didn’t speak. We didn’t go near each other. I wish it wasn’t like that, but there we are. It doesn’t stop me trying to change it. I believe people have to share these things. When the worst happens, you can’t bear it alone.
That’s why I’m talking to you. Because you say you’re interested in putting out the truth – and, I suppose, so am I. The truth is that women are important to each other. More important than the men, and that isn’t what you’ll want to hear because this book, like all your others, is about the men, isn’t it? Men are interested in men.
But for me, no, that isn’t the case. Those three left us three behind and I’m interested in what’s left behind. In what we can make of it, if we still can.
As a novelist, I expect you’ll make much of the superstitious aspect. But remember I don’t believe in things like that.
Things like what? Come on now, you’re the writer; you work it out. In all my years I’ve realized there are two kinds of people. The ones who hear a creak in a dark, lonely house, and shut the windows because it must have been the wind. And the ones who hear a creak in a dark, lonely house, light a candle, and go to take a look.
7
16 Myrtle Rise
West Hill
Bath
Jennifer Walker
Kestle Cottage
Mortehaven
Cornwall
2 June 1992
Dear Jenny,
Some time has passed since my last letter. While I no longer anticipate your reply, I remain optimistic that my words are read. I would like to interpret your silence as peace between us – if not your forgiveness.
I wanted to let you know that I am speaking to Mr Sharp. This isn’t a decision I have taken lightly. Like you, I’ve never disclosed information to outsiders about what happened. Trident House gave us instructions and we followed them.
But I am tired of secrets, Jenny. Twenty years is a long time. I’m growing old. There is much I need to let go of, much I have shouldered in silence, for many reasons, for many years, and I have to share it, at last. I hope you understand.
With my best wishes, as ever, to you and your family,
Helen
8
JENNY
After lunch it started to rain. Jenny hated the rain. She hated the mess it made when the children came in with it dripping wet, especially Hannah with the double pushchair, especially after she’d cleaned and then it was honestly more bother than it was worth.
Where was he, then? Five minutes late. Plain rude, she thought, turning up late to see someone who hadn’t even asked to meet you in the first place. She’d only agreed to it because of Helen, because she wasn’t having Helen Black saying things about her that weren’t true – or that were true – and having them all put down in a book for the world to see. He was famous, apparently. That didn’t impress her. Jenny didn’t read books. Fortune an
d Destiny twice monthly did her fine.
No doubt this man expected her to roll out the red carpet. It didn’t matter if he was late, because being posh and well-off he could behave how he liked. Now he’d trample soggy shoes right through the house. Jenny found it awkward asking visitors to take their shoes off; they should know to do it without having to be asked.
She was in the mindset now of hating the rain. All those years of thinking Bill’s relief was going to get put off and it would be even longer before she saw him again. In the days running up to him coming home she used to get fixated on the weather, worried it was going to change so the boat wouldn’t be able to go out there and get him, and the more she watched, the more the weather had seemed to change, just to spite her. They’d planned to move to Spain when Bill retired, buy a place in the south with what little they’d saved, a swimming pool and clay pots on the patio and pink flowers round the door, and the children would come out for holidays. Jenny was better in the sun; the rain made her mood go downhill, and the rain in England lasted for months and months, it was so depressing. She’d have been fine if they’d made it to Spain, warmth on their bones, Brandy Alexanders as the sun went down. Whenever it rained these days, it reminded her that would never happen.
Helen’s letter languished in the bin. Jenny ought to rip the envelopes up before she opened them. Every time one dropped through the letterbox, she told herself, I’ll set a match to it, I’ll tear it into pieces, I’ll stuff it down the drain.
But she never did. Her sister said it brought her closer to Bill, having Helen’s letters to read, because they were a link to her missing husband whether she despised that link or not. Helen’s letters were proof that it had been real. Jenny had been married to him once; they had been in love. It had been good. It hadn’t been a dream.
The telly in the living room blacked out on an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Jenny pushed herself up off the settee and gave it a whack. The picture returned: the protagonist was hiding in a wardrobe from a gunman. She thought, I could do that; I could get in a cupboard and pretend I’m not home. But this Dan Sharp would be here any minute. If she didn’t talk to him, there was no telling what lies that cow had up her sleeve. Even though Jenny had read all sorts of rubbish about the Maiden Rock over the years and knew to take it all with a great big bucket of salt, she still considered it her duty to care. Whenever she saw a story in the paper she had to call in and speak to whoever was responsible, so she could have her say and put them right. It was like a member of her family that she had to stand up for.
Outside, the sky grew dim. In the distance, beyond the rooftops, swam the strip of sea that Jenny clung to like a lifebelt. She needed that sea, to be sure it was there, the nearest she had of him. In heavy weather the view got lost and that made her panic, imagining the sea had gone, she was nowhere near it, or it had dried up altogether and her husband’s bones knocked naked on the sand.
A keeper never abandons his light.
She had heard that plenty when Bill vanished.
Then what had he done? Over the years, she had grown used to not knowing, comfortable with it, even, a ragged pair of slippers with holes in the bottom that did nothing for her, but she never took them off.
Well, a wife never abandons her husband. Jenny would never move away. Not until she knew the truth, and then, maybe then, she could sleep.
She heard her visitor arrive on the doorstep, the shuffle of his feet and a smoker’s cough. His knuckles on the door, surprising her. She clasped her shaking hands. That’s right, she remembered, the bell was bust.
9
JENNY
I’d sooner have come to meet you but the car’s got a flat tyre. I’m waiting for my brother-in-law to come and fix it for me. I’m no good with cars. Bill used to do everything like that. Now he’s gone, I suppose I’m lucky that Carol and Ron live close by. I don’t know what I’d do without them. I’m not sure I could cope.
You’d better come in. I’ll turn a light on. I try not to have too many on around the house because it costs. Trident set us up with an income, but it doesn’t take much for me to spend mine. I haven’t been able to work so I can’t get any extra. I never worked anyway; I was raising the family while Bill was on the lights so what else was I to do. I wouldn’t know where to start, in working. I wouldn’t know what I’d be good at.
Go on then, tell me what you want to know. I haven’t got long – I’ve got a man coming round to fix the TV. I’d be lost without the telly. I have it on all day; it keeps me company. When it’s off I feel lonely. Quiz shows are my favourite, the ones on the shiny sets. I like Family Fortunes because of the flashing lights and prizes; it’s colourful and I like that. I usually keep the TV on when I go to bed so it’s there when I wake up, then there’s someone there to say good morning to. It helps take my mind off things. The nights are the worst for that.
It’s a gloomy subject for you to want to write about. Bad enough it happened in the first place without you needing to make a book out of it. I don’t see why you’d want to read about the dark side of life anyway. There’s enough of that in the world as it is. Why can’t there be more stories about nice things? Ask your publishers that.
I suppose you want a drink, don’t you. I’ve got coffee but I’ve run out of tea. I haven’t been able to get to the shops because of the car and I don’t like walking. Anyway, I don’t drink it myself. Not even water? Suit yourself.
That’s a photo of the family at Dungeness. My grandson’s five and the twins are two. Hannah’s lot – she didn’t mean to have them early but that’s how it happened. Hannah’s my eldest. Then I’ve got Julia, who’s twenty-two now, and Mark, who’s twenty. I had my girls far apart because it took us a while to get pregnant, what with Bill being away. Oh, I don’t feel young to be a grandmother. I feel old. Older than I am. I put a brave face on because they don’t want to come over and see their nana sad all the time, but it’s a struggle. Like on Bill’s birthday or our anniversary when I want to stay in bed, and I don’t even want to get up to answer the door. I don’t care if I’m moving on or not. I don’t see the point of it. I’ll never get over what happened, never.
Are you married? No, I wouldn’t have said so. I’ve heard authors are like that. Caught up with what’s in your head instead of what’s outside it.
I’ve never read your stories so I wouldn’t know the kind of thing you cook up. One got made for telly, did it? Neptune’s Bow. Actually, I did watch that. The Beeb put it on before Christmas. It was all right. That was you, was it? OK.
I don’t see why you’re interested in our business. You don’t know the first thing about lighthouses or the people that work in them or anything. Lots of folk get excited about what went on, but they don’t feel the need to go around making an entertainment out of it. You won’t solve it, however much you fancy yourself.
We were childhood sweethearts, Bill and me. Together from when we were sixteen. I’d never been with another man before Bill and I never have since. As far as I’m concerned, we’re still married. Even now, if I can’t make up my mind about something, like how many fish fingers I should buy at Safeway when the grandkids are coming for tea, I ask myself what Bill would say. That helps me to decide.
I never understood other women who rowed with their husbands. They’d take any chance to moan and put them down in front of everyone else. Things like he left his dirty washing on the floor or he didn’t do the dishes properly. All harping on and not stopping to see how lucky they were that they could be with their husbands every night and not have to miss them. As if any of that matters anyway, about the washing and the dishes and things. That’s not what life’s about. If you can’t overlook those things, you’re in the wrong business. You shouldn’t be married at all.
What can I tell you about Bill? First thing is he wouldn’t think much of outsiders sticking their beaks in. But that won’t be much help to you, will it?
Bill was always destined to join the lighthouses. His mother die
d when he was a baby – that was a sad lot, because she died giving birth to him, so he just had his dad and his brothers when he was growing up. His father was a lighthouse keeper and so was his granddad and his great-granddad before. Bill was the youngest of three boys who went into it. There just wasn’t any other option. He did resent it, yes. Deep down I think he could’ve wanted to be something else, but he never got the chance because no one ever asked him. He had no power in that family, none at all.
He was always trying to please other people. He’d say to me, ‘Jen, I just want an easy life,’ and I’d tell him that was what I was here for, to make his life easy. Neither of us came from a happy background and that’s what bonded us in the first place. I understood Bill and he understood me. We didn’t need to explain ourselves to each other. Comforts normal people take for granted, like a nice home and a hot meal on the table. We wanted to do better for our children. Have a go at making it right.
To start with we were lucky, posted to land stations where we could all live together, or on the rocks where the housing was provided. I said to Bill when we met, right off the bat, I said, I don’t like being on my own, I always like to be with someone and if you’re going to be my husband then that’s how it has to be. The service was accommodating, but I knew we’d get the tower at some point. I dreaded it. I’d have to spend a lot of time on my own then, raising the children like one of those poor single mothers. It’s usually the men without families who want the towers – like Vince, the Supernumerary, he didn’t have anyone to take care of, so he didn’t mind what he got. Not us. We minded. I feel so angry that we never wanted that horrible tower, but we got it anyway – and look what happened.