Lighthouse Bay

by Kimberley Freeman

  “I’m sorry,” Libby said with that winning smile that had turned every boy’s heart at Bay High. Every boy except Andy. She spread her hands. “Jet lag. I’m not thinking straight. I should have called.”

  “I have spare rooms, but they’re not ready yet. It’s been a really busy morning and–”

  “I don’t need a room. It’s fine.”

  “Then where are you staying?” Surely if her sister had booked an apartment with one of the holiday letting agencies, somebody would have told her.

  “The lighthouse cottage on the hill. Hey, let’s sit down and talk.”

  Libby’s failure to see that Juliet was busy rankled. “I can’t. It’s nearly lunch and I’ve loads to do. That cottage isn’t for rent. Some English businessman bought it.”

  “He was a friend of mine.”

  “Excuse me, Juliet?”

  Juliet turned. Melody stood at the door.

  “I’ve just taken a call from the Lighthouse Ladies Book Club. They want to come down for high tea at one-thirty. There are eighteen of them.”

  Juliet’s shoulders sagged. She returned her attention to Libby. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop and talk.”

  Libby’s pupils contracted. She was offended. Juliet hardened against her. If she couldn’t see that turning up at rush hour after twenty years was a bad idea, then that wasn’t Juliet’s problem. “How long are you staying? Can we talk some time when I’m not so busy?”

  “Sure,” Libby said, shouldering her handbag.

  Juliet watched her go. Years of bitterness and regret and sorrow and fear churned in her gut. But then she was far too busy to think about it.

  The Breakers Room of the Lighthouse Bay Surf Club was where all the wedding receptions, Melbourne Cup lunches, and community meetings were held. Juliet’s first job in her teens had been waitressing in the Breakers Room: handing out canapés and glasses of the second-cheapest champagne. This afternoon, though, she was sitting on a hard plastic chair among two dozen other community-minded people, listening to a handsome, slippery eel named Tristan Catherwood talk. He represented a company called Ashley-Harris Holdings, who had been circling Lighthouse Bay like wolves for years. Every proposal the company had put forward had been knocked on the head by the shire council: the eight-story tourist resort, the five-story tourist resort and, lately, the three-story tourist resort. It seemed, though, that Catherwood and his mob just didn’t get the message: nobody wanted a tourist resort in Lighthouse Bay.

  But that wasn’t strictly true. Some folk believed that a bona fide tourist resort—the kind with a gym and a fancy pool with thatched-roof pergolas and slot machines in the bar—would put Lighthouse Bay on the map. No more sleepy town with just enough holiday apartments and B&B rooms for the small family-orientated tourist trade. Big trade, big money.

  But Juliet didn’t want big trade in the Bay. Big trade meant chain stores, and she feared she was only one chain coffee shop away from losing her business. The thought made her feet tingle, as though she were falling. Everybody knew Juliet’s made the best coffee in town. Her breakfasts were famous. But in the dark part of her imagination she could see her customers deserting her to sit at veneer-and-chrome tables and sip lattes from logo-stamped cups, while she maintained four empty B&B rooms and baked scones for nobody.

  She shivered. The air conditioning must be up too high.

  Sustainable. That was the word Tristan Catherwood kept using, as though he knew what it meant. As though he had a clue what a delicately balanced ecosystem a small seaside town was, and how easily it could be tilted into wreckage.

  “At Ashley-Harris Holdings, we have listened to your concerns, and we are working very hard to come up with a sustainable vision for Lighthouse Bay’s future, while maximizing the benefits for your community and our investors.” The dramatic emphasis was insulting: as though he were talking to a roomful of deaf pensioners.

  Juliet glanced around. Well, there were a few deaf pensioners, but still . . .

  Ashley-Harris always served tea and biscuits after these community consultations, but Juliet could never bear to stay and chat afterwards. Tea bags and store-bought biscuits were an insult to her. Would it have killed them to buy some locally made produce? She passed through the bar, cautioned herself against stopping to down a swift Scotch, and headed across the park and onto the beach to clear her head before returning to work. Why did she torture herself by going to the community consultations? They always left her with a raw feeling in her gullet that wouldn’t fade for days. Eventually Ashley-Harris Holdings would find a way to build their tourist resort. They would find a piece of land and a way to appease the council and the future would come rushing in to Lighthouse Bay, the way high tide rushes in to the beach at night: swirling and inescapable and pulling her in directions she didn’t want to go.

  Up ahead, she could see a large dark shape on the beach. At first she thought somebody had left their clothes on the sand while they went swimming but, as she approached, she recognized a big sea turtle.

  Juliet held her breath and jogged towards it. In many ways, it would be worse if it was still alive. A turtle that size would weigh too much for her to lift and if it was sick enough to be stranded it probably wouldn’t live anyway. But this turtle was already dead, with sightless black eyes and the corner of a blue plastic shopping bag protruding from its mouth. It had mistaken the bag for a jellyfish, then choked on it. Rubbish, especially plastic rubbish, was now the leading killer of sea turtles in these parts.

  Juliet wished that Tristan Catherwood were standing beside her right now. “Sustainable, Tristan?” she would ask. “How are you going to stop all those tourists from unwittingly killing our native marine life?”

  Juliet sighed, turning her eyes out to sea. The breeze lifted her long brown hair and tugged at her loose cotton dress. She didn’t understand why the whole world was so seduced by the idea of bigger, better, more. What was wrong with things staying the way they were? She cast a glance towards the old lighthouse, thinking of Libby. Lighthouse Bay had always been too small for her, and Juliet had been so glad when she’d left. She’d never expected her sister to come back. She still didn’t fit, with her glossy dark hair and her unlined white skin, looking as though she’d never worried about anything. Twenty years in Paris, doing . . . Well, Juliet didn’t really know what Libby had been doing in Paris. But if she thought she could come back and take half the business she was mistaken. Juliet had done all the work. Perhaps she could remortgage and pay Libby out. Juliet felt her mind whirl with the particular brand of crazy that thinking about money induced. She stopped herself, told herself to focus on the moment at hand.

  Late-afternoon shadows were making their way across the sand. Juliet trudged back up towards home to call Coastcare. They would want to come and take the turtle, cut it up and examine it to see what had killed it. But what had killed it was obvious: progress for the sake of progress, without care or conscience. The stock in Tristan Catherwood’s trade.

  By ten o’clock each night, everything was usually perfectly quiet. All the jobs had been done, the kitchen and tea room were clean, the guests were asleep, the paperwork was filled in and filed. That’s when Juliet finally relaxed with a pot of tea for an hour before bed. Tonight, she had an overnight guest in her apartment: her friend and co-worker Cheryl’s seven-year-old daughter. Cheryl worked one night shift a week at the surf club to help pay for private school fees. As a single mother, she had few late-night childcare options, so Juliet helped out. Katie had been fast asleep by eight on the roll-out bed in Juliet’s bedroom.

  Juliet closed the spreadsheet on her computer and opened the Internet browser, and started poking around the same old sites. It was a warm evening, and she leaned over to slide open a window. She could hear the sea but, maddeningly, couldn’t see it. Ten years ago she had moved out of the apartment that faced the water and turned it into two B&B rooms. She’d moved here into the back apartment, hoping at the time it would be temporary: that mar
riage and children would mean a move to somewhere bigger. But here she still was. Juliet didn’t mind the size of the apartment so much. She had an industrial kitchen downstairs if she wanted to spread out and cook something ambitious, and it was easier to keep a small place clean considering her busy hours. What she minded was that there had been no marriage, there had been no children. Now, at thirty-eight, she felt herself being dragged through an ever-narrowing window. If she wanted to be married and have babies before the window closed, she had to meet Mr. Right four years ago.

  The door to her bedroom opened and Katie stood there in her pajamas, blinking against the light.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?” Juliet said.

  “I had a bad dream.” The little girl padded over and climbed onto Juliet’s lap, snuggling against her. “Where’s Mummy?”

  “She’s still working. She’ll be here to get you in the morning.” Juliet stroked Katie’s fair hair. “Are you going to help me with the breakfasts in the morning?”

  Katie shrugged. She was dazed with sleep.

  “Don’t worry about bad dreams. They go away when you open your eyes.”

  Katie remained silent, pressed up against Juliet’s body. Juliet could feel the little girl’s heartbeat. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick.

  Finally Katie said, “Who are all those pictures of?”

  Juliet glanced at the screen. “Men.”

  “Are they all your friends?”

  “No. I don’t know any of them.” Juliet fought with embarrassment. She hoped Katie wouldn’t mention Datemate to her mother, who still had hopes that Juliet would finally give in to the pleadings of Scott Lacey. “It’s just a website you can go to if you want to meet new friends.”

  Already Katie had lost interest. She was yawning widely.

  “Here,” Juliet said. “Let’s put you back to bed.”

  She lifted Katie and took her back to the roll-out bed, tucked her in and sang her another lullaby, then she closed the door quietly and returned to the living room. The array of male faces was still there. She had never contacted any of these men. Not once. But she spent a lot of time scrolling through them, reading about their interests, their political and religious beliefs. Some of them sounded lovely and genuine, some of them were raging egomaniacs. Some were handsome, some plain but sweet. But none of them, not one, had yet persuaded her to sign up, make contact, meet for coffee and a chat. She glanced at the framed picture of Andy she still kept on the bookshelf: forever preserved at nineteen.

  “Juliet?”

  Juliet turned. Katie was at the door again.

  “Will you lie down with me? I’m frightened.”

  Juliet shut down the computer and stood. “Come on, then.” Lying in the dark singing to a seven-year-old wasn’t her idea of the ideal Friday night, but things were as they were. Cheryl was seven years older than Juliet, had been Juliet’s age when she’d decided that single motherhood would be better than no motherhood at all. “The problem is,” she’d said at the time, “men in their forties want women in their twenties.”

  Juliet didn’t know how many of Cheryl’s common wisdoms about men and what they wanted were true, so Juliet tried to remain positive. When it’s meant to happen, she always said.

  But sometimes, in the darker hours of the night, she suspected it was never meant to happen, at least not for her. She’d had her one chance. She’d had her true, mad, deep love. Perhaps it was greedy to expect it to happen again.

  Katie wrapped a strand of Juliet’s long brown hair around her index finger. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “Don’t leave,” she said.

  “I won’t,” Juliet said softly. “Close your eyes.”

  She watched as the child fell asleep, then stayed a little longer as the storm rolled in, happy to have some company in the dark.

  The jet lag took days to lift. Libby was still having trouble sleeping. Her mind was a whirl of questions: some practical, like when her belongings would arrive from Paris; some less straightforward, like how she could get used to this new life and make it up to her sister. She closed her eyes. She tried her left side, then her right, then gave in and got up. She could hear the distant grumble of an approaching storm. She switched on her torch and went to the back room—the art room, as she already thought of it—and slid open the window. Cool sea air and the rushing sound of waves flowed in. Lightning reflected in the clouds in the distance. She stood her torch up in an empty cup so that it shone on the ceiling, giving her enough light to start unpacking the supplies. Maybe this way she could tire herself enough to sleep. Mark had thought of everything, of course. Not just the view and all the light she would get from those windows. The easels, the canvases on cedar stretchers, a rolling chest of drawers full of paints, brushes, palettes, palette knives, bottles of linseed oil and gum and turpentine and varnish, a roll of rags tied with a blue ribbon, even jars of shellac, beeswax and pumice sand. The smells—oils, solvents, wood, earth—filled her head. A shelf was lined up with inks, nibs and watercolor paper, books of art by Cézanne, Monet and Turner: all her favorites. So Mark had been listening. As the wind grew gustier and the thunder closer, she removed things from wrappers, lined them up tidily in drawers, going through the process robotically; both because she was tired and because she was barely able to enjoy the fantasy scenario without Mark by her side. He had purchased these things and put them here assuming one day they would open them together, that he would be able to see her face and hear her squeals of delight, have a glass of champagne with her and toast her new art room at her beach cottage. But in her stubbornness and her fear she had refused to come here with him. Now he was gone. Now it was too late to tell him how grateful she was for his generosity, and especially for taking seriously her dream of painting.

  When the rain started in earnest, she remembered all the windows were open, so she grabbed her torch and hurried to the lounge room and kitchen. The wind was gusting madly by now, tying the curtains in knots, laden with the sweet, damp smell of rain. Libby slid the windows closed and was left with sticky humidity. She was tempted to reopen the windows but knew it would mean rainwater to clean up in the morning. She went to the other side of the house and opened the front door. From here she could see the stormy sky without getting wet, so she watched for a while as the lightning flashed and the trees were torn this way and that in the wind. Then she glanced up towards the lighthouse.

  There was a dim flickering light in one of the windows. Libby squinted, sure she was seeing things. Surely the lighthouse was empty. But there was unmistakably a light, like candlelight. Who was in the lighthouse, with a candle, at this time of night? The nerves in her belly tingled a little with fear, as she remembered how spooky the lighthouse had seemed to her all those years ago. Pirate Pete had cast a long shadow.

  No, tiredness and the storm had made her jumpy. She went back to bed, pushed off the sheets and slept naked and uncovered in the sticky warmth. She didn’t sleep well, dreaming of flickering lights in windows, and a cold ocean roaring like a great beast.

  Four

  1901

  Isabella can do nothing but trust the sea. There is no ground beneath her feet, so she curls her toes lightly on the planks of the anchor deck as she watches the great waves roll beneath her. The sun is bright and wind flaps the sails and rattles the cleats. She pleads quietly with the ocean: “Keep us safe, for we are not fish; we are men and women, and we are far from land.” Every morning she comes out here and says her little prayer, in fair weather and in foul. So far, they have been safe. And while she knows rationally that her prayer can’t be the reason they are safe, somehow she still suspects it in a superstitious corner of her heart.

  “Making a spectacle of yourself again, Isabella?”

  Isabella turns. Her husband, Arthur, stands down a few steps, in front of the deck house. His arms are folded and, under his thin pale hair, he wears a frown. Or perhaps that is his permanent expression, at least for her.

  “Don’t fret,” she says, a li
ttle too boldly for his liking, no doubt, “nobody can hear me.”

  “They all know you’re standing up there, lips moving, talking to the sky.”

  “Talking to the sea, actually,” she says, moving to the stairs.

  “Shoes, Isabella. Where are your shoes?”

  Shoes. Today it is shoes. Yesterday it was unbound hair. The day before, gloves. Gloves! Why insist that she dress as though she were going to high tea when she simply wanted to get above deck for fresh air and sunshine? Nobody on this wretched ship cares what she wears, surely. “My shoes are in our cabin, Arthur,” she replies.

  “Fetch them. Wear them. I can endure you going without hat and gloves, but shoes are a necessity.” His eyes drop, as they often do, to the black ribbon around her wrist. His complexion, usually florid, deepens to red.

  She pulls her sleeve over it. She doesn’t want to have that argument today. Why do you insist on wearing that old piece of tat? Winterbourne Jewelers are world renowned and you wear a ribbon? You won’t even wear your wedding ring. She doesn’t want to tell him again that her wedding ring doesn’t fit, because she suspects he made it that small on purpose, hoping it would become trapped on her hand.

  He shakes his head slightly. “Have a care for your appearance, Isabella. Remember the Winterbourne name.”

  “Very well, Arthur.” She cares nothing for the Winterbourne name and only a little more than nothing for her husband. Once she was the same as other women; once she had a soft heart. But time and sorrow have worn down her goodwill, thinned it until it is barely there. She goes below deck only half-intending to find her shoes, hesitates outside the saloon. From here she can see down into the dark end of the ship, a place so full of trapped gloom and the smell of unwashed men that she can barely breathe. Seventeen man the ship, and even now after eight weeks at sea she cannot name a single one beyond the Captain and First Mate. She is both frightened and compelled by their rough maleness. Meggy, who is sitting in the saloon knitting, calls out to her.