The Lightkeeper's Wife (6 page)

Jan stands up. ‘Then that’s her choice. I’m too angry to drop in for a casual visit. And what would I say anyway?
How’s
it going, Mum?
What rubbish! If you’ve all made your decision, I’m going home.’

Jess slinks out from under the table and paces nervously around the room.

‘Can’t you make that dog sit down?’ Jan demands. Then her face crumples. ‘Oh God, this is so awful,’ she says, tears welling.

And she’s done it again; the gathering has become a focus for Jan’s despair. Jacinta hugs her and pats her shoulder while Alex rolls his eyes at me and pours Jan another cup of tea. My continued presence at the table is taken as solidarity. Gary mutters something into his chins and shuffles out to the toilet. When he returns, Jan sits down and wraps her hands around her cup of tea.

‘I still think we should be bringing her home,’ she says.

‘She’ll be all right,’ Gary says.

‘That’s rubbish, Gary. She isn’t capable. We all know she won’t remember her medication. She doesn’t even know what day of the week it is half the time.’

‘It’s her right to decide,’ I say, and the same silence returns that follows everything I say. Jess wriggles against my legs as I pause. ‘It’s her right to decide how she wants to die.’

Jan is outraged. She thumps the table in frustration. ‘This is ridiculous. You’re all trying to put her in the grave. Am I the only one who cares about her?’

I dig deep for boldness. ‘This isn’t about you, Jan. This is about Mum.’ There, I’ve said it, and Jan is turning purple. ‘We’re leaving her there,’ I continue, legs shaking. ‘You can visit if you want. But nobody’s bringing her home. It’s Mum’s choice.’ I stand up and Jess leaps up too. ‘The meeting’s over.’

And, amazingly, it is. Teary, Jan sips her cup of tea. Gary starts talking about his work and the possibility of visiting Mum next week. And Alex clears away the empty cups and squirts dishwashing detergent into the sink.

Over their heads, Jacinta smiles at me wearily. Her quiet nod is affirmation. We’ve won the first battle. For Mum.

4

When Jacinta left that afternoon, the cabin swelled with a beautiful quiet and Mary’s soul hummed. Slowly she succumbed to the soft ripple of remembered happiness. There was work to be done, yes—places she must visit, plans she must make—but for now she could eddy with the flow of time and sit in memory, striving for nothing.

Gazing through the rain-streaked windows, she heard the whisper of the sea. Persistent, threaded through everything, it was the rhythm of life here. She remembered how she and Jack had delighted in it when they first moved back to the island from the grey dreariness of Hobart. Those first nights, as they lay together in the lightkeeper’s cottage, taking stock of their new lives, the sound had murmured through their dreams. It was there each time they woke, reminding them of this chance to start over.

Jan and Gary were still small, and Mary and Jack enjoyed watching them expand into the freedom. Grim, confined poverty in Hobart versus the isolated, wind-scraped cape: Mary knew they had chosen well. The melancholy that had settled on her and Jack in Hobart shifted like mist. In Jack’s few free hours, the family traipsed the cape together, making discoveries. At the same time Mary and Jack were finding each other again, uncovering the precious small gems that had first drawn them to one another. They had been good times, those early months on the cape. Jack had revelled in the return to physical work. The children had grown brown and strong and wild. And Mary had sung in the wind and thrived. Now, in this place at Cloudy Bay, she would find strands of peace like those that had cradled her life so snugly back then.

In the bedroom, she unpacked her case, laying neat piles of clothing on the spare bed. The photo album she placed on the coffee table in the living area. Down here, she would have space to meander through the past, exploring the peaks and valleys of her life with Jack. All this was regular and systematic—she knew the dimensions of these things. But whenever she thought of the letter, tucked in the side pocket of the case, something in her jolted. Frowning, she pulled it out and set it on the couch. She must not be afraid of it. She was in command.

As she lit the stove and set the kettle on to boil again, she contemplated this strategy of the letter. It was clever, she decided, grudgingly conceding the letter bearer’s ingenuity. Naively, she had considered him safely submerged in history. But now he had resurfaced with a triumphal stroke.

Her immediate thought had been to destroy the letter. That would be the simplest and most sensible option. There was little to gain from distressing people. But the letter bearer could re-emerge. He could materialise again with another letter. And what then?

She didn’t understand his thinking. Why had he given the letter to
her
? Why hadn’t he delivered it to the addressee? Was it because he wanted to inflict pain on Mary? To make his intentions known to her? Or was it because he wanted the decision to rest with her? And yet, at that terrible meeting, which she did not want to recall, he had expressed an expectation that she would deliver it. He was cruel, forcing her to have a hand in her own demise. That was intolerable. And she could not yield to it.

Did he really think she had a conscience? Or did he consider that he still had a hold on her? How ridiculous, and how arrogant! The time to give him shape had passed. She’d smudged him out long ago. And she would not bend to him. She must burn the letter and be done with it.

Reassured by this decision, she poured tea and fetched a can of tomatoes to have with toast for dinner. It was an inadequate meal. But she wasn’t hungry, and at least she was eating. Tomorrow, she would organise something more substantial. By then, she’d have settled in a little more. And if she had the energy for a short walk, she might even rouse an appetite.

Her first night at Cloudy Bay was a restless tussle with the strangeness of a new bed. She shifted and tossed, rediscovering her hip joints and knees. Solid sleep was rare these days, but this was worse than usual. Sometime during the night a soft cough started, rattling her upright. It was heart-related: she knew the signs.

The letter was drifting in the back of her consciousness too, denying her the luxury of rest. Exasperated, she lurched out of bed and scuffed barefoot into the kitchen with the envelope clutched in her hand. Holding it over the sink, she lit a match. When the letter was ash, she would find release.

But the lighted match hovered away from the corner of the envelope and she could not bring it closer. Was this the right choice? What would happen if this letter were delivered after she died? Would it really matter? But then again, could she die peacefully while it still existed?

Too weary to answer her own questions, and too uncertain to act without careful reflection, she blew out the match and took the letter back to bed. Tonight was too soon. She had days to resolve the matter. Blurry with exhaustion, she propped herself up with pillows so she could breathe more easily. At home, everything was as she needed. Here, she’d have to improvise to find comfort.

While she wafted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, the wind whined around the house and racketed at the windows. It was noisier than she’d expected. She’d forgotten the way it moaned in the eaves. How unrelenting it could be. How it could seed doubt in the most determined mind.

Nights like this on the cape, she used to creep closer to Jack, the large solid slab of him, soaking up his warmth. Now she was alone. Jack gone nine years ago. She missed his secure presence, the acceptance and lack of expectation. It had taken a lifetime to achieve, a rough ride on a hard road. But surely that was love; not the flare of a bright light that glimmered briefly and then disappeared.

She lay there seeking steadiness. Thinking of Jack. Thinking of the wind roaring up from the south-west. In time, she would become accustomed to it again. The wind would once more become part of her psyche. Instead of shrinking away you had to embrace it. This place was not for the weak and suggestible.

In the morning, after a slow breakfast of porridge with partly frozen milk, she adjusted the thermostat in the gas fridge then sat wearily on the couch beneath the rug and stared out across the bay. It was another world out there. The wind had whipped the waves to white-capped fury and the scrub rustled and sighed, branches waving in the blast. Clouds and sea spray swept over the distant cliffs and the light was grey. Occasional rain spattered against the window.

A thread of icy air from beneath the front door wound itself around her legs, and she was cold despite the closely tucked rug. She got up and lit the gas heater. At the lighthouse, she never sat still long enough to get chilled. There were always jobs to do. But here, the morning was long. She was waiting for the ranger to come. And he must come soon.

She was eager to meet this ranger. He was important to her plan, and she needed to befriend him quickly. Removed from her family, she had to rely on someone else to drive her around the island, taking her to places of importance to her and Jack. This ranger was it, whether he liked it or not. She disliked this deliberate intent to use another person, but it was necessary. And perhaps it mattered less if she manipulated a stranger. What else could she do?

Leaning back and closing her eyes, she listened to the dull thud of waves smacking onto the beach. Sometimes, it was clear and strong. Then it faded as her mind focused elsewhere—on a memory or the song of a bird down in the scrub. It was Tom who had taught her to notice birds. Even as a lad, he’d wanted to know all about nature: the birds’ names, what they ate, where they nested, what their eggs looked like. When he was small, he chased robins around the cottages where they hopped and fluttered, common as chooks. He mimicked the bird calls—even the complex lyrical song of the tawny-crowned honeyeater that fluted across the cape in autumn. As he grew older, he would sit on the grass reading books amid the whirr of brown quails as they fled across the hillside. After lessons each day, he used to climb the hill past the light tower and follow the track down the other side where he had a special nook. There, he liked to sit watching sea eagles circling over Courts Island, or Tasmanian wedge-tails roosting on low branches in the scrub. When the mutton birds were nesting, he’d be gone for hours, coming back with stories of eagles plucking fat chicks from burrows and tearing them apart with their beaks.

Mary had realised long ago that a boy who grew up with eagles could never be ordinary. At age ten, he announced his theory on life. She had been in the kitchen, kneading dough, when he came in and flung himself into a chair. She saw his face, luminous. And his wind-tousled hair. His cheeks bitten pink by the cold. A person could be like an albatross or a sea eagle, he said, as she went back to pounding dough. If you were an albatross, you flew low over the waves where there was less wind and the flying was easier. You didn’t risk landing too often, because there was a chance you might not get airborne again, and it took energy to get going after you’d stopped. If you were a sea eagle, however, you soared high and fancy on the winds where you could see everything, and pounce down on things that interested you. You perched on rocks and branches, because you were strong and could easily launch into the air again. But a sea eagle was visible and confident, and other birds didn’t like you—they attacked, sweeping out of the sky and dive-bombing to scare you away. This, he said, was the cost of being magnificent.

He looked at her then, as she paused over the dough, hands dusted in flour. ‘I’m an albatross, Mum,’ he said. ‘I like to be in the wind, but I want to be safe.’

She had taken him in her arms, aching with love for him, and snuggled him close, wrapping him up as safely as she could. Even then she had known that no-one could ever be safe. Within the cocoon of childhood she could protect him—that much was possible. But she couldn’t keep him from the world. Instead of disillusioning him she had kissed the top of his head, burying her face in the wiry mop of his hair. How did you tell a ten-year-old boy that life and its dangers would find him? You could map out life as you hoped it might unfold, but there were always unexpected deviations. Nobody could plan for those.

Now she thought of her own younger self, before she met Jack and became a mother. Passionate. Impetuous. Quick to anger. Would she have listened if anyone had warned her about life? Likely not. She was too full of hopes and dreams, quite indifferent to her parents’ acquired wisdom. When they sent her to Bruny Island to protect her from herself, had she believed she needed saving? Of course not. But in hindsight, perhaps there had been some wisdom in it.

Poor Uncle Max and Aunt Faye. There they were, quietly farming their patch of South Bruny close to Lunawanna, and she had arrived, furious and emotional, on their doorstep. Despite her moody reluctance, they had been kind and welcoming.

At first the island had seemed gloomy to her, with its small rough houses and few people. Ripped from life in Hobart and deposited in a strange, quiet backwater, she was determined to dislike it. Nothing was going to make her fit in. Her heart was elsewhere. Exile was meant to extract her from danger, but she clung to the mast of her dream. She would hold her attachment close and strong. Her parents would not break her.

But Uncle Max deflected her with gentle purpose, directing her sulkiness into lifting hay bales and milking cows, raking silage, picking apples. He kept her busy: digging and weeding the vegie plot, pruning fruit trees. She also helped her aunt with the multitude of domestic tasks: washing, making jam, mending clothes. Labour had gradually knocked the petulance out of her. Physical work bred satisfaction. It soothed her bruised soul and calmed her indignation.