The Lightkeeper's Wife

18



Jess is sitting by the side gate when I get home from work. She doesn’t smile and she doesn’t stand up. Her eyes are forlorn and my rising guilt is dense. I open the gate and she skulks out and cringes round my legs. She thinks she’s done something wrong.

I sit on the path and she crawls onto my lap, curling up in a tight ball. When I pull on her ears, the sigh that shudders through her is almost human. She feels betrayed; this is the first time I’ve left her overnight without coming home. I’d like to tell her how happy I was with Emma, but now with my sad dog on my lap, all I can do is cry big wet tears that well out and drip onto her head. Where is this coming from? I haven’t cried in years. One night with Emma and I’m breaking apart. How can I have a relationship with another person when I can’t get it right with my dog?

Jess and I sit on the footpath for a long time in the mellow afternoon light. Soon we are sitting in shadows and even with my hot-water-bottle dog still coiled on my lap the cold is eating into me through the concrete path.

‘Come on, Jess,’ I say finally. ‘We have to go inside.’

She leaps up and, follows me closely into the house like she’s glued to my legs. I put on some music and shake food into her dish. Then I set down a bowl of milk as well. She looks up at me and beats her tail against the floor. I think she knows I’m saying sorry. For a dog, milk is like a bag of lollies.

I shower and change and then stuff some clean clothes into a bag. I suppose this means I’m expecting to stay the night at Emma’s again. This may be a presumption, but if I buy two bottles of wine it’ll be a necessity. I roll up Jess’s rug and place it by the door. Still at her bowl, she lifts her head and wags her tail. She knows she won’t be left behind this time.

As the light fades over the water, I sip tea in the kitchen and struggle to compose myself. Something is skipping and tumbling in my chest and my palms are sweaty with excitement. It’s as if life is reawakening in me. The hope of a future very different from the past nine years.

A knock at the door checks me. It’s Laura, with a hesitant smile on her face.

‘Sorry to come banging on your door again . . . It’s just that I need some matches for the stove, and I wondered if you had some. I’m a bit reluctant to drag Mouse down to the shops. He gets carsick.’

I wonder what sort of person gets carsick on a five-minute drive—or why she can’t leave her brother at home—but I go to the pantry to see if I have a spare box. The phone rings and I take the call still ferreting around on the top shelf. It’s Jan. Typical of her to ring at a difficult moment.

‘What’s happening with Mum?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know. Isn’t Jacinta down there now? With Alex?’

‘Yes. But I thought you might have heard from them.’

‘There’s no phone coverage at Cloudy Bay.’

‘That’s another reason why I’m so cross,’ Jan says. ‘Mum has no way of calling if she needs help.’

‘Do you want to come down with me next week?’

‘Can’t. I’ve got too much on. My whole week’s booked out.’

Sure, her whole week is booked out. What does she expect me to do for her?

‘Call me after you’ve spoken to Jacinta,’ she says. ‘Hopefully Alex will be able to talk some sense into her. And into Mum. I had a quiet word with him before they left and I think he understands my concerns. Not like the rest of you.’

She hangs up. Laura is still hovering by the door. At last, I find a matchbox at the back of the shelf and hand it to her, dropping it into her open palm. Transaction completed.

‘Thank you,’ she says. But she stays on the doorstep as if she expects an invitation inside. ‘We’re settling in all right,’ she says.

‘Good.’ Monosyllabic answers work to discourage most people. I’m expecting her to get the message soon. She gives a slight awkward smile and I can’t help comparing her with Emma. Laura: frail, timid and colourless, so thin she might snap. Emma: bold, robust and confident. I can’t wait to finish this meeting so I can scoop up Jess and my things and take myself back to the warmth of Emma’s presence.

‘It’s a bit of a run into town,’ Laura continues. ‘Mouse doesn’t cope with corners very well.’

‘Maybe he’ll get used to it after a while,’ I suggest.

She glances down at Jess, sitting by my feet. ‘Do dogs get carsick?’

‘Some. Not Jess.’

‘I used to get carsick all the time when I was small. But I’m over it now.’

I shift restlessly and twiddle the doorknob. Surely she’ll go soon.

‘Where do you work?’ she asks.

‘In town.’

‘Office work?’

‘No, I’m a mechanic.’

‘That could come in handy.’

‘I work long hours.’ I hope she doesn’t ask me to fix her car.

‘Saturdays too?’

‘Yes, I’ve just got back.’

‘You must be tired. Would you like some dinner?’

‘Thanks, that’s kind. But I’m going out. In fact, I’m supposed to be already on my way.’

‘Oh, sorry. I’d better let you go then.’

‘Maybe another time.’

She moves away at last, the matches in her hand. ‘Thanks for these. I’ll replace them next week.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty.’

She shakes the box and steps down off the porch.

When she’s gone I retreat into the house to collect my bag. And then Jess and I are on our way to Emma’s, via the bottle shop.


The light outside the bungalow glows warmly and Jess and I stand there like shadows till I muster the courage to knock. Emma opens the door and looks down at Jess, steps back and swings the door wide.

Jess and I slink inside. Jess looks up at me with a worried expression and then at Emma. It’s as if she’s trying to work us out.

‘You can put Jess’s rug on the floor there,’ Emma says, pointing to a corner where she has already placed a bowl of water.

I hand over the bottles of wine and roll out Jess’s blanket. ‘Here, Jess.’ I point to the rug.

Jess sits obediently on the rug and smiles at me. She has an obliging lap of the water then glances at Emma, looking surprisingly relaxed. Emma has been clever giving Jess her own space. She hasn’t forced herself on the dog. Perhaps she has a better understanding of animals than most biologists do.

‘She’s a good dog, isn’t she?’ Emma says. ‘Most dogs aren’t so well behaved.’ She pours two glasses of red wine, hands one to me and leans over the bench to check a pot on the stove. ‘Could you put on some music?’

I flick through the pile of CDs on the floor and pull out an Alex Lloyd album. While I’m figuring out the buttons on the CD unit, I hear the click of Jess’s toenails crossing the floor. She taps into the kitchen and sits down near Emma, panting up at her.

‘Would you like a bone?’ Emma asks.

Jess follows Emma to the fridge and bats her tail wildly on the floor while Emma fishes out a plastic bag. Emma puts some newspaper down, give Jess the bone and ruffles her head.

‘Make sure you keep it on the paper,’ she says. ‘I don’t want blood all over the floor.’

Jess looks positively joyous. She crouches down and gets to work on the bone. She seems to understand Emma’s instructions about keeping it on the paper.

‘I think she likes you,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting her to accept you so quickly.’

‘She’s a nice dog. You’ve done a good job with her. I’d love to have a dog, but I’m away too much.’ She gazes down at Jess and then at me. ‘What would you do with her if you went south?’

‘I don’t know. Find someone to look after her, I suppose.’

‘You’d miss her.’

‘Yes. It’s a pity they don’t have sled dogs at Mawson anymore.’

Emma laughs. ‘She wouldn’t pass for a husky anyway.’

She comes across the room and sits on the couch with me. She’s still wearing the same clothes as this morning, but it’s warm in here, so she’s unbuttoned the shirt a hole or two. I can see her collarbone, the satin sheen of her skin, the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes; it’s very sexy.

‘How was work?’ she asks.

‘Busy.’

‘You don’t get sick of it?’

‘No, I like it.’

‘Not too repetitive?’

‘Every job’s repetitive.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is to some degree. Even mine . . . tagging penguins, water offloading, data entry.’

‘I like engines—the way they work. It’s clever.’

‘It must feel good to fix things.’

‘I enjoy finding solutions.’

Emma flicks at my knee with her fingers. ‘What about in your personal life?’

I pause. ‘That’s a bit harder.’

She stands up to serve dinner and I move to help her. ‘Just stay on the couch,’ she says. ‘It’s a tiny kitchen. You’re best out of the way.’

Jess is still on the kitchen floor working on her bone. She looks up as Emma steps over her, then glances over to me and wags her tail: four short beats against the floor. She wants my approval to like Emma, so I nod and Jess returns to her bone, pleased.

Emma serves beef stew with lentils and rice. We eat on the couch with our bowls resting on our knees. The food is good with the red wine and by the end of the first glass I can feel myself relaxing.

‘Do you have family in Hobart?’ Emma asks, sipping wine.

‘Mother, sister, brother, niece.’

‘Father?’

‘He died a a few years ago.’

‘Were you close?’

‘Not particularly.’

I think of Dad at the lighthouse, his thin shoulders and long serious face. I can hardly remember a conversation with him; certainly no conversations on topics of importance. What I recall is his hurried, jerky gait as he headed up the hill to the lighthouse, his quiet presence at the kitchen table, my yearning for his approval. He wore so little of himself on his exterior; I used to think he must be full of secrets and that there had to be some trigger to release them which I couldn’t find. When I was a teenager my relationship with him frustrated me. Later, I gave up and turned inwards to my own world. It was from him that I learned silence.

Emma is watching me.

‘How about your family?’ I ask.

‘They all live on the north coast of New South Wales. I’m the only one with polar tendencies.’ She takes another mouthful of stew and chews thoughtfully. ‘I don’t have a father either. He left when I was ten. Took up with the next-door neighbour, who was divorced. How convenient to have an affair with the woman next door! They bought a house in another suburb and Dad erased us from his life. His new wife didn’t want to compete with us so she made him cut us out. Pathetic, isn’t it? He didn’t even come to my sister’s wedding.’

Emma sloshes more wine into our glasses and raises hers high. ‘To families,’ she says with a twisted smile. ‘To non-existent relationships with fathers.’

I clink my glass against hers and drink, watching her.

‘What else can we drink to?’ she asks.

‘To going south?’

‘You’re obsessed with that, aren’t you?’

‘Only since I met you.’

She snorts. ‘I don’t believe you.’

I duck my head to avoid the knowing look in her eyes. ‘Over the past few years I’ve only thought about it remotely,’ I say. ‘It hasn’t been a possibility.’

‘And now it is?’

‘I don’t know.’

She looks at me incredulously. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘No. I’m here because I like you.’

She drinks her wine quickly. ‘You like me. What does that mean?’

I wonder what she wants me to say. That I love her? That I lust after her madly? Sure, I’m swept up in all of this. But I don’t really want to say I love you. What would it mean after only a couple of days?

‘I don’t mix relationships with going south.’ She’s issuing a warning.

I shrug. What am I supposed to say?

She presses harder. ‘You said you wanted to go south.’

‘Yes, I think I’d like to.’

‘You think you’d like to?’ She’s making this very difficult.

‘It’s not always easy to just get up and go.’

‘Why not?’

‘People have commitments.’

‘You mean things that tie them down.’

‘Things that make it hard to go.’ Like Mum. Like fear.

‘Like what? Mortgages? I thought you said you wanted to go south.’

‘I do, but it doesn’t have to be this season.’

‘And not necessarily with me.’

I grip my wineglass tight and try to halt the panic rising in my chest. Am I already ruining things between us? ‘I’d like to go south with you,’ I say. ‘But not if it doesn’t suit you.’

I reach out tentatively and take her hands in mine, but she tries to pull away. I wasn’t expecting this. She seemed so secure in herself up till now. I hold onto her hands. I like her and she likes me. This much I can tell, even if she’s confused right now.

What does she expect? She’s only been back a few weeks. She must have held herself so strongly down there, and now she’s breaking open, like me.

All I can manage is a husky whisper. ‘Emma, I really like you. Okay?’

She relaxes her hands, and I kiss her gently trying to communicate my understanding and empathy. I’m sure I fall short, but it’s the best I can do.

She stands up, turns off the lights and sits down with me again. I touch her face in the dark, following her features with my fingertips, running my thumb along the soft line of her lips. Her compliance makes me bold; that, and her earlier momentary lapse in confidence. Her body moving eagerly now beneath my hands makes me feel masculine. She’s so warm, so soft. Somehow she fits perfectly into me, straining against my thigh between her legs.

‘Come to bed,’ she murmurs in my ear. ‘I think we’ll feel more comfortable naked.’

Sometime in the night, Jess clicks into the room and pushes her head under my hand which is lying loosely on top of the covers. I stroke her head and rub my fingers slowly over the dense velvet of her ears.

If only women were as simple as dogs.


In the morning, Emma rolls over and rests her head on my shoulder. She smiles languidly, which is all it takes to set my heart tripping. I run my hand along her arm, observing the glow of her skin in the beige light cast through the curtains. She feels deliciously smooth.

‘How old are you?’ she asks.

‘Old.’

‘How old?’

‘Forty-two.’

‘That’s okay. Nine years’ difference. Age doesn’t really matter.’

She closes her eyes a moment and I ache with the burden of caring. I think I more than like her and that makes me feel afraid. I’m used to owning my own heart.

‘Have you been with many women?’ she asks.

‘Only three, including you.’

She grins, her eyes still closed. ‘I thought so. You feel fresh.’

I wonder what she means. Inexperienced? Awkward?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘What for? I like being with you. The others feel like they’re working from a recipe.’

Others?

‘Have you been married before?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’ I wait for her to stiffen, try to sense a change, but I detect nothing. ‘It was a while ago.’ My voice is tight in my throat.

She rubs the sparse hair on my chest. ‘Antarctica?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘She met another man.’

‘You couldn’t come back?’

‘It was after the last ship.’

‘Of course. It always is.’ She strokes my cheek. ‘No wonder you had a tough winter.’

‘Winter’s tough for everyone.’

Her face is soft with compassion. ‘Stop trying to be so strong. It’s okay to be sad.’ She kisses my forehead, my nose, my chin. ‘That’s why I don’t do it,’ she says. ‘That’s why I don’t mix love with south. It ruins you.’

What’s this, then? I want to ask. What are we doing? But she snuggles into me, and I like the warmth and the softness of her too much to ask any questions.