The Lightkeeper's Wife

24



Richmond is a tourist town famous for a stone bridge built by convicts. It has quaint historic sandstone buildings and a main street lined with antique shops, cafés, galleries and a pub smothered with cast-iron lace. Gary and his wife, Judy, have a bed and breakfast on the edge of town. It’s a life that suits Judy: greeting guests with her superficially friendly smile, and preparing breakfast trays. Fancy bed coverings. Payments and insincere goodbyes. Gary just goes along for the ride.

He looks surprised when he opens the front door and sees me with Jess at my heels. ‘What are you doing here? Mum isn’t dead, is she?’

‘No. Just thought I’d drop in.’

‘Nobody drops in to Richmond.’

I shrug.

He looks back over his shoulder into the house. ‘We can’t go inside. Judy’s vacuuming.’

‘Let’s sit over there.’ I point to Gary’s ridiculous rotunda.

‘Okay.’

We wander over the lawn past the rose garden, still blooming even in May. The seats in the rotunda are wet with dew.

‘I’ll get a towel,’ Gary says, and ambles back to the house.

Jess is trotting around the lawn sniffing at things. She hunches to relieve herself and I go to the car to get a plastic bag. There’ll be no making friends with Judy if Jess leaves a deposit on the lawn.

Gary returns and wipes the seats with an old towel. ‘I should have asked if you wanted a cuppa,’ he says.

Gary and I have never really been comfortable in each other’s company. Gary went to boarding school just after I was born and only came home for holidays. He and Jan were like strangers invading the house: Gary spent most of his time helping Dad or reading, while Jan clashed with Mum in the kitchen. Usually I took to the hills, keeping my distance till they left again and I could slot safely back into my usual routine. I remember the sad look on Mum’s face whenever I grabbed my coat and slipped out the door. But I had no qualms leaving the warm kitchen for the cold winds of the cape. The kitchen was too crowded for me.

‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea,’ I say.

‘How do you have it?’

‘Just black.’

‘God!’ Gary snorts. ‘Fancy having to ask my own brother how he has his tea.’ He glances at me almost guiltily. ‘Means we don’t have enough cuppas together, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t like to get in the way.’

He laughs. ‘You’re always in the way trying to get out of the way. Anyway, I wouldn’t mind you coming over more often.’ He looks towards the house. ‘It’s Judy that’s the problem. She’s difficult. All women are difficult. I reckon you’ve got the right idea not having one.’

I say nothing and Gary grunts. ‘I’ll just get that cuppa,’ he says.

I watch him walking across the lawn. When he was younger he used to walk like Dad, loping with long, forward-leaning strides. Now he’s put on so much weight he takes short steps with his body tipped back to balance his weight.

It’s cold in the shade of the rotunda. In summer, Gary spends hours on the ride-on mower to keep the lawn looking like a bowling green. Judy would have it green now, if the weather wasn’t against her. Having a showpiece home is Judy’s number one goal in life. She and Gary decided long ago not to have kids.

Gary comes back carrying a tray with two cups of tea and some slices of cake on a plate. He looks ludicrous tiptoeing over the grass concentrating on not spilling the tea. I don’t mind a bit of tea in my saucer.

‘Here.’ He passes me a cup. ‘Judy said we could have some chocolate cake. It’s delicious.’

‘Thanks.’

He sits down beside me. ‘How are things?’ he asks.

‘Same as usual. How about you?’

‘Sick of work. It’s boring being in front of a computer all the time. But it’s good money.’

‘And you’re good at it,’ I say.

Gary works in IT for the state government in Hobart. Judy keeps telling everyone what a good reputation he has. She says he’s indispensable. She really means that his income is indispensable. All her renovations and redecorating would be impossible without it.

‘Are you hooked up to Foxtel yet?’ he asks. Gary hangs out for the weekends so he can watch the sport.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t watch much sport.’

He looks bored. ‘No. You’re always off looking for birds or some goddamned thing.’ He snorts. ‘I’ve got a nutter for a brother.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Thank God you’ve got Jess. At least she’s normal. You didn’t let her crap on the lawn, did you?’

‘No, I picked it up.’

‘Dogs always want to take a dump on this lawn. Judy wants me to get one of those scare guns they use in vineyards. The ones that fire off every few minutes.’ Gary snorts again. ‘Reckon I’ll get a shotgun instead.’

I try to smile.

‘When are you going to see Mum again?’ he asks.

‘Wednesday.’

‘Mind if I come?’

‘Sure. Why not? She’ll be pleased to see you.’

‘I’ll take a flex day. I’ve got plenty of time owing. What time are you leaving?’

‘We can take the eleven o’clock ferry. So you don’t have to rush.’

Gary picks up a second piece of chocolate cake. ‘How’s Mum going?’ he asks.

I shrug.

‘What about Jan? Has she visited Mum yet?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘If she had, you’d know about it. She’s on the phone all the time. Bloody Jan. Too much pride.’ He shakes his head. ‘You heard from her?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘Isn’t she chewing your ear off? She won’t leave me alone.’

‘She’s been ringing a bit.’

‘If Mum dies before Jan sees her, we won’t hear the end of it. What about Jacinta? Have you spoken to her? Last I heard she and Alex were planning some fool expedition to the lighthouse. Jan was going off her brain.’

‘I don’t think they’ve taken her yet. Mum hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘Maybe they’ll take her next weekend then. Stupid idea.’

‘Why?’ It seemed to me that taking Mum to visit the lighthouse might be a good thing. Perhaps I should have thought of it.

‘Don’t you know what went on down there?’ Gary says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before your time. Before you were born.’ He leans back and laughs. ‘You were probably the result of it all. The cure for the disease.’

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

‘You’d better ask Jan,’ Gary says. ‘She knows the story best.’

‘What story?’

‘Of how Mum and Dad nearly blew apart. Around the time Mum broke her leg. Auntie Rose had to come and take care of us while Mum was in hospital.’

This is all news to me. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ I ask.

‘Because you’re younger. And because you’re different.’ Gary stuffs down the rest of his cake and stares out over the garden while he chews and swallows. ‘Ask Jan,’ he says. ‘She’ll tell you.’


After Gary’s, I find a long lonely beach to walk on. I stay out till dark to be away from the house. I’m afraid Emma might ring and I don’t feel up to her excuses.

Sure enough, the light is flashing on the answering machine when I get home. I press the playback button and sit down when I hear Emma’s voice.

‘Tom, I’m really sorry about this morning. Nick shouldn’t have come barging in like that. Will you ring me when you get in? . . . Please?’

I look at the phone but can’t bring myself to pick it up. Instead, I thaw lamb chops to cook for a late dinner. Then I cut up a few vegies to go alongside. Jess is satisfied with her usual bowl of kibble. I’m rummaging around in the fridge looking for broccoli when the phone rings. I let it ring a couple of times, but I have to answer it. It could be Jacinta with news about Mum. But it’s Emma. Her words tumble out in a rush.

‘Why did you run out?’ she asks, then blusters in again before I can reply. ‘Actually, I don’t blame you. Nick can be very intimidating. He likes to think he owns me. We’ve had a bit to do with each other since I got back—you know what it’s like.’

There it is. The admission.

‘I’d just like you to know that he doesn’t own me,’ she says, talking through my silence. ‘I can do what I like.’

I don’t know what to say.

‘Pick me up tomorrow after work,’ she says. ‘I’ll wait for you out the front of the antdiv. Five o’clock.’

‘All right,’ I say. Stupidly.

‘Good. I’ll be waiting for you.’


Later, when I’ve retired to bed, I hear a noise on the porch. It’s probably a possum looking for a morsel of apple. But Jess tenses and leaps up from her rug, so I slip into the lounge room to check it out. A torchlight is flashing through the window and when I open the door Laura is there, ghostly in the dim light. Her face is a mask of white, a dark streak on one cheek.

‘Sorry to wake you.’ Her voice is a whisper, barely audible above the wind in the trees.

‘I was awake.’

‘Mouse has cut himself and I need to get him to hospital. But I can’t drive while he’s in such a state.’ She rubs a hand across her cheek and looks down at her fingers, wiping them absently on her jumper. I realise the dark smudge is blood.

‘What about an ambulance?’

‘It’ll take twenty minutes to get here. And I don’t want anyone manhandling him in the house. I want him to be able to come back home without fear.’

For a moment I hesitate, wavering indecisively. But who else can help her? ‘All right. I’ll get my keys.’

‘Thank you.’

When I return she’s already running down the hill and across the road, legs flashing beneath the street light. I walk quickly to the car and Jess slips through the door and onto the floor on the passenger side before I can stop her. There’s no time to take her back. I roll the car down the driveway.

Shouting and banging noises are coming from inside Laura’s house. I wait in the car for a few minutes, unsure. Then I go to the front door, which is open. Laura is in the hallway holding onto the wrists of a large dark-haired man. He’s clearly resisting her and his movements are strong and wild. He’s very upset.

‘Mouse,’ she says, not in the wispy fragile voice I’ve heard before, but loudly. ‘Mouse. You stop that right now. Put your hands down and listen to me.’

The man sees me in the doorway and drops to the floor like a frightened animal. He cowers against the wall, his hands covering his face. There’s blood running down his forearm.

‘Please go back to the car.’ Laura’s face is tight. ‘He’s not used to strangers.’

I go back into the cold night and open the back door on one side of the car. Then I turn on the headlights and the interior light. If this man is afraid, he might not want to climb into a darkened car. It might be less intimidating if he can see where Laura wants him to go.

Five minutes pass and exhaustion threatens to swamp me. I couldn’t sleep in my own bed, but here in the cramped discomfort of the car, sleep rises unbidden and tries to claim me. Finally, I see the shadows of Laura and Mouse outside the house. I can hear Laura coaxing him. She tells him he’ll be all right if he gets in the car. That he’ll be safe. She’s taking him to get his arm fixed. To stop the blood.

Then they’re both sitting in the back seat. Laura pulls the door shut and locks it. I drive as smoothly as possible along the road and around the bends and twists of the cove towards the highway. In the rear-view mirror, I can see Laura’s brother crouched beside the door moaning while she strokes his head, humming to soothe him. Streetlights intermittently flash on her face, but her features are blank and featureless. I see no fear in her. No self-pity.

By the time we reach Hobart, she has her brother’s head hugged to her chest and her eyes are closed. Small whimpers come from his lips. There’s blood on both their faces. She keeps his eyes covered as we stop at traffic lights. When we pull up outside the emergency department, Laura speaks quietly from the back. ‘Could you please go in and get some help? I don’t think I can do this bit alone.’

Lights illuminate the hospital entrance into a blinding white. The duty nurse at reception listens to me unmoving and then lifts a telephone. Within minutes four large men have come out to talk to me, their faces serious and attentive. They follow me to the car. There are cries and a scuffle in the back seat. Laura yells out, her voice edged with pain, and there’s an awful growling and howling. I stand back while the men wrestle Laura’s brother out of the car and restrain him. They bundle him quickly through the no-public-access doors, Laura close behind. Then I’m alone outside, blinking in the bright lights.

I linger on the pavement, waves of shock pulsing through me. Jess crawls from the car like a liquid shadow and shivers at my feet. I had forgotten she was there, huddling on the floor. She must have been terrified—first Mouse and his animal-like cries, then the four men leaping into the car, the shouting, the struggle. I bend and stroke her quivering head, guilt now mingling with my horror. I should have left her at home. But how could I have known?

The hollow siren of an approaching ambulance startles me. I scoop Jess up and deposit her on the front seat, then start the car. We’ll go home now, slowly, and sit quietly in the dark.