The Lightkeeper's Wife

37



Leon and I arrange to meet at the Cloudy Corner campground. His four-wheel drive is already there when I arrive. I find him sitting near a patch of blackened soil where there’s obviously been a large campfire fairly recently.

‘She gave a talk to a group of scouts here,’ he says, as I join him in the shifting shade. ‘Did she tell you? She was a hit.’

‘No. She didn’t mention it.’

Guilt sweeps across his face. ‘Perhaps she didn’t tell you because it didn’t end so well.’

‘What happened?’

‘She collapsed. I suppose she fainted.’ He flushes. ‘She didn’t want me to tell anyone. She was worried your sister would take her back to Hobart.’

‘Mum had a passionate hatred of nursing homes.’

Leon nods, still flushed. ‘Awful places. I’m glad she didn’t end up somewhere like that . . . It was quick at the end. There wasn’t much time for nursing . . .’

We pause, each uncertain what to say next. We are two people brought together by circumstance; Mum is our only common denominator.

Leon waves towards East Cloudy Head. ‘Let’s climb the hill before the weather comes in.’

We pull packs and rain gear from our cars. At the trail head, we sign the logbook and begin the climb. Once we’re moving, talk begins to flow. It’s easier without eye contact.

‘I resented your mum at first,’ Leon says, clearly embarrassed. ‘She was prickly, and it was a hassle to have to check on her. I was railroaded into it by my boss. And I didn’t want extra work. I had enough on at home. Your mum wasn’t an easy companion either. She didn’t seem to understand I had work to do. Kept trying to corner me into taking her places. Always wanting to go here or there. Asking me intrusive questions and expecting me to stay for cups of tea.’

‘Did you take her on trips?’ I ask, surprised. ‘She didn’t tell me about that. She never asked me to take her anywhere.’

‘She seemed to have an agenda,’ Leon said. ‘A list of places she wanted to visit. Any opportunity, she’d be bugging me to take her. Not that we did anything when we got there. She just stood looking into space. Like she was living in another time. Maybe she was.’

‘Where did you take her?’ I ask.

Leon shrugged. ‘It was all just local. The campground here. Past the farm. Up towards Mount Mangana. Clennett’s Mill. She even asked me to walk her up East Cloudy Head, of all the outrageous things. It was just after she’d fainted and I said no. I took her back to the cabin and tucked her into bed, where she belonged.’

‘So she showed you the farm?’

‘Just from the road. She didn’t say much. Just that she lived there with her relatives. And that she met Jack there—your dad. But she loved this place, I could tell. I can’t count the number of times I found her on the couch just staring out the window with a radiant look on her face like she was already in heaven. She didn’t get on with your sister though, did she?’

‘Mum and Jan have always clashed,’ I say. ‘Gary and I tend to work around things. To keep the peace.’

Leon laughs. ‘Your mum didn’t give me much peace,’ he says. ‘I wanted to keep our relationship superficial. But your mum was always probing, seeking out soft spots. I wish her health hadn’t deteriorated so quickly—I’d have liked to spend more time with her. I tried to make sure she took her medication. But she probably needed to be in hospital at the end there, with the attention of doctors and nurses. She told me to mind my own business when I mentioned it. She was never one to hold back, was she?’ He stops for a moment to look out over Cloudy Bay where the morning light etches shadowy lines in the cliffs.

‘What was it like,’ I ask, ‘at the end . . . ?’

His gaze focuses somewhere out over water, and there’s a sense of calm about him when he speaks. ‘When the time came, I didn’t know if she could feel anything. Her breathing was so slow and weak. But I took her out on the beach beneath the sky, and talked to her. It was peaceful when she went, just beautiful. I think she knew she was in her home.’

We climb again and Leon allows me silence.

‘It’s amazing really, the way we became friends in such a short time,’ he says finally. ‘Maybe we could do it because we didn’t have any mutual history. And we were both aware it would be short. She was here to die, and I knew it. That meant that we could be honest with each other. Not that she told me anything secret. But we talked openly. She listened to me—that’s more than I can say for anyone else in my life.’

He laughs. ‘You know, the first time I met your mum she was on a mission to trap me. I was cross and I got away from her on some excuse about checking the campground. But when I came back, there she was going for a walk on the beach. I don’t know how she managed to get out there, but she had her head flung back and her nostrils flared, daring me to have a go at her.’

We both laugh at the image and take a rest on the saddle, looking down towards Cloudy Corner and across Cloudy Bay to the distant cliffs. Then we resume the climb, hiking quietly up the last stretch of track until we are on top in the blasting wild breath of the wind, gazing out over the iron grey of the immense rolling ocean. We pull out coats and beanies and sit on rocks sheltered from the worst of the gale. From the depths of my pack, I dig out a plastic container of sultanas and almonds to share. But I have been outdone by Leon, who produces a thermos of hot coffee which he pours into thermal mugs along with a dribble of milk from a plastic bottle. Then he melts dark chocolate into the brew.

‘To your mother,’ he says, handing me a mug. ‘She was a fine woman. The best.’

We clink mugs and stare across the vast landscape of light and sea, wind and cloud. ‘This is her home,’ I say. ‘She’s still here.’

‘She’d be pleased with me,’ Leon says, after a while. ‘I’m making a change, and she’d like that. I’ve applied for a job with National Parks in the Hartz Mountains, and they say there’s a good chance I’ll get it. I’ve been here a long time, looking after my folks. But my old man hasn’t been too well lately. He’s bedridden and going downhill. His liver’s shot. Too much grog. Mum’s taking care of him now.’

He looks to me for approval and I nod. ‘You’ll like the Hartz Mountains,’ I say. ‘It’s beautiful there.’

‘I’ll miss Bruny. But I’ll be back to visit Mum.’ He lapses to silence and we fix on grey distance where the lighthouse might be visible on a clearer day.

‘I’m glad you were with her when she died,’ I say. ‘I want to thank you for that—the company and friendship you gave her. I wish I could show you how much I appreciate it.’

He glances at me. ‘Come and visit if I get this job in the Hartz Mountains. I’d like to keep in touch with someone from your family.’ He smiles. ‘And I don’t think I have much in common with your brother or sister.’

We laugh, and there’s a sense of camaraderie between us, an almost-brotherliness.

For a long while we sit, paying private tribute to Mum. When the cold starts to seep in, we pack and wander back down the hill.