The Lightkeeper's Wife

39



Time passes, maybe two weeks, and Jacinta comes to Coningham to join me for a walk. She comes on a cold grey day and we don coats before strolling down the hill beneath ominous skies. Along the beach track, Jess loops around us, investigating small rustlings in the bush. We pass Laura’s house, and she waves to us through the window. Several times recently Laura and I have walked together in the mornings, enjoying the birds.

‘Who’s that?’ Jacinta asks.

‘New neighbour.’

‘She looks nice.’ Jacinta looks at me sideways. ‘How’s Emma?’

‘Not sure.’

‘What does that mean? That you’re not going out with her anymore?’

‘Not since Mum died.’

‘You have to keep on living, you know.’

I shove my hands into my pockets and shrug.

‘What about going south?’ Jacinta asks. ‘Did they offer you that job?’

‘Yes.’ Bazza and Emma have been on the phone at least twice in the past week. ‘I’m not sure I want to go.’

Jacinta looks surprised. ‘I thought you were keen to go down there.’

‘It always seems you want something till you get it.’

‘I don’t mind looking after Jess, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘It’s not Jess.’

We step from the sandy track onto the sand. It’s chilly on the beach with a cold fresh breeze rippling over the water. The sand is grey to match the light. We sit above the high-tide mark while Jess trots up the beach sniffing at dead Japanese sea stars and other treasures.

‘That girl back there,’ Jacinta says. ‘The one who waved. What’s her name?’

‘Laura.’

‘You should ask her out.’

I shrug again, embarrassed. Perhaps Jacinta can read my thoughts. Inviting Laura to dinner is something I’ve been contemplating. She’s been pleasant company out walking, and we’ve come to know each other little by little each day.

The tick of a boat’s motor trickles across on the wind; it’s about a hundred metres out, heading up the channel.

‘I’ve been going through Nana’s things with Mum,’ Jacinta says.

I picture them working though Mum’s wardrobe, pulling out dresses, the fabric swinging. I imagine the clothes laid out on the bed. The coat hangers. The musty smell. ‘How’s Jan coping?’ I ask.

‘Better than expected.’ A brief smile flickers on Jacinta’s lips. ‘We’ve decided to give everything to the Salvos. Mum thought Nana would want someone to use her things rather than throwing them all away.’

I pick up a shell from the sand and toss it into the water. Far out across the channel the small boat is still thrumming.

‘Tom, I wanted to bring this to you.’ Jacinta bends forward and takes an envelope from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘I found it in Nana’s suitcase. The one she took to Cloudy Bay. It has your name on it.’ She hands the envelope to me and I look at it with vague interest.

‘I don’t recognise the handwriting,’ I say.

‘Perhaps you should read it. It might be important.’

I stare at the unfamiliar spidery scrawl. I can’t imagine what the letter could be about. The will’s been dealt with. I turn the envelope over a couple of times before opening it. Inside is a piece of folded paper. I unfold it, flattening it against my leg. Then I read the uneven writing looping from line to line down the page.

Dear Tom,


I suspect if you are reading this letter, your mother is dead. Mary was a grand lady in her time, but she was very strong and opinionated. To deliver this letter to you while she was alive would have been too difficult for her. I forgive her for that, even though it means more time lost for me.


You see, Mary carried a secret that was important not only to her, but also to me. I met your mother in a park in Hobart when she was sixteen, and over ten days we became close friends. Ten days doesn’t seem like long enough to fall in love, but your mother was a passionate person, as you probably know. Our lives were bound together in those few short days in ways neither of us could ever foresee.

When your mother’s parents found out about me, they sent her to Bruny Island. There she met Jack. I didn’t see her for many years. But time does not weaken the strongest of bonds.

There was an occasion, when your mother was living with her parents in Hobart, that I met her alone. Her parents and two children were out. Jack was on Bruny Island. And you were not yet born. I heard from other people in Hobart that Mary stayed another six weeks before going back to Jack. The records of your birthdate indicate that you must have been conceived during this period when Mary was away from Bruny Island. This is how I know you are my son.

I don’t know what a man should say to a son he has never met, but I do know this. If you are willing, after you have come to terms with this revelation, I would like to meet you. I will not be offended if you choose not to contact me. However, you must know that I start each day with the hope that it will be the day you call me.

Yours sincerely,





Adam Singer





By the time I arrive at the signature I’m shaking. Who is this Adam Singer? My eyes skim blindly over the phone number written at the bottom. I fold the letter and put it away, then pull it out again with quivering hands and read it once more before handing it to Jacinta.

‘Read it,’ I say, looking out across the water, wondering if the thunder I am hearing is in my ears or my heart.

Presently, I feel Jacinta’s hand gripping my arm. ‘Perhaps it isn’t true.’ I turn to look at her. She’s pale and stunned. ‘Maybe it’s some sort of prank,’ she says helplessly. She looks so worried and I feel like I’m floating, ethereal and formless.

‘I don’t know who I am,’ I say.

‘Yes, you do.’ She clutches my arm tighter. ‘You’re Tom Mason. Nothing changes that. You’re the same person you’ve always been.’

I look at her, blank. ‘My roots are gone.’ That’s how I feel. Like a tree with no roots. A puff of wind could blow me down.

‘Perhaps this could be a good thing,’ Jacinta says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Being without roots,’ she says. ‘It could be liberating.’

I stare at her, unconvinced. ‘How can this man be my father?’

Jacinta frowns. ‘Perhaps he isn’t.’

I shake my head. ‘He must have been. Mum must have known what this letter was about.’

‘But it was unopened.’

I stare blindly across the channel. ‘She knew. But did she want me to know?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does. If Mum wanted me to know, she’d have given me the letter. Or she’d have told me herself.’

‘But the letter says she couldn’t have done that.’

‘Why not?’ I stare at Jacinta in bewilderment.

‘It would have been like betraying Grandpa all over again. If she’d already done that once . . . if she had . . . maybe she couldn’t do it again.’

I look at her without understanding. ‘Why didn’t she destroy it then?’

‘Perhaps she couldn’t. Maybe she thought this man— Adam—had a right to know you.’ Jacinta pats my arm gently. ‘You don’t have to decide now,’ she says. ‘You need time to think. You have to do what’s best for you.’

What’s best for me is to wind the clock back ten minutes. I shake off Jacinta’s hand and kick at the sand, unsure what to do.

‘It’s all right, Tom,’ Jacinta says. ‘You won’t self-destruct, even if it feels like it right now.’

‘I need to run.’ I rip off my coat and shove it at her. ‘Will you mind Jess?’

‘Yes. But be careful, Tom.’

I turn from her and flee, feet stabbing the clinging sand. I run hard towards the end of the beach. My body is tight with adrenalin, my legs pumping, my mind erupting. As I charge along, a pied oystercatcher takes off over the water. Masked lapwings flap into the sky, protesting noisily.

At the end of the beach, I turn up the track and pound through the bush to the road. I pause at the edge of the tarmac, my heart thudding. For a suspended moment, I stare at my house. But I can’t go there. The walls would hem me in and I might explode. I have to keep running.

Down the road I sprint, rushing the steep descent and hoofing along the flatter stretches. My breath is coming in tight gasps, but I keep running. I run to obliterate everything. To rub out fear and shock. Where is Mum in all this? Why didn’t she give me the letter? There were several opportunities at the cabin, but she let them pass by. Why didn’t she do it? Surely it would have been better than this, this overwhelming sense of loss and doubt and confusion. Who is this man who claims he’s my father?

The road leads to the water’s edge and I hammer along it. A car passes on the narrow stretch and I almost stumble in the ditch. But my feet keep going. I run till I meet the highway. Then I run south up the long hill, cars whizzing past me.

Weather comes in and I pump through it. Rain wetting my face, soaking my clothes, trickling down my back and into my shoes. I thought I knew my mother. And I thought I knew my father too, even though I didn’t understand him. Now I have this disorder and upheaval. Do I need to know this man? Do I need to contact him? He’s had nothing to do with me. He may call himself my father, but my father is Jack. The lighthouse keeper. The husband of my mother.

I pass the fruit and vegetable shop at Oyster Cove. Cars are parked there, people buying things, thrusting fruit into bags. I run past them up the hill, resenting their normal lives. Just a short time ago, my life was ordinary too. I was Tom Mason, son of Jack Mason, grieving the loss of my mother. But my father is no longer my father. And another man has appeared. A nobody out of nowhere. He hasn’t watched me grow up. He hasn’t wiped my nose, cleaned my tears, patched bleeding knees. I don’t have to invite him into my life. I owe him nothing. Jack is my father.

When I’m close to the top of the hill the rain stops. I run on, past the skeleton of a house under construction, past paddocks where horses and native hens graze side by side, past farm dams reflecting the sullen grey sky. As I run downhill, the rain comes in again. It mingles with the tears on my face. The highway thuds beneath my shoes. The hills push me up and fall away again.

The turn-off to Kettering appears, with signs for the ferry. I keep on running. The road narrows past the marina where the masts of a hundred yachts bristle. Now my breath comes in gasps and sobs. I run to the end of the road, through the carpark, along the waiting lanes, and then I am at the terminal.

There’s the ferry, not far out. It has just left for Bruny Island, the white trail of its wash kicking up behind. I watch it pull away, its engines throbbing rhythmically. It feels as if my past is leaving me. As if it is deserting me, and I know it won’t come back.

How can I walk bravely into a new and unexpected future? It’s not something I’ve ever been good at.

I kneel on the tarmac, gasping for breath. The ferry rounds the headland. Soon it will be out of sight. When I stand up and walk away from here, I will have to accept that everything is different. Every thought I’ve ever had will require rethinking.


That night I keep hoping the oblivion of sleep will arrive, but it doesn’t. I feel the uncertain texture of the future. I keep thinking about Mum. Adam Singer. My father.

Then it is dark.

The sound of the sea is thick around me, rushing somewhere beyond steep cliffs. I’m crouching on the ground, alert, waiting for something. Suddenly I unfurl great wings and surge into a smudged grey sky. The channel is below. I sweep over it, just above the glassy surface of slow waves, flying low and fast, like an albatross.

Near land, I bank upwards, lifting over hills and forests. Cracks of creamy light seep between doleful clouds. I sail out over cliffs, like an eagle now, and the sea falls away beneath me. I drop over the water, skimming through fine spray from the wind-fetched tips of waves. To the west is the dark shape of Cape Bruny. The lighthouse flashes, and streaks of white light shoot across land and sea. I rush towards it on the wind, rising upwards over land, lifting high above the keepers’ cottages.

Below, a dark figure approaches the tower. It’s the tall shape of my father, Jack the lightkeeper, bent forward in the gale. He stops at the heavy black door, unlocks it, swings the door wide. I sweep in after him and stop at the foot of the stairs. He is on the staircase. I hear the steady clomp of his boots. The hollow ring of his footsteps. I have to hurry. I have to find him before he turns out the light.

I fly up the stairs, swooping around the spirals, ascending towards light. Then I am in the lantern room, the glass windows in a circle around me. The lens is still revolving, still bending scattered rays of light into coherent beams that shoot through grey dawn and lose themselves far out over the heaving sea. All is quiet.

I listen for my father’s voice, his cough in the silence, his muffled footsteps on the floor. There’s a bang. A rush of wind in the vents. The door to the balcony slams open and a shadow passes through. My father escaping.

I follow him out into the blast of the wind and the airiness of the balcony. The dawn flares red, brightening quickly, the light swirling as I look around.

There is nothing. Just the giddy height of the tower. The wild whip of the gale. And the strangely uplifting sensation of space. The possibility of air.

My father is gone, but the breaking light releases me. In the whirl of wind, I am the calm eye of the storm.


When I wake, the house is still. I’ve slept in and light slips beneath the curtains and across the floor. Jess is watching me from her basket, her chin resting on her forelegs. As our eyes connect, the fluffy tip of her tail flaps softly three or four times. She’s wondering when I’m going to get up. The day has begun. There are things to be done. Dog things, like walks and food.

I roll over beneath the covers and hide from the light. My dream is still pinning me down and I’m not sure what it means. But I can only rest a few minutes before I toss back the covers and slide out. Jess leaps instantly to my side. She pads to the door and looks at me expectantly, wanting out. I open the door for her, feeling the gush of fresh air on my face. After breakfast, I’ll go out too. I feel strong. I’ve resolved something during the night. Maybe it was the dream.

In the kitchen, I make coffee and contemplate my options. My mind is unsettled, but there are ways to move forward. I won’t sit around and wallow in sorrow and confusion like I would have in the past. I’m beyond that now. I can be decisive. There are many things I can do, positive things. I could go to the garage and get back on the job, or I could ditch work for the day and see if Laura is home. Maybe we could go for a drive up Mount Wellington, just to feel the wind.

Turning back to the bench to make breakfast, I see the phone and stop. My hand hovers over the handset and I pick it up, feeling its weight in my hand. Then I pick up the piece of paper on the bench, check the number and dial it.

‘Hello.’

‘Bazza.’

‘Tom. I hope you’ve rung to make me a happy man.’

‘I’m sorry, Bazza. I can’t do it.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re taking Fredricksen’s job.’

‘No. But I wanted to tell you first; I’m not going south.’

‘Well, that’s a bugger. Maybe next year.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But thanks for the opportunity.’

‘No worries, mate. Stay in touch.’

I hang up the phone and lay it on the bench. Then I pick it up again. I ought to ring Fredricksen. But there’s someone else I need to ring first. I find the number.

One ring. Two. Three. Four.

My whole body is waiting for the receiver to be picked up.

Please answer.

‘Hello.’

My hands sweat. I turn the piece of paper over and run my fingertips lightly over the spidery writing. My heart is in my throat.

‘. . . Is that Adam Singer?’

‘Yes, yes it is.’ The voice is gravelly, unfamiliar.

‘Hello . . . this is Tom.’





Acknowledgements



The writing of The Lightkeeper’s Wife has been a challenging but fulfilling journey. For support, encouragement, persistence and good faith, I thank my publisher, Jane Palfreyman, at Allen & Unwin. She pushed me to delve deeper and deliver more, and for this I am grateful. The excellent editing skills and input of Siobhán Cantrill, Catherine Milne and Clara Finlay also helped greatly in the shaping of this book, and A&U designer, Emily O’Neill, has created a stunning cover. Thanks to all of you.

Without the ongoing support and positivity of my agent, Fiona Inglis at Curtis Brown, this book would not have happened. I thank her for guiding me through unexpected squalls along the way. Also, my wonderful husband, David Lindenmayer, had unflinching confidence in me, and read and re-read the manuscript beyond the call of duty. My sister, Fiona Andersen, gave invaluable comments on earlier drafts of the book. Marjorie Lindenmayer provided indispensible help and diligently read the page proofs.

For giving me the opportunity to experience Antarctica and be captivated by this grand wilderness, I thank the Australian Antarctic Division. I went south twice as a volunteer on ANARE projects working on Weddell and crabeater seals (summer of 1995–96 and 1996–97). The caretakers at the Cape Bruny Light Station, Andy and Beth Campbell, provided a happy and comfortable stay in the assistant lightkeeper’s cottage, and I especially thank Andy for answering my many questions. The history room at Alonnah on Bruny Island was also a useful resource.

Where possible I have tried to be consistent with the history of the lighthouse, the region and the era, however deviations from the facts were sometimes necessary to facilitate the telling of the story. Information on lighthouses and the way of life on light stations was gleaned from many books, including: Guiding Lights: Tasmania’s Lighthouses and Lighthousemen (K.M. Stanley); From Dusk Till Dawn: A History of Australian Lighthouses (Gordon Reid); Romance of Australian Lighthouses (V. Philips); Beacons of Hope: An Early History of Cape Otway and King Island Lighthouses (D. Walker); Following their Footsteps: Exploring Adventure Bay (ed. C.J. Turnbull); Stargazing: Memoirs of a Young Lighthouse Keeper (Peter Hill); The Lighthouse Stevensons (Bella Bathurst); Lighthouses of Australia (John Ibbotson); and the newsletters and website (www.lighthouses.org.au) of Lighthouses of Australia Inc., a non-profit organisation which aims to create a higher profile for Australian lighthouses within Australia and overseas, to thereby preserve, protect and promote their place within our history. I have also visited many lighthouses both in Australia and eastern Canada, and have had wonderful sojourns at the Cape Bruny Light Station in Tasmania, Green Cape and Point Perpendicular lighthouses, southeastern NSW, and Gabo Island lighthouse in Victoria.

Insights into Antarctica were derived from my time at Davis Station in the Australian Antarctic Territory, from the notes of my friend Raina Plowright, and from several books, including: The Home of the Blizzard (Sir Douglas Mawson); Just Tell Them I Survived (Dr Robin Burns); Slicing the Silence: Voyaging to Antarctica (Tom Griffiths); and The Silence Calling: Australians in Antarctica 1947–1997 (Tim Bowden). Special thanks also to my lovely friend Mandy Watson for sharing her home in Coningham, and to friend Bryan Reiss for elucidating the role of diesel mechanics in Antarctica.

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, Vera Viggers, who is not Mary Mason in this story. She was, however, a humble, personable and generous woman who has been a great inspiration in my life. I am sad that she did not see the completed version of this book before she died, but she did enjoy an earlier draft.