The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,10

away from people’s eyes.

Behind us the forest slides down the slope, hugging close to the back fence, and shade comes early in the afternoon. From the lounge room, the view to North Bruny, hunching against the horizon, reminds me where I have come from. It takes me back to the light station. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the wind lashing the cape. I could stand above the cliffs inhaling air with the bite of ice on its breath. I’d stay out as long as I could, waiting to see an albatross skimming over the waves far below or a sea eagle rocketing across the cape with its wings bent in the blast.

As early evening slips over the water, Jess and I remain on the deck watching the last boats trickle home. The light fades and the birds disappear. I hear a possum scraping its way down a tree adjacent to the house. It thuds onto the roof and gallops across like an elephant in army boots. Then it climbs onto the railing, brush tail waving and pink nose sniffing. I can feel Jess holding her breath. One of her front legs is raised as if her foot is listening. She sits and watches, her whole being straining against obedience. She wants to give chase and snap at that furry tail. But obedience wins and she sits tight by my knee.

The phone rings and Jess leaps to her feet, scrabbling on the deck. The scratch of her toenails startles the possum as it extends its nose to sniff the slivers of apple I’ve placed on the railing. As the phone continues to ring, Jess races to the front door and barks. She keeps barking after I go inside to pick up the phone. Even after I shout at her, she follows me into the lounge room, barking at the night, at the possum, at me for the tension I’ve been carrying all day.

‘Hold on,’ I yell into the phone. I shoo Jess outside and she dashes down the stairs and runs quickly around the house. ‘Sorry,’ I say into the phone. ‘Who is it?’

‘Jacinta.’

I can tell by the angst in her voice that this phone call relates to the sense of expectation I’ve felt all day.

‘Tom,’ she says. ‘I took Nana down to Bruny Island today. She made me leave her there. She’s staying in a cabin at Cloudy Bay.’

I know the cabin at the far end of Cloudy Bay, tucked behind the dunes, hiding from the wind. Jess and I have often walked ourselves into emptiness on that beach, and I’ve peeped through the window of the cabin. It looks homely and snug. I think of Mum sitting on the couch, remembering the past.

‘Did I do the right thing leaving her there?’ Jacinta asks. ‘I’m concerned about her health.’

I hear the ticking of a motorboat out on the channel.

‘She says it’s what she wants,’ Jacinta continues. ‘To be down there by herself.’

I find my voice. ‘Jan and Gary won’t agree.’

‘What should we do?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Alex says I should call a family meeting.’

Dread creeps beneath my skin.

‘What if I arrange for everyone to come here to Nana’s house tonight?’ Jacinta says. ‘Can you make it?’

‘You’re at Battery Point?’

‘Yes, I came straight here. Tom, she’s left it perfect . . . I don’t think she’s planning on coming back.’

So, Mum’s expecting to die out at Bruny. I knew she didn’t want to fade away in a nursing home, and I know she hasn’t been well lately, but this Bruny escapade seems a bit extreme. And I’m surprised she didn’t discuss it with me. I’m not like Jan and Gary, both loud and uncompromising in their opinions; I would have listened to her. Now I can’t think what to say. Mum’s death isn’t something I’m prepared for. I can’t imagine her not being around.

‘I’ll organise the meeting for seven thirty,’ Jacinta says. She pauses and I stare blankly into silence. ‘Are you okay, Tom?’

‘I think so.’

‘Drive carefully, won’t you? And be on time. I don’t want to be worrying about you if you’re late.’

‘No. I don’t want to worry you.’

When I turn off the house lights and step out into darkness, Jess is there beneath my hand, pushing up at me with her wet nose. She snuffles under my palm and I run my hand over the velvet of her ears and the dome of her head. She’s warm and soft and solid in a night that has somehow