The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,147

with guano. I stop to watch him as he rises in a lazy spiral and floats effortlessly higher, cruising over the green dome of the island.

When I was young, I came here once at dusk to be among the mutton birds returning to their nests. I crossed the causeway early, when the tide was out, and waited in the approaching dark until the birds started coming home. Out on the water in the fading light, I saw them floating in large groups, rafting on the tide. When the first bird returned to the colony it came to ground with a thud and scuttled into its burrow, clacking as it reunited with its chick. Then more birds came slamming home, diving out of the darkening sky. Soon the air was thick with them—hundreds of flying projectiles bursting out of the night, crashing awkwardly to the ground and scurrying off into burrows. Some impaled themselves on vegetation as they came in to land. There was blood, cries of pain.

Then the pain was mine. A plummeting bird thumped heavily on my back, raking me with its nails. More birds fell on me, their beaks like spears. I crouched, cowering, arms over my head. When finally there were no more birds cascading from the sky, I struggled downhill, sobbing, and waded across the causeway. The water was up to my thighs, deep enough to be dangerous, and I limped across the beach and then home, facing years of nightmares, of black shrilling birds plunging at me out of the night.

Now, as I sit among the pig-face, remembering, the wedge-tailed eagle rises further above me in ascending circles and disappears to the south of the island. My presence has unsettled him and I should remove myself so he can resume his solitary perch on the rocks. I pick my way back, wandering towards the eastern cliffs.

Finding a sheltered nook, I squat there, watching black waves surging against the cliff walls and shattering themselves on the rocks below. Kelp swirls and kinks, and I sink into the rhythm and movement. The regularity soothes and cleanses me. The roar and drone of the sea.

Beneath my skin contentment settles. My mother is dead, yes. She’s gone. But this is her place. She found happiness here, and peace. Her history was written here, her life bending and twisting and folding, like these great lumps of rock—going through a journey of creation, just like the earth and sky and sea and waves. Nature repeating itself over and over.

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