The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,150

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