The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,16
his theory on life. She had been in the kitchen, kneading dough, when he came in and flung himself into a chair. She saw his face, luminous. And his wind-tousled hair. His cheeks bitten pink by the cold. A person could be like an albatross or a sea eagle, he said, as she went back to pounding dough. If you were an albatross, you flew low over the waves where there was less wind and the flying was easier. You didn’t risk landing too often, because there was a chance you might not get airborne again, and it took energy to get going after you’d stopped. If you were a sea eagle, however, you soared high and fancy on the winds where you could see everything, and pounce down on things that interested you. You perched on rocks and branches, because you were strong and could easily launch into the air again. But a sea eagle was visible and confident, and other birds didn’t like you—they attacked, sweeping out of the sky and dive-bombing to scare you away. This, he said, was the cost of being magnificent.
He looked at her then, as she paused over the dough, hands dusted in flour. ‘I’m an albatross, Mum,’ he said. ‘I like to be in the wind, but I want to be safe.’
She had taken him in her arms, aching with love for him, and snuggled him close, wrapping him up as safely as she could. Even then she had known that no-one could ever be safe. Within the cocoon of childhood she could protect him—that much was possible. But she couldn’t keep him from the world. Instead of disillusioning him she had kissed the top of his head, burying her face in the wiry mop of his hair. How did you tell a ten-year-old boy that life and its dangers would find him? You could map out life as you hoped it might unfold, but there were always unexpected deviations. Nobody could plan for those.
Now she thought of her own younger self, before she met Jack and became a mother. Passionate. Impetuous. Quick to anger. Would she have listened if anyone had warned her about life? Likely not. She was too full of hopes and dreams, quite indifferent to her parents’ acquired wisdom. When they sent her to Bruny Island to protect her from herself, had she believed she needed saving? Of course not. But in hindsight, perhaps there had been some wisdom in it.
Poor Uncle Max and Aunt Faye. There they were, quietly farming their patch of South Bruny close to Lunawanna, and she had arrived, furious and emotional, on their doorstep. Despite her moody reluctance, they had been kind and welcoming.
At first the island had seemed gloomy to her, with its small rough houses and few people. Ripped from life in Hobart and deposited in a strange, quiet backwater, she was determined to dislike it. Nothing was going to make her fit in. Her heart was elsewhere. Exile was meant to extract her from danger, but she clung to the mast of her dream. She would hold her attachment close and strong. Her parents would not break her.
But Uncle Max deflected her with gentle purpose, directing her sulkiness into lifting hay bales and milking cows, raking silage, picking apples. He kept her busy: digging and weeding the vegie plot, pruning fruit trees. She also helped her aunt with the multitude of domestic tasks: washing, making jam, mending clothes. Labour had gradually knocked the petulance out of her. Physical work bred satisfaction. It soothed her bruised soul and calmed her indignation.
Later, she could see what a special time it was. Her punishment was, in fact, a gift. Through exile, she had escaped grimy Hobart, the prospect of a job in an office, the oppression of her parents’ house and rules. On the farm, she lived outdoors in clean cool air. And there was a pattern to the days, a weekly and seasonal structure. She came to love the rich smell of grass, the sour smell of cow manure, the sweet, musty scent of hay in the shed. She liked to hustle the cows up the muddy track for milking. Behind the cottage, tall white ribbon gums lined the stream, and when the wind was up, she liked to stand beneath them, watching the long loose straps of bark slapping against their trunks and the skirts of foliage in the high canopy swaying against the sky.