The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,17
eucalypts and constantly drenched by weather off the southern seas. Rain would sheet from heavy clouds, pounding the paddocks, creating small rivers that ran down the cow tracks to the stream. When the heavens were emptying, she often sheltered in the old barn with the rain hammering on the roof and her cheek pressed against the warm flank of a cow, shooting milk into a bucket with each squeeze of her hands. And that shed was where she had first met Jack.
It was a day of low grey skies, and she was inside clipping wool from a straggly old sheep. Darkness fell across her and she thought more weather was coming in, but when she looked up she saw a tall young man leaning silently in the doorway, watching her. She realised he must be one of the three Mason boys Aunt Faye had told her lived on the neighbouring farm. Her aunt felt sorry for them because their property wasn’t big enough to divide. The oldest son would inherit. The rest would probably have to leave the island for work.
She went back to clipping the sheep, expecting him to go off in search of Uncle Max. But he stayed, and she felt her skin heating up beneath his gaze. Who did he think he was, observing her like a cow?
‘Are you looking for my uncle?’ she asked, shooting him a frown. ‘He’s down by the stream, working on the pump. You’ll find him there.’
The young man flushed and mumbled thanks.
‘I’m Mary,’ she said, standing up. ‘Who are you?’
She offered a hand for him to shake, but he was already turning away. ‘Jack,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘I’m Jack Mason. Didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Initially she hadn’t been interested in him; she was still consumed by anger and fixed on other dreams. But she was a maturing girl thrown into the company of three young men, so it was inevitable that something would happen.
The two farm cottages were quite close and the families exchanged tools and assistance. They also shared celebrations: Christmas, Easter, picnics, fruit-picking. An only child from a strict Protestant family, Mary’s self-awareness was awakening and she was drawn to men, even though she knew little about them. And there she was, unleashed among approving male attention in the physical world of the farm. Strong bodies. Masculine work. She thrived on stolen glances and quick conversations. A joke here and there. Jack’s brothers were bolshie and fun-loving; they became the siblings she’d never had. But Jack was different. He was quiet and solid and strong. Restrained. There was something attractive in his steady silent presence. Something reassuring. And in his eyes, she saw a sparkle of a guarded interest. Despite herself, she was drawn to him. She wanted to know more.
During hay season, the families helped each other out, lifting bales onto the back of the Masons’ old truck to get them into the barn before the next rain. It was heavy work. Mary could still remember Jack, shirtsleeves rolled up, the tight muscles of his forearms knotting as he swung bales onto the truck. His face had glowed with a sheen of sweat, his lips red, eyes blue, dark short-cropped hair scruffy with dust and stalks of hay.
For part of the day she had worked with the men, bending and lugging bales for as long as her strength held. She could see they approved of her grittiness, the way she flung herself into the task, dragging and lifting and heaving with the rest of them. She had watched Jack secretly, peeking inside his shirt as he bent to hook his fingers into the next bale, his chest muscles twitching beneath a thin smattering of hair as he gripped the baling twine. She imagined the texture of his chest, the hair, the feel of those strong arms pulling her close. Later, when her body was aching with fatigue, she brought water and cakes from the house. As he swigged from a bottle, Jack caught her watching him. His eyes crinkled, a smile flickering on his lips. Tight with embarrassment, she held her face rigid, but his smile broadened.
‘Good cakes,’ he said, taking one from the tin she was carrying and wiping drops of water from his lips.
They saw each other often like this. Small exchanges in a day of work. Accidental encounters on errands. Picking fruit in autumn, they ended up on the same tree, reaching and bending to shepherd apples into buckets. Talk was minimal, but