The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,2

from guilt. Only on Bruny Island could she achieve these things.

And she must decide how to deal with the letter.

On Sunday morning, Mary sat on the couch in the lounge room. Half an hour ago, she had finished her final cup of tea then washed and dried the mug and replaced it in the cupboard. Now she was stiff after sitting still for so long, listening to the clock on the mantelpiece ticking into emptiness. Normally she’d be tuned in to ABC radio, the news and current affairs. But this morning she needed to sit quietly. There was too much ahead. Too much to contemplate. The clean air of Bruny was beckoning. The smell of wet trees. Salt on the wind. She wanted to be gone from here.

She heard a car pull up and the dull thud of a door closing. Jacinta at last.

Her granddaughter entered the room with the breeziness of the young, all brown eyes and smiles and long loose limbs. At twenty-five, physically, she was her mother all over again, although she’d hate to hear it. She bent for a hug and Mary clung to her, enjoying the feel of young wiriness, the tautness of unblemished skin. How sadly Mary had mourned the loss of her own youth, the decay to wrinkles and sagginess and waistline spread. Her strong wavy hair reduced to flimsy wisps. Over time, she’d learned to accept it and she’d embraced other things: simple pleasures, like bird calls, a good roast, familiar company, a favourite novel, the comfort of words unspoken but understood.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Nana?’ Jacinta was regarding her assessingly. She’d always had an uncanny instinct for gauging Mary’s physical and emotional health. It was part of what made their relationship special, and so different (thank goodness) from Mary’s constant tussle with Jacinta’s mother. With Jan there was always that particular tension belonging to interactions between mothers and daughters.

During her fortnightly visits, Jan had recently stepped up her comments about nursing homes; she’d even offered to organise a tour of suitable places that Mary might consider. But Mary would have none of it. She didn’t want to die in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of her like spaghetti. Nursing homes were expensive too. And she didn’t want to be a burden on her children. She knew what it was to care for a dying person; she’d done it for Jack. Her family might not like it when they realised what she had chosen, but this option was better. It was her option. Her decision. She was doing this for herself.

‘Of course I’m up to it,’ she said quickly. ‘This is my last chance.’ She reached for her stick. ‘Shall we get going, then?’ She waved an arm towards her luggage near the door, attempting nonchalance, although this was difficult, knowing the letter was tucked inside. ‘There’s my case. And I’ve packed some things in the basket for a picnic.’

‘A suitcase!’ Jacinta laughed. ‘We’re only going for the day.’

They drove south out of Hobart in the sullen early light. The purple shadow of Mount Wellington loomed above them with caterpillars of mist clinging just below the summit. Low clouds sat close over the morning and it seemed the day was already weary. Through the dark cleft of the cutting, ravens picked at possum carcases squashed on the wet road.

At the roundabout in Kingston, Jacinta glanced at her watch. ‘Have you checked the ferry times?’

‘There’s one at nine thirty. We can get a cup of tea while we wait.’

‘What about breakfast? Have you had any?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ve been up since five.’ It had taken her a long time to shower and get ready.

Jacinta groaned. ‘I wish I could bounce out that early.’

Mary recalled the shrill of the alarm and the breathlessness that followed. ‘I certainly didn’t bounce,’ she said.

Jacinta smiled. ‘I didn’t shower. I hope I don’t smell.’

‘Only of vegemite toast.’

‘But vegemite smells awful.’

‘I can think of worse.’

They laughed.

When Jacinta was small, Mary had cared for her while Jan was teaching. They’d had fun together, and she’d taken immense satisfaction in the task: after the lighthouse, it had provided her with a focus without which she’d have withered. Mary knew Jacinta liked her, whereas Jan had always been disapproving. Somehow Mary hadn’t been quite the mother Jan wanted—although Mary wasn’t sure anyone could have lived up to Jan’s expectations. Jan resented the years they’d lived at the light station. She claimed the place had curtailed her childhood