The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,20

bodies. Alone, they ran naked on the sand, laughing and shouting at the gulls. They fished off the beach and the rocks, eating their catch after cooking it over the flames of Jack’s efficient little fire.

At the farm, intimacy had been slower to evolve than Mary had anticipated. In Jack’s narrow bed they spooned into each other’s warmth. But the house was small and they were afraid of making noise, so their passion was restricted. They learned each other in careful, drawn-out ways. With so much expectation, dissatisfaction was possible, and yet Mary was strung so tight with desire that her pleasure flowered easily. Once she discovered how to manage him, she guided him with such subtlety he hardly knew she was in control. And Cloudy Bay was their utopia where they could cry out without inhibition.

Looking back, Mary saw that period as the highlight of their lives together. They were still enveloped in the tranquil world of the farm, they were growing in love and in understanding, pressures were few. Marriage gave them new freedom. They picnicked alone, making love in the forest, at Cloudy Corner, even up on East Cloudy Head on a calm summer’s day. Life was busy and close, hard but rich.

Then things changed. An outbreak of blight in the orchard caused finances to tighten. Jack recognised the burden of their presence and started talking about moving to Hobart for work. And then Rose arrived, Frank’s bride. Being the social member of the Mason family, Frank was always looking for fun. During time off from the mill, he met Rose at the annual dance in Alonnah. She lived on a farm between Alonnah and Lunawanna, taking care of her bedridden mother, a task from which she was obviously keen to escape. Her relationship with Frank progressed quickly, and soon she too moved into the Mason farmhouse.

At first, another woman was welcome in a house of men. But it wasn’t long before Mary started to dislike Rose. There was something not quite honest about her, she was lazy and manipulative, evading tasks so Mary took on more than her share. The men, even Jack, were entranced by her. She wore her fingernails long and polished, and she slicked her lips red. Mary tolerated her, struggling to be polite. But Rose didn’t function by other people’s rules. When she had one of her ‘bad patches’ there wasn’t enough room in the Mason house. Mary abhorred Rose’s selfishness, the way she twisted things to her own advantage. Rose was a snake in disguise, and Mary wanted to be far away from her.

Eventually, Mary persuaded Jack to shift to her uncle’s farm, back into her old bedroom. They stayed there only a short time, aware their presence was a financial imposition. It wrenched both of them, but the move to Hobart was inevitable. Rent was beyond them, so they lived with Mary’s parents. Her father was an accountant who’d managed to retain his property through the Depression, and his old house in North Hobart had space enough for all of them. It was a beautiful house, with squares of coloured glass bordering the window, and cast-iron lace around the verandahs. But the reality of living in it was harsh. Little light penetrated the large rooms with their high ceilings and cold walls, and the house was dark and sullen. Mary felt stifled by her parents’ laws and expectations. When she fell pregnant and developed morning sickness, her mother was grimly pleased. At last, Mary had become the meek and malleable daughter she had desired.

In the city, Jack changed too. He became quieter and more introverted, working long hours in a cannery. The days seemed endless and he hated it, stuck inside with no natural light. Evenings, he sat by the fire with Mary’s father, reading the paper and smoking a pipe—a new habit picked up in the city. The atmosphere wasn’t conducive for talking, and Mary was so nauseous and depleted, she had little to say. Melancholy sat on her soul. She knew she should be pleased about the baby; pregnant women were supposed to be radiant. But Hobart was heavy and Jack was distant and withdrawn, mired in fatigue. At an appropriate hour, they’d retreat to the bedroom and undress awkwardly in the hissing glow of the gas lamp. Then they’d crawl into bed.

Intimacy died quickly with Mary’s morning sickness, and Jack was exhausted, so he slept while she watched the shadows on the roof and wondered what had