The Lightkeeper's Wife - By Karen Viggers Page 0,9

a telephone.’

Mary shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t have felt right, staying in my old house. It wouldn’t be the same. And the keepers’ cottages are too cold.’

It was more than that. Too much had happened at the lighthouse. If she stayed there, she couldn’t dodge all that. She had needed to come here, where she could remember Jack at his best, before the distance and solitude of the cape seeped into his soul.

‘I’m sure the cottages have better heating these days,’ Jacinta said.

‘No. It’s more peaceful here. And I can see the sea.’ The cottages on the cape hadn’t been built for the view; the kitchen windows faced the light tower on the hill. The lighthouse authorities wanted people to have their minds on the job.

The kettle boiled at last and Jacinta made tea. She grunted when she opened the gas fridge and found it well provisioned— further evidence of Mary’s deception. She placed some biscuits and a cup of tea on the coffee table and sat down again.

‘I don’t like this, Nana,’ she said, taking Mary’s wrinkled hand. ‘But I suppose this hasn’t been easy for you either. And it’s not for me to tell you what to do.’

Now it was Mary’s turn to blink away tears.

Jacinta’s sigh was heavy. ‘Why did you choose me to bring you here?’

‘Because I knew you’d understand.’

‘Not Tom?’

‘He’s less able to cope with Jan than you are.’

‘You’ve thought of everything.’

‘I tried to. I don’t want to cause any trouble.’

‘This is trouble.’ Jacinta stood up, hands on hips. She laughed a little brokenly and Mary’s heart twisted. ‘You tricked me into bringing you here.’

‘I didn’t want to trick you.’

Jacinta gazed out the window and Mary felt distance swimming between them. ‘I’m sorry, Jacinta.’

Jacinta smiled shakily down at her. ‘It’s okay. I’ll get used to it. But I think I’ll go for a walk, if you don’t mind. The rain’s stopped and I need some fresh air. I’ll get my coat from the car.’

She gave Mary a hug and then went out into the wind. Mary heard the car door bang and saw her stride over the dunes onto the beach. It was good for Jacinta to get out into the weather. Her spirit would be soothed and the wind would settle her; when she came back she’d be calm. It always worked that way. There was space out there for a heart to grow large. Mary had lived her life knowing this secret.

And for life, you needed a large heart.

3

Something’s happening, some sort of storm brewing. I’ve never been intuitive, but today there’s a strange sense of tension and foreboding in the air. I feel it in the wind and the damp cold of the clouds pressing down on the forest. I’m lost in it, suspended in an eerie uncertainty.

From the front verandah of my house in Coningham, thirty minutes south of Hobart, I can see through the trees to the channel where the late afternoon light is pearl-grey. On the calm waters towards Bruny Island, the boats of the Sunday yacht fleet are finishing their picnics and returning home. I sit in my deckchair and watch the green rosellas crunching seeds on the feeder. All flutter and twitter, busy beaks and ruffled feathers, they know nothing of what I feel. They side-step around the edges of the feeder on ridiculously short legs, and bob to scoop up seeds with crooked bills. Then they husk them, twisting the seeds with grey bobble tongues. Their routine doesn’t change. Today, I find this reassuring.

The birds may be oblivious, but the dog at my feet knows something’s happening. Jess is a brown kelpie with triangular prick ears, a bushy tail and bright yellow eyes. She reads my moods exactly. I like it that she knows things without asking. I like it that she doesn’t speak. People have too many words. They’ve fenced themselves in with walls and roofs and entertainment.

Too much indoors, too little sky.

My house is close to nature and clouds and birds. I chose it because it’s peaceful. In this street there are only a few scattered houses, mostly holiday homes. Some days I wave at the old couple next door and they wave back, but that’s as far as it goes. I’ve never been particularly social. Probably it’s because of the lighthouse, growing up surrounded by the wilderness of Cape Bruny. But I’ve been worse in recent years. More reclusive. These days my definition of contentedness is Jess and me, sitting here by ourselves,