The Lighthouse
Chapters Nineteen to Twenty-three
The Lighthouse
A serialised novel
Chapter Nineteen
Henry was in a state of shock. His body felt numb, strange. Not to the distress of Eliza, not to the enmity he felt to the smugglers, but a general sense of deep unease as if the world, or the evil in the world, would never change or leave.
He had suffered profound shock before… when she had left, when it had ended. This shock was different though: it left him with a vehement sickness inside, and an inner tirade against whoever might be responsible. It had been tragic and appalling at the same time.
Also, he was struck by the doctor’s tone: by his description of Eliza. She had been similar to Caradoc in that she had been on a mission, even if it did not dominate her whole life. He could now relate to that aspect.
She had probably lived quite an ordinary life, alone perhaps, without her husband, and there was no mention of children and in a way that was a blessing but she had dedicated a part of her life to saving sailor’s lives, as Caradoc had done centuries before her.
In a way, the mission had been passed down. Would Henry ever find out what had happened in the centuries in between? Martha would be a help in that endeavour. Yes, he was part of this same mission. The lighthouse, in a sense, was on hallowed turf and perhaps whoever lived close by or inside it became a part of it. That sounded a little mystic to Henry…
What he did understand was that to Caradoc, Eliza and many others, the sea was a benediction: dictating their beliefs and how they viewed life.
Since he had first seen the lighthouse, he had known that he wanted to live out his own life here and now. He was part of the history. But would Martha become a part too? Time would tell, as they say.
Henry sat and thought. He waited.
He expected a presence soon.
His light shifted the shadows as if they were dancing a slow rhythmed dance.
He waited.
But nothing stirred around him.
On the beach below, the innate frailty of any living thing could be determined by the power of the sea. Timid clouds rolled by as if escaping the moon as it tracked its way across the sky. Moonlight illuminated their edges, bringing them alive for a moment before it passed, so slowly and yet so quickly and left them undisturbed again. Specks of sand glistened with moonlit power. Wettened pebbles awoke with the light, animated with watery reflections of the moon, like an army of thousands of white eyes, hardened and ghostly.
Henry felt so tired. He would be happy to leave this story in the past, to leave its ghastly remains to be pondered upon rather than relived again and again. But there was a duty beginning to imprint itself into Henry’s mind. He was now the custodian.
Almost as if his mind was in control of events, there was a sudden change of temperature, the air becoming much, much hotter by the second.
The past was with him again.
The chaos of that night was returning.
In the night, the wind, in its wildness, became stronger, tearing at the silvery grass, pulling it from its well-buried roots, rocketing birds off course, who then regained their path, as if their wings had memories stored within them that rose to the surface: in its wildness, roaming the downs like an angry wanderer intent upon violence, intent upon destruction, calculated and yet wildly rampant, intent upon its path, intent upon its own salvation.
Henry could not feel this though. Inside, it was becoming overwhelmingly hot. He pushed the sleeping bag away and sat up, desperate for coolness. Usually, at night, when the lighthouse cooled from the day’s warmth, it made small sounds: contractions of wood, metal, brick. It shrank itself, ready like a child, to get under the covers, little by little, curling itself into a foetal position. Hiding from the cold spots in the bed.
This time, however, the lighthouse began to expand with the heat. Little, by little, expanding, pushing, elongating, rising, stretching, muscling its way upwards and outwards.
Then, Henry sensed something, someone. It was there and as quickly as it had appeared, the heat dissipated as if ushered out.
No, not one presence but two with different set of beliefs and identities that Henry could sense.
Rising slowly, Henry shone the light across the floor and there in front of him were two figures, caught as if trapped in amber: fossilized in their own past.
Chapter Twenty
There was doubt in Henry’s mind. It was Eliza and the doctor. He was standing, his body leaning over her prone figure lying alone in her bed, hand reaching out to her face.
Henry stood and moved very slowly towards them, keeping the light as steady as he could. It was as if he was in a museum looking at a scene behind glass, with two waxen figures posed.
He edged closer, inch by inch.
Their eyes were fixed, glazed over. The doctor’s face showed concern, fear, disgust: all in one expression. His well-to-do clothes showed that he was man of standing with a solid, brown three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt and dark blue neck tie. He was bearded with a full head of brown hair, thick eyebrows, age lines on his forehead and near to his eyes, a fulsome face, tanned and healthy skin. His hands were strong. A brown leather doctor’s bag lay on the bed close to her feet.
Below him lay Eliza.
Wait. Henry paused. He couldn’t believe it. There were no burns on her face. It was pale, yes, thin, weak, narrow and thin, lacking any real colour but it was unmarked. It was remarkable.
There was a fragility to her figure as she lay there. A little like a doll lying obediently waiting to be moved.
Henry was fascinated. He studied them for quite a time before he began to wonder why they weren’t moving. They were still trapped, for some reason.
Henry shone the light directly at them now and just as the light hit their eyes they began to move: very slowly, vibrating, shaking, just a little from side to side and then, as if filled with new power, they began to break free: break free from this casing, this shell, like two butterflies emerging from an invisible cocoon.
At first their movements were stop-start, jerky, but then as the light hit fully into their eyes they began to move more freely.
Henry watched, bewitched.
The doctor wiped her face with a look of attachment, a fondness: maybe love had grown between them over the centuries. The doctor seemed unafraid now and her eyes were wide open.
The doctor leant over more as she whispered something.
Henry came closer too: he could almost touch her. He could hear what she was saying over and over again.
‘I forgive them. I forgive them.’
Henry felt a tear forming. He could not help it and he could not move it from his mind or push it away. Seeing someone lying on a deathbed brought back those painful memories. However, this tale was different.
Eliza’s pain was gone, dissolved over time, scattered on the four winds.
Henry imagined that Eliza must be feeling a kind of bliss to be able to forgive those that had hurt her.
She had made a sacrifice to her soul.
Henry gazed at her face again. Yes, it was a true look of bliss, some inner calm brought to the surface: true, sheer bliss. Their shared truth was now real. It may not have been an objective truth but in the moment they both perceived it, Henry had released them and this absolution had led to the passion that he could perceive between them.
And somehow, he surmised, her death had trapped the doctor, or at least a version of him: a version seared to her, to tend to her wounds over all those years. There had been a part of the doctor detached: a part of himself from ‘normal’ life.
A type of afterlife, Henry surmised.
As Henry watched, he pondered on the meaning of this state of bliss. Was it just an absence, however brief, from pain, worry, grief, distress? Was it just a heartbeat in time away from all of us? If only we knew how to achieve it? Perhaps if we truly believed in it, it would become real to us.
If it was indeed possible to enter this state, just for a few seconds, to detach oneself, limb by limb, beginning with your feet, then your legs, your stomach, your hands and fingers, wrists, your arms with their ageing blotches of darker skin; to detach oneself from your torso, your back and shoulders, bent and failing, then your neck and your head, with all of its features, until ending with your eyes: those that you hardly ever really see, your eyes, that other people see but never you, really, properly, deeply: to detach, separate, to dissociate, remove, so that then, if it were possible, then one might actually see for the first time, not illusions or subjective trickery: just to see and then, perhaps, to find and then to judge.
If it was indeed possible to enter this state, thought by thought, conscious moment by conscious moment, then it would be…
…a moment of not being you.
So golden, so true.
A revelation.
There would be honesty.
The separateness, this lack of unity with your former self: this lack of cohesion would lead to a moment of uncontrolled bliss.
As he watched, he realised that Eliza and the doctor had reached such a point in time. It had taken many centuries, but they were there. He could truly see them for who they were or had become. They had arrived somewhere else and now, complete, it was time for them to move on.
There was a moment of sanctity as she rose from her bed, unlocked by flame, like a phoenix from another reality.
She joined hands with the doctor and together they began to float away from him, away through the wall, away into other nights.
They were gone.
Henry felt a gloriousness fill his veins. He sensed the lighthouse around him.
In the quiet salvation of this night, when creatures can disturb, Henry found himself alone again. In this salvation, when shadows dream, in that coolness of thought, Henry felt more complete.
Resolution was no longer in fright; it was in the future.
There was no bleakness left from this tale.
Chapter Twenty-one
Henry awoke early, the first shafts of sunlight edging slowly across the wall, as if the very structure was an illuminated timepiece. Unzipping his bag, he felt a warmth in his chest.
It was euphoria: growing like a sapling inside him.
He was changed again.
It was a new self. The Henry that had been left desolate and battered by the death of his wife was in retreat: diminished. It had endured for a long time since she had become ill but it was gone now.
Then, Henry had been honest to his principles until the last moment.
As he unlocked the door and welcomed in the fresh morning air, he suddenly imagined himself as a butterfly, free and able to roam wherever he chose. He could soar high and ride on thermals to another continent or be content to live on one hill, near to one flower, close to others and never wander. Which one would he be now?
He strolled to his tent and as he walked, he could smell the scent of the fields come to him, surround him. There was still a latent heat in the ground that rose when the sun breathed life into the day: that pulsed into the sky.
September was still clinging on. The days were long.
He made breakfast and let the sun soak into his body like a reptile warming itself.
As he sat, a conclusion now made itself clear to him. He could begin to forgive himself for what he had done, what he had not said. Alone with that knowledge he had shouldered his private burden but now he felt that soon he might share it with the right person.
The tea tasted sweet and good. Above, high cirrus clouds climbed higher and higher like feathered mountaineers trying to eclipse the atmosphere.
He could rise now too.
Deciding to visit the beach, he zipped up his tent and locked the lighthouse door. The path down felt easier today, he thought.
Standing, watching, feeling, he closed his eyes and listened to the shingles and their motion. His mood had changed so many times in the last few months: in and out, ebbing and flowing, silently being rearranged, never returning to what it once was.
And now finally altered.
The sand was beneath his feet and below that, deep below, running water like dark veins, buried deeper and deeper, the roots of the sea, giant black roots and as they crept in they filled Henry with emotion.
Feeling their life beneath him, he realised that he hadn’t thought about Martha since yesterday evening.
She rushed into him.
An unavoidable crashing wave when there is no place to hide.
He must see her. It was a need analogous to the tide’s compulsion to ebb and flow. The tide must reach out, must travel below the surface only to rise again later.
Martha. He wanted to make her a part of his life. It was clear. There was no choice. She would be.
However, sharing the apparitions at this time may not be the wisest of ideas. He did, though, want to share the mystery of the lighthouse with her.
Perhaps, in a few days or weeks, when they had talked, got to know each other, he would.
Then he was struck by the thought that all of this conjecture was one sided. Only from him. He had been carried away by her tide. In his desire to be this new self, Henry had led himself to a kind of despair. He had known despair only too well and had no desire to return to that state. This new-found affectation for Martha, and for what she might be to him in the future, could be leading him to his own personal shipwreck.
He knew the risks.
He should wait: this was the reasoned course to take. To move slowly. For all Henry knew, she might be married, have children.
Acting like a love-struck fool but…
No, the wise thing to do was to let the story of Eliza immerse itself into him in the same way that Caradoc had.
There was sense of guilt forming too.
He heard the waves crash against the shore. In his musings, the tide had gathered pace. It was rushing up to him. Martha’s face came to him again. There was no denying it, even with all of the warning signs. He had to see her.
It was, in a way, an unalterable course.
Chapter Twenty-two
The bus journey had been tiresome. Henry preferred the sea air, the open space, the scarcity of people and the absence of sounds other than the sea and the wind.
During the ride, he had imagined meeting Martha again. They would chat like old friends, they would laugh at jokes that only they understood, they would read together, research together, they would discover something amazing about the lighthouse.
They might touch hands accidentally, like in one of his favourite movies, touch without meaning to and there would be a spark of recognition in the heroine’s eyes, as if she understood all that the hero was thinking and feeling and that, in this imaginary world, they had been waiting their whole lives for each other. It was their destiny.
The fields went by and turned into lanes filled with pleasant detached houses, boarded with white painted timber, gardens filled with late flowering shrubs and then small shops and more people and more cars.
Henry snapped out of his reverie and hopped off the bus. He made his way quickly to the library entrance feeling that tiny pin prick of euphoria as he reached the door.
As he pushed it open, he was unexpectedly invaded by a dread, an anxiety of sorts, an unfocused fear of what might happen instead of what he had imagined and craved for. There were too many possibilities and it overwhelmed him.
Henry had seen it happen too many times at university, mostly to students. When things didn’t go as planned, they fell into an abyss, usually of their own making, from their own wild imagination. And, as they fell headlong down, and then finally reached the bottom, they found it impossible to leave.
Henry had found a new freedom, even if it was one that he had not wanted and whatever happened next could well consign this freedom to the unimaginable abyss.
He went in.
The librarian from before waved to him. He waved back. It was quiet. It was what you would expect but somehow it felt different. One imposed by the library itself. He couldn’t fathom it. Snaking his way between shelves he tried to avoid other people and then knocked on the door of the local history office.
Martha opened the door.
Her freshness invaded him, engulfed him. He sensed her spirit. She emanated such positivity, such purpose of being.
She also looked as if she had news: she had found out something about the lighthouse.
Martha beckoned him to sit down. A large glass ring on her left hand sparkled, its coloured swirls somehow hypnotic.
‘So,’ she began, pushing her naturally curly hair behinds her ears, ‘I’ve found out when your lighthouse was built.’ Henry could smell her. Was it perfume? A body scrub or lotion? It smelt of the sea and the beach and spit of the sand and the billowing air. He could also feel her warmth reaching across the table as she sat down opposite him. When close, he could see the freckles on her face and they were more pronounced this time: they made her look animalistic, feline. They were beautiful in their randomness: an ever-changing pattern just for her.
Henry wanted to touch them, to trace a shape, to draw a picture with his fingers on her face. He wanted to study them for hours: to see if they grew or faded in the shadows and then the sunlight. Over and over again.
For a moment, he felt like a child again in class, staring at a girl he thought he loved, as if she was all he had ever hoped for, longed for: loving the accidental nature of her features.
The next second, he was an adult again, the adult he was, desperately hoping that his imagination had no limitations. Henry envisaged his imagination forcing events, helping him to predict the future.
She is here! With me! A voice screamed inside his head.
‘That’s fantastic,’ he answered, bending over the table a little to be nearer to her. He smiled, inanely.
‘Here you are,’ she said, as she offered him a dark green file. It had scraps of old newspaper still attached to it and had, at one time, a red seal on it. Only a few hardened bits were left on. Henry felt apprehensive and excited. He opened them.
They were the original plans for the lighthouse: probably the architect’s. There were floor plans detailed, beautifully drawn, in dark blue ink: dimensions neatly marked. It was shown from many views.
And there was the spiral staircase. ‘These are quite amazing,’ Henry offered. ‘Thank you so much for finding them. These will be wonderful for…’
‘There’s more,’ Martha interjected. ‘Take a look at the last page.’ A waft of her scent collided with Henry.
He turned over the page and on it was the name of the owner… Mr. Sugden, aged fifty-two and there was the date. Eighteen sixty-two.
At last, a tangible piece of evidence, Henry thought.
‘So, over one hundred and fifty years old. It’s incredible. Can we find more out about him, Mr. Sugden?’ he asked. Martha was genuinely pleased to have helped with the mystery.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, willingly, her pleasant expression filling the space between them, ‘and I thought we could do it together, if you wouldn’t mind. Actually,’ she added again, her voice lowering, ‘Henry, you were going to say something else. Sorry, I cut you off.’ He could listen to her voice forever.
‘Together. Sure. That sounds fabulous. Well, I was going to say that the plans are wonderful because I am going to rebuild it.’
‘So, this might sound a bit forward of me but it would be fascinating for a historian like myself to…’ She stopped in mid-sentence unable to go further. Henry was determined to know what it was.
‘And?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Let’s try to find out something about the owner.’ Henry was disappointed but tried not to show it. Martha suddenly looked a lot more serious.
She got up and moved to the microfiche machine. She showed Henry how to use it and found him ones that were around that date: local papers and so on. Martha opened up the cabinet and took out some local books.
There was a silence as they both worked. It was quiet enough to hear birds outside and the traffic passing in the street. The occasional distant voice crept through the window pane. Henry looked up from time to time to look at her.
She was wonderful.
They searched for over thirty minutes but found nothing.
‘Well, I think that’s all for now, Henry,’ she said, locking the cabinet again with a certain finality for today. ‘But there is something else. Can I ask you about the lighthouse?’ Here it was, thought Henry, hopeful.
‘I’ll understand if you say no, but,’ and she paused, fingering her ring with her thumb, round and round. ‘Well, can I see inside? I’ve walked by it hundreds of times and I’ve always wondered what it was like. In fact, you could say that it’s fascinated me for years.’
He tried not to appear too pleased but inside his heart was racing as if he had sprinted on a sports day. Things were getting better and better: more that he had thought possible.
‘Of course. You’re welcome anytime.’ Henry jumped in. ‘What about tonight? We can talk about what Mr. Sugden might have been up to. Make a story for him. Give him a life.’ He was being too keen, he knew. And he hated that word too – keen. He watched her expression carefully, seeing if he could read it.
Martha looked down at her feet as if embarrassed by something she had done or said. A glare from the sunlight bounced off the glass doors of the cabinet. Henry held his breath in, as if about to dive into the deep end of a pool of unknown depth.
‘Great. I can come down a few hours before sunset. One of my favourite times of day. About six?’ She looked up again, grateful and friendly.
‘I could wait for you, or pick you up after work,’ he suggested. Why didn’t he say he would carry her bags too? So foolish! Martha took no offence, in fact, she brushed it off as a casual remark, not giving it the gravity that Henry probably thought it had.
‘That’s okay. Very kind but I have to get home first. A few jobs to do.’ He felt disappointed. Being over sensitive had never been a problem for Henry, but everything felt so raw, immediate.
He recovered. ‘I understand. Anyway, it’s been wonderful today. Working together. And to find out when it was built. I feel we can find out more too.’
‘I do too,’ Martha answered.
Henry stood up straight and for a moment had no idea what to do with his hands or his arms. It was like being in a play when the director instructs you to act normally and suddenly every movement, every gesture is magnified and nothing you do feels at all natural. He rubbed his fingers through his hair. He could feel the dirt and grease. He would wash it before she arrived. Or would that be too obvious? The questions began pouring in to his head: a torrent of immature inklings.
It felt awkward and Henry had no idea how to finish the situation. A shake of the hand was too formal. He turned to go.
‘Oh, Henry. I’ll bring the plans out later. We can study them again…’ and she left the sentence hanging by a thread and then added, ‘…together.’ Just the sound of that one word meant so much to him now. Having been almost totally alone for three months, and having coped with it, sometimes enjoying the solitude, made him realise how much he had missed real company.
‘I look forward to it. I’ll be waiting.’
With that he left and as he turned to close the door, he took one final look at her body, at the back of her head and the flowing hair.
As he left the library he began to skip.
He couldn’t wait to see her again.
Chapter Twenty-three
Later, after tea, Henry sat outside his tent. He had left his hair but had fished out a clean T-shirt.
He began to reflect on the day.
Above, the sky was an ancient blue. Low, tremulous clouds touched the horizon with formless bodies. In a few hours the sun would meet the sea, and in a slow, tranquil movement, be consumed.
During the few months before his trip, Henry had felt like an outsider in the world: a stranger in his own house, in his own skin.
For over thirty years he had experienced the gift of love. It was there, fulsome and sweet: every day. And he had never overanalysed it. A certain amount of acceptance in the way things work was a healthy outlook to have he had always believed.
There had always been so much questioning in his work. Each minute scrutinised by students and fellow academics. And to just acknowledge what was present and true.
Then, he had lost the love. Abruptly. And with it he had become unbalanced. What he had done and what he had achieved in love and in his work was not in question. However, he had not been sure of what he wanted to be or to do when it had been taken away.
Like a building whose foundations are suddenly ripped away by an earthquake, his life had crumbled.
The trip had begun to rearrange the ruins and to clear the dust from his mind.
Now, sitting, feeling the warmth of the hot fluid in his hands, he understood the questions that he had to ask himself once again. They were the questions that each person faces when losing someone.
Should I love again? Can I love again? They arrived together like twins. There was always a fear in loving again: that it could never be as strong, as deep, as real, as meaningful, as before. It would not be the same.
And now, these questions loomed ever larger.
Inside, the hollow shell that had been left was filling slowly, imperceptibly, and his self was being slowly restored. His balance was returning. The churning in his soul was abating.
There was Martha. Coming into his life with a bursting of emotion.
He thought about artists who paint over an earlier picture on the same canvas. The former image is there but hidden to all apart from the artist himself. If she were a painting on a canvas, Martha was now the latter and her image was replacing that of his late wife.
Subconsciously, he was choosing which image to see. This was leading to, what was often termed, an attraction of guilt. If he wasn’t careful, this could destroy his feelings for her.
And he didn’t want that to happen. If there were feelings from her side, he would need to nurture them.
In this world, individuals created their own morals and values, over and above those of a society: it was called an ethical responsibility. We all had to live with our decisions and the past would have to be delivered by the present.
His ponderings were blown away when he saw her approaching along the coastal path. She was a precious creature floating towards him and he imagined himself in a scene where they run towards each other and he would take her in his arms and swing her around and the scene would focus on their faces in slow motion and her hair would bounce with life and the focus would turn to the bristling waves and the careering clouds.
He noticed her casual jeans, well worn, and her strong trainers: her light blue T-shirt formed a skin over her torso. Henry felt a passion inside again. He knew she wasn’t trying to be attractive, or sexy: she was just being herself and she looked happy with her body. But it all affected him.
Her arms swung like strong pendulums at her side and as she got closer, he saw how her sweatshirt tied around her waist rocked from side to side.
She looked up and waved. Naturally.
Henry waved back. She was closer. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like the delicate petals of a climbing flower in a long-lost garden. He tried to concentrate on her face but the T-shirt enhanced her breasts: full and shapely.
‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down, her legs splayed to one side. Henry thought she was a timid creature, alone, needing help but he also sensed incalculable strength. She was nervous though. So was Henry.
Her freckles shone strongly in the sunlight: a constellation in the sky of her skin.
There was an initial silence between them as if they were both worried about saying the wrong thing, or maybe going too far, being overfriendly.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, feeling safe with this.
The silence was there again but it wasn’t threatening. Martha’s lips opened slightly and slowly as if she were about to speak and then closed again. Henry wondered why she hadn’t answered.
She turned her head and gazed out to sea. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it,’ she remarked, placing the palms of her hands on the ground.
‘How about walking down to the beach?’ Henry asked, gazing furtively at her outstretched hands. Her fingers looked relatively thick as the skin was forced outwards. A few small freckles splattered her knuckles and fingers. Only a few. They were a gift.
A splash of sunlight filtered through her glass ring and flew away.
‘That would be lovely,’ she answered, pushing herself up, making her hands redden.
Henry watched her rise up and she took the lead. She knew the cliffs better than him, he supposed. He watched her body as she walked. Her gentle stride. Her bottom. Her arms swinging again, rhythmically. He wondered what was going on inside her mind.
As she walked, she found herself fighting against the urge to see inside the lighthouse. As much as she loved the beach, she had an unrelenting need to go inside.
Henry was lovely. She had realised that from the first time she had met him. His eyes made her experience something: there was a quality. A fragility. She had thought of him as broken in some way and, like the mystery of the lighthouse, she was determined to know why.
She had always cared for the feelings of others, sometimes to her own detriment and she had felt an emptiness in him, a void, as if some part of him had gone missing.
Love had struck her once before, many years ago, and then it had left her: scarred. It had never returned and she had never chased it again. Devoting herself to her work she had lived happily with her ‘self’. Content is the word, but to her it always sounded incomplete, underwhelming.
At first meeting, Henry had captured a part of her and she realised that she was ready to love again.
Leading the way carefully, she thought about how many times she had stood on this beach, alone, always alone, alone with her feelings and now she was with someone. A person she didn’t really know but already trusted.
She had always been like that: taking people and situations at face value. There was no ‘side’ to her, no agenda, no edge, no underlying motive for her actions, other than to be happy and to make others happy too. It was a simple philosophy.
As she stepped onto the sand, the wind playfully tugged at her hair, attaching a few strands across her face like a veil. She said softly, ‘When I was a child, I used to have a competition with my father. My late father. See who could get a stone to skip the most. I suppose you played it too, Henry?’
Henry was fixated by her hair. It made her look like she was in distress, as if she needed saving. It was provocative too, in a way, caught on her lips with a few thin pieces entering her mouth. She pulled them out and away, pushing it behind her ears.
‘Yes, yes. But only on holiday. A few times a year at most and then only if my father would join in which wasn’t often. So, shall we see who is today’s champion?’
‘That would be fun,’ Martha replied.
For the next few minutes, they both scoured the shoreline like scavengers searching for the elusive perfect stone. Martha knew to collect only the smoothest stones. She remembered the touch of her father’s hands on her arms as he taught her the best angle at which to throw and how to snap the wrist just at the last moment.
Joyfully, they stood close together at the water’s edge with their ammunition.
Henry went first and his stone went diving into the ocean after one jump. Martha fared better. Her father had taught her well. She won easily with four skips of the stone.
It was as if her father’s hands were still there, strong and sure. It was that certainty that she recalled, that what he was showing her was the true way, the right one. She gazed out at the languid sea. The waves collapsed lazily onto the shore.
Shrugging her shoulders, she unburdened herself of those memories. Staying in the past was unhealthy. Instead, she raised her arms in the air in mock triumph. ‘I am the champion,’ she began to sing, to the tune of the famous Queen song.
Henry laughed out loud, giggled almost. He felt unreasonably happy as he stood there.
He wished they could have stayed there forever but the light was beginning to fade a little.
‘Shall we head back up?’ he asked. ‘To the lighthouse?’
‘That would be great. But we can do this again one day.’
Henry led the way back up this time. Martha noticed his tanned skin, his strong calf muscles that flexed and relaxed and then tightened again. She hadn’t thought about his age until now. His legs were fit, perhaps those of someone twenty years younger. Age, however, didn’t matter to her.
She was interested in what lay under the surface.
They arrived at the top as the light edged a little closer to darkness. Her thoughts were closing in on her. As Henry unlocked the door, she moved closer to him and felt safer.
Emotions were stirring inside her and she had forgotten how certain ones felt: how strong and different they were to other everyday feelings. To be attracted to a man again felt so good, to feel his presence next to her, to wonder about him, to want to know more.
She could sense his inquiring mind.
She was being drawn to him, like a moon to a planet.
Was she disturbed by these feelings? she asked herself. That someone could arouse such feelings in her, bring them back to the surface after so many years. Forcing them up like a buried splinter.
All of this was in contradiction to how she had spent most of her life. A solitary life.
Squares of sky were reflected in the windows. There were darkened angles to the clouds. The light seemed to quiver.
The discussion in her mind wouldn’t cease. The Martha from the past might not have let herself be open to these feelings: she might have closed herself off from them but now she felt a new openness, a desire to reveal what she was like. She also had no desire to isolate them. Let them roan free, she roared. Let them take her somewhere new. But how did Henry feel?
She had seen him looking at her; that look of interest which she had ignored for so long, however infrequently it might have occurred.
Her life had been simple, was simple. Courting complexity was not her mantra. She had her work, her home, her love of the countryside, a few close friends on which to lean when needed but now a part of her was opening like a flower in the morning sun.
She was about to discover a new equilibrium.
Had she been truly happy before? Had she ever been complete? Did she need someone now to help her achieve these? These were all questions that time, the ultimate conjuror, would reveal.
The sound of the key turning brought her back to the present and she could now feel the immensity of the lighthouse surrounding her. Often, she had walked around it, around the small fence and looked up, but she had never studied it this closely or felt this close to it.
This intimately.
Henry pushed the door open.
Pockets of darkness were revealed by strong shafts of light that penetrated the window frames. An arc of stronger light suffused the darkness by the open door.
Henry felt a little embarrassed as he led her in: the floor was still so dusty. To an outsider, it may have appeared as if a tramp was sleeping there, living amongst the discarded food wrappers and a grimy sleeping bag.
‘In we go,’ he stuttered.
Martha moved across the threshold travelling from light to dark.
Suddenly, she felt faint and stumbled. Luckily, Henry turned just as she was falling and caught her in his arms. He could feel her body. It was heavy and yet soft, strong and yet yielding. Lifting her up as best he could he tried to right her and also hold her steady. Martha could feel his strength too.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, letting her go free slowly and carefully.
‘I think so, yes. I don’t know what happened. One moment I was fine and the next I felt peculiar. It was just as I entered. There is something though else.’
‘What?’
‘It feels odd and it probably sounds odd but it’s as if I know this place and yet I can’t. It’s not possible. I’ve never been inside.’
Henry looked puzzled and tried vainly to offer an explanation. ‘Well, you did say that you’ve been drawn to it for some reason. Maybe it was the expectation. But I’ve felt the same thing. Ever since I set eyes on it. I knew I would rebuild it. It’s like it’s been here, waiting for me for all of those years. So, maybe it’s been here for you... too.’
‘Henry, that sounds as good as anything else I can think of,’ she retorted. But she was worried. The atmosphere was feeling changed. She felt she was losing some control of what was happening.
Henry could see by her expression that she was not convinced. ‘Do you want to leave? We can sit outside again. Get some fresh air.’ He felt as if he wanted to feel her body again.
‘No, I’m feeling a little better. Maybe it was just the sudden darkness.’
Henry opened the door as wide as possible.
‘Can we just sit and talk?’ Martha asked.
‘Well, as you can see, there are no chairs. Actually, not much of anything but the sleeping bag is free.’ Henry motioned him arm in a bow as if addressing royalty. Martha laughed quietly.
‘That’s good enough for me,’ she replied. Henry half expected, or rather half hoped, to take her hand and gently ease her down but no, she was sitting in a flash, her legs curled underneath her. Henry sat next to her.
Blades of forcing light slit the air above them. A light breeze pushed forlornly at the door, edging it in and out as if the lighthouse was breathing.
‘So, what do you think?’ Henry asked eagerly, wanting to elicit some kind of opinion from her. ‘From what you can actually see?’
‘It’s amazing,’ Martha began, ‘the size, the shape, the spiral staircase…’ As she said the last few words her eyes became focussed, staring forwards, unblinking: not glazed over, as such, but they were somewhere else.
She was somewhere else… the light was diffused, jumbled scenes flashed before her: then, she saw herself appear from the maelstrom, climbing a wooden ladder: the image was strong, concussive; thumping, battering; memories forcing themselves into her mind, memories of her racing up the ladder’s rungs; a staccato set of images, flickering like the light that bursts through a tangle of branches on a bright, sunny day.
She was climbing to help them, the boats.
She could sense that now.
She could feel the stark coldness of the wood as she rushed up and up, light twisting in from the windows, images crashing between black and white, the wood so, so cold and the sound of her footsteps echoing around the tower, entwining itself into its forms, and then the sound of them breaking in behind her like percussive bullets, the wood cold again as she climbed, sharp and dark, like an intruder on her skin and then there was the sound of other footsteps chasing her from below and yet she had to climb still and then she screamed.
In the fraction of a second that it took to experience those memories, Henry had seen how visibly upset she was: not only in her eyes but in the paleness of her skin, her freckles all but disappeared, her lips set tight.
Henry leant over as her eyes fluttered open and then shut again. He held her hand. It felt bitterly cold.
‘Martha, what’s wrong? What is it?’
‘Henry. I have been here before.’
Thank you for reading. The Lighthouse will be published Saturdays at 5.00pm UK time.