The Lighthouse
A serialised novel
Chapter Fifteen
Henry awoke feeling refreshed. A dreamless night. Unzipping the sleeping bag, he gazed up at the spiral staircase. Narrow filaments of morning light criss-crossed the railing creating intricate shapes.
There were no feelings of imminent doom today.
Instead, he felt recharged, optimistic, determined to begin this new chapter in his life. The chest lay silently beside him.
Getting up, he unlocked the door and walked to his tent. Dew littered the grass heads with tiny clear droplets. He made tea and breakfast.
The sea was inviting with morning sunlight adding flickering bands of aquamarine to the waves. It looked shallower there. The horizon was sharply defined. Pipits flew in small groups amongst the grass, feeding and then flitting.
Henry wanted to stay put and just gaze out, enjoy, but he had to go. Packing his bag quickly, he paced up the hill towards the bus stop. He now felt like he was leaving home.
As he walked, shards of chalk flicked up into the air, kicked up by his heels and his mind began to wander.
What other truths could be buried in the lighthouse?
It was now a repository of truth, a collection of truths waiting to be opened, a place where truth could be gleaned from. And, as a vault for truth, the lighthouse could reveal them one by one, not only through the papers but through its re-emergence, by its new life given to it by Henry.
Traffic flew past and drowned out the cries of circling gulls and the rush of the longer grass was lost.
Henry did not know if there were ever absolute truths to be discovered in life. Even death now had more mysteries for him. But the lighthouse had revealed the first one and had now begun a process that would lead to more and more. He was sure of it.
The importance of truth had obviously been a central tenet of his teaching and to his life. In his work, getting two students to agree on even an everyday simple truth had been difficult, even rare, sometimes impossible. He understood that truth was personal. Universal truths were only universal for those who had that belief in them. He often asked if anyone had access to the truth.
In his life, his own body of belief had been constant until the end. Then, he had faced the ultimate test and he had failed. There had been an opportunity for truth but he had not taken it. It had eluded him, but it had been by choice.
It had haunted him since that day.
He had replayed that moment in his mind a thousand times. Her face, pale and weary, tired as she lay ill in their bed and then he had made the choice.
Once again, he had to rid it from his thoughts.
He would let the lighthouse finally uncover it, deal with it and then he could face it again.
That was for the future. Now, he would build.
An hour later he arrived at the library door. The opening hours were sparse. Passers-by looked happy enough and he found that they smiled more than they grimaced, giving the time of day happily, if your body language offered it in return.
He found this pleasing.
So, what would he find?
From the outside, the library looked small. Perhaps it was like a Tardis. On entering, he scanned the usual notice board in the foyer. Messages and business cards offered anything from massages, a recycled book stall, home hairdressing to how to feng shui your bedroom. All the things you would expect in a thriving, busy village.
There was a corridor in front of him but the sign for the library was on the right. The door had even fewer opening hours than stated on the front door. Entering, he sniffed at the aroma: a mixture of books, old and new and people, with a whiff of carpet. A few people sat at computer terminals that looked a bit ancient, typing happily, lost in their screens.
In the children’s corner, a mother eagerly read an Anthony Browne to her son, putting on a quite believable gorilla voice with mannerisms too.
It felt homely.
Henry walked up to the desk. An elderly lady, perhaps sixty, with a grey bun, was at work behind, fiddling with hundreds of small paper tickets. Perhaps not everything had been computerised. He had no idea they still used them. She was still needed, for now.
She looked up and her black-rimmed glasses shook a little with the movement of her head. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m looking for some information about local history or local records,’ Henry advised her. Her eyes immediately brightened. She may not have been asked this very often.
‘Well, sir, of course, but first we have to make you a member of the library.’ Ah, Henry hadn’t thought that part through. He should have, of course. He had been so used to getting access to anything he needed at the university.
‘Yes, sorry. I only moved here a few days ago. Into the lighthouse, actually.’ She stood still, stopped and gazed at him as if he had suddenly sprouted wings or two heads.
‘The lighthouse?’ she asked, confused. ‘It’s empty. Has been since I was a girl.’
‘Yes, I know. It was but I just bought it from that nice Mr. Tomkin.’ Henry could see her think deeply and rapidly.
‘Well, I could give you an emergency member card. Yes, that would do for now.’
‘Fantastic,’ Henry replied. She handed it over graciously and he sat at a desk nearby to fill it out. Henry was fine until he came to the address. He had to catch himself, scratching out the beginnings of his old house name. Well, the new simple answer was ‘lighthouse’ he supposed.
Handing it back, he looked round again. Newspapers, a few magazines, fiction, sports, hobbies, religion, science and so on. The local history section wasn’t immediately noticeable.
‘That’s fine, sir. You can take up to five books out at any one time and use the computers, of course.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Henry replied. ‘I suppose I can see the local history too?’
‘Mm. That’s a separate part of the library, I’m afraid. I should have mentioned that. We only usually let people see them for a special reason.’ She gave Henry a look of resigned acceptance of the situation.
‘Oh, it’s just that, having moved into the lighthouse, I’m really fascinated by its history,’ he spoke hopefully. ‘Especially any links to your lovely village.’ She seemed to soften a little at his last words.
‘Well, let me see. I’ll have a word with Miss Lessing. She’s our local history expert.’
Henry watched her leave the counter and scuttle around to the right and off towards the back of the library.
She returned swiftly. ‘She’s more than happy to talk to you now… if you like, mister…’
‘Blair. Henry Blair.’
‘Follow me please.’ And with that he followed her to the door of the small local history records office. There was a different atmosphere here from the rest of the library that was difficult to nail down.
As Miss Lessing opened the door, he recognised her immediately.
She was the figure from the path.
Chapter Sixteen
Henry tried not to look startled. There was no doubt in his mind though. Something about her told him it was her. Some essence that she possessed.
‘Hello, Mr. Blair, isn’t it?’ she inquired. Her voice was warm, not aloof or guarded, as when you meet a stranger for the first time, but welcoming, friendly, as if she already knew him.
‘Please, call me Henry.’ As soon as the words left his mouth it dawned on him how inept, how foolish he sounded. Was he flirting? A man of his age. She looked at most thirty-five but he was never good at guessing age. Almost everyone he had met was between eighteen and twenty-one.
However, she took it in her stride. ‘Henry, it is.’ She smiled and her face, still full of summer freckles, looked so alive, so fresh, so full of energy. She almost bounced, even though she was standing still. A bit like Tigger.
He was speechless for a few seconds. Anything else he said might be used in evidence against him.
She waited for him to speak and then said, ‘Please, please come in. Have a seat.’ The table was old, covered in ink blots, old papers, scratches.
Henry watched her in fascination. He had no choice. He hadn’t noticed a woman, a body, how it moved, how it looked, for over thirty years. Really noticed. He hadn’t needed to since he had met his wife. He hadn’t wanted to, either. And then any feelings like that had been buried by events.
Feeling a pang of guilt like a spike in his flesh, he averted his gaze and picked at the table. He felt a little uncomfortable.
She stood still, adjusting a pile of books. It gave Henry the chance to look around. There were many shelves of modern books but also a bookshelf with glass doors and a small padlock. The books in there were considerably older. On the walls, old ordnance survey maps of the county mingled with more modern representations of the surrounding area and the coastline. Under the maps were hundreds of wooden cabinets with alphabetised drawers with tiny brass handles.
It was everything you would expect a local history records office to be, even with a dusty microfiche machine next to two computer terminals.
Miss Lessing turned and, in her face, he saw something, some exquisite spark. Henry tried not to stare.
‘So, Henry. What would you like to know?’ Her voice was lively, infectious in its joy.
‘Yes, well. I’ve just bought the lighthouse, a few days ago in fact, and I’m trying to find out more about its history and any links it may have to the village.’ It was her time to try to look calm, unruffled.
‘Ah, the lighthouse. Yes, I know it well.’ This sounded like a good sign to Henry. He moved in his chair and it squeaked loudly.
‘Actually,’ Henry began, a little embarrassed, ‘I wanted to ask you another question. I hope you don’t mind. It’s linked in a way.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Well, I’ll get straight to it. I saw someone last night, late, walking on the paths above the lighthouse and I wondered if it was you?’ He wondered if he was suddenly being too blunt, too demanding. Perhaps he should have tried to get the information he wanted first.
Miss Lessing looked at ease. ‘Oh, yes. That was me. I go there often, in fact it’s one of my favourite walks, especially when it’s quiet just before dark. It’s so dramatic with the cliffs and the lighthouse. I love it!’ Her body swayed like the movement of gentle waves on a windless day.
‘I thought it was. Well, that’s great. I mean, that we both like it so much there.’ Henry was bumbling again: most unlike him.
‘Actually, now it’s my turn to ask a question. I know all about the fact that it’s been abandoned for fifty years and that, well, honestly, no-one has wanted it for a variety of reasons. So, I was most interested why you had bought it.’ She finally sat down opposite him.
Henry shouldn’t have, but he did: he gazed into her eyes. They were brown, a deep, delicious brown and the few lines around her eyes made her face smile even when she wasn’t trying to.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ he began, ‘as soon as I saw it, I just wanted it. I needed it. It was a gut feeling. It’s a long story leading up to that, not for today.’
Strangely, she looked totally satisfied by the answer. She accepted it wholly.
There was much more to this Miss Lessing.
‘So, Henry. You want to know more? And please call me Martha.’ Henry loved the name. So young and so old, simultaneously.
‘Yes, please. Martha. Anything you can find out.’
As they sat there, a warm wave of sunlight scanned the room like a searchlight in the night sky and he remembered when they had visited old houses together and how they always got terribly excited by their libraries and the vast number and age of the books that these old houses contained, as if they were chosen to house them for the future, and they would scour the shelves, savouring every item and how the massive, leather-bound tomes would always be at the bottom of the shelves but as always was the case, they could never get as close as they craved, they could never touch, only admire and then later, they would talk in the café about the mysteries that they might have contained and how, if only, if only they, if only it was possible, that just they could have had access to them, be left alone with them all, be left to unearth an ancient truth, or discover a lost language or find a hidden letter revealing a promise, or a love unrequited.
The sunlight hit Henry’s face and he looked again at Martha. Her eyes shone with an inner light.
‘Henry. Henry?’ she asked. ‘You were somewhere else for a moment, I know. Maybe you could help me.’
Henry’s heart soared like an eagle and it was first time for many months that he had felt that. A rising warmth in his stomach, up through his chest and into his face. It felt ungainly at first, as if in contradiction to his normal state and then he accepted it.
‘Yes, of course. That’s more than I imagined. Where shall we begin?’
‘Well, today we could look in the index cards and maybe cross reference lighthouse with owners of land or local landlords. It would be something. I’ve got a little time and I love this sort of thing. Well, obviously.’ Her enthusiasm was infectious.
Henry had researched before, of course, so he knew what to do. They worked together as a team and occasionally their bodies would have to cross or they would have to go around each other. And each time it happened they seemed to know instinctively which way the other person was going to go.
They didn’t talk.
They didn’t waver from the task.
After twenty minutes, all they had found out was that it was abandoned fifty years ago. He felt deflated.
‘Don’t worry,’ Martha said, ‘we can carry on another day. What about tomorrow? We could look in the microfiche and unlock the cabinet.’
‘That would be great,’ Henry echoed. He wanted to hug her, which would have been out of character and definitely alarming to her, so instead shook her hand. It was warm and golden.
He wanted to tell her about Caradoc, but he was unsure and frightened. What if she thought he was crazy? Or hallucinating? It was too great a risk.
As he left, he looked back. He felt different inside.
He was fascinated by her.
For the first time in many months, he wanted time to go faster.
Chapter Seventeen
Henry returned to the lighthouse in a mood that he hadn’t experienced for years: a heightened feeling as if his personality had somehow altered. Are we always so shaped by events? he asked himself, and if so, how inconsequential most are, forgotten, passed by. A chance meeting. A loss. A moment of regret. These, however, can change our whole life.
Martha had been on his mind, well, in his mind constantly: as he sat on the bus, as he watched the fields come and go, as he watched the clouds saunter across the sky: the jarring movement of the bus made no effect; his consciousness was glued to this impression she had made, like a hand in plaster of Paris or a cat’s footprint on newly laid cement.
It could not be extinguished. It could not be altered. It was imprinted now and forever.
In fact, he felt a little like an adolescent again, when those new emotions are fresh and so very powerful: when they can invade your whole being and unlock parts of your psyche you never knew existed. He could not erase her image. Not at all. Yes, like a teenager, full of unfulfilled promise and longings, he found himself in a state of euphoria.
Sadly, this had also led to a feeling of guilt, as if a stone had lodged in his stomach. Was there a darkened portent growing inside?
Guilt.
As he had taught: it was a natural state for humans: finding yourself on a never-ending carousel of guilt, absolution, sin and false morality. And frequently, the carousel moves too fast to alight.
Henry felt that his own guilt might lead to his destruction. And now a new layer of guilt was forming like a skin on cooling soup. The guilt of what had previously happened to his wife at the end and now the first shoots of guilt over how he felt about Martha, even if they were only seedlings.
He had to overcome this natural state. Somehow.
The lighthouse had to be his saviour.
Embracing life in its entirety was a theory that was impossible to achieve: no human could do it. One could only embrace what was manageable for you, Henry had always thought. So much of life was a series of coping strategies.
This new emotion, though, was so strong and he would need to either cut it out immediately, like a surgeon with a tumour, or ride with it, like a surfer on a wave. Embracing it would lead to an abandonment of any idea of being ashamed.
Henry would need to forge a new morality.
The darkened sky of his last few months should not overshadow him now. Instead, rising with the lighthouse, above the morning clouds, he needed, no, wanted this emotion.
As a butterfly dips its proboscis into the nectar, Henry would need to dive down, but not, however, retract it, instead learn to swim.
Henry, as always, believed that we are defined to a large extent by our choices, but to make the right ones for oneself was, in essence, the game that we all play.
Doubt, as a consequence of making choices, had clouded his thinking for the last few months. The duality of the sea and the land had opened up, literally, a new path, and the physicality of this had changed his course.
Now, the direction had altered once again.
Henry attempted to clear his mind, as he tripped down the path towards the shoreline.
It was a steep descent and he had to be careful where he trod. A gentle wind tugged at his face and the sound of the sea below was quietened. Gulls swooped up and down the sheer face of the cliffs, landing and alighting constantly. Like acrobats they anchored themselves to the rocks and then flew graciously out.
When he reached the shore, he felt a little calmer, and his feet landed on a stretch of softer sand, untouched by the tide. The sea was about a hundred metres from the cliff. Tiny waves, lacking energy, exhausted by their journey, tipped over the shingle, gently, and ushered in the sound of retreat.
Behind him he felt the weight of the land: the abrupt falling.
The light was fading a little.
Pebbles lay glistening, still freshly coated from the tide, softened by the evening light. They were beaten smooth and the whitest of them were like rare jewels whilst others had cracks and fissures: blackened lines that made them appear unworthy, unwholesome. The line of pebbles stretched away and around the headland in both directions.
Henry stepped onto them and felt his body shift as they moved. He wondered how far he would need to go to see the lighthouse. The line of pebbles thinned and was swallowed by another line of sand before the waves. This was softer, yielding, like flesh. He turned and strained to look higher. The red vent was just visible but the tide was now flowing in, burying the striated lines of the sand.
It was time to climb back up. The sea acted like a mirror when it was calm and, in the water, somewhere, far out, near to the horizon, Henry hoped that a reflection of the lighthouse was floating away, lying flat, undulating softly.
The call of an oystercatcher broke his reverie as it scuttled across the shingle and he noticed, as he turned to return, one of the few shells on the beach. Its pattern was like a fan, orange-tinted and creamy white.
It was perfect in form and shape.
Henry crossed the pebbles again and the soft sand and as he climbed, he wished that he had found out at least one piece of the lighthouse’s history today. At least, a start.
It was an empty regret: it was a trait that he had tried to discourage since an early age.
Then, he saw an image of Martha, then his wife smiling, then Martha, then his wife again. Wiping his eyes, he reached the top and sat outside his tent and made dinner.
The darkness fell in regular intervals like a shutter closing slowly, rhythmically.
He ate peacefully and he savoured the taste. After, with the moon rising, he unlocked the door, switched on the camping light, turned, locked the door with a twist of the hand and settled down into his sleeping bag.
As his thoughts wandered, he began to drift. Then, a sound came from the chest. It was the same tapping, only not so violent this time, more of a gentle reminder of its existence.
Opening the lid, he unearthed the second paper.
It was astounding.
Chapter Eighteen
My name is Doctor Durrell. The date is the 24th May in the year of our Lord 1472. It is my solemn duty and my oath before God to detail this account of the death of Eliza Trench, aged 37, a widower, late of this parish. A death sustained after receiving terrible life-changing injuries.
And it is with heavy heart that I now recount it in detail. A tale too deeply set in violence and tragedy. A tale that even I, an experienced doctor and coroner, find difficult to come to terms with.
The account is unlike any other that I have even undertaken for this is, in fact, a story to be told, a tale that needs to be recorded for posterity, one that needs to be heard and reflected upon.
Sadly, a life has been extinguished and it was unnecessary. In the eyes of the Lord, it must now be understood and somewhere in Heaven, felt by all.
Have pity on her soul!
May she rest in peace.
So, the story.
I was called out by a message from a neighbour of the lady in question. It was a stormy February night of last year 1471.
The journey had been utterly terrible, shocking to the core. I was fearful. In fact, I only just escaped with my life, the storm was raging so fiercely.
It was an evil night.
I had set out in the final hour of daylight, the wind tossing the clouds like an angry toddler playing with toys. I was led down to the cliff edge, along the winding lane, on a darkened path in the shadows of hedges. Her house was so close to the cliffs that on several occasions my horse had reared up, making a ghastly noise in its own private hell, afraid to continue in the roaring wind.
It truly felt as if the sea might roar so loudly that it would devour us at any moment.
The night was evil!
At last, I was guided by a light flickering in the distance: a light that seemed to be lost out at sea, lost within the folding clouds and the scurrilous waves.
So, it led me to her house. The storm ravaged my whole being as I tied up my horse and hoisted my doctor’s bag under my arm. I could feel the full force.
The sea hissed like an angry serpent.
The light was weak inside the house and I wondered that, if it now became extinguished, perhaps I would be too late to save whoever was within.
I knocked on the door and it was answered by a pale-faced woman, the neighbour, whose face told a story of its own and she led me across the threshold and through the house to a bedroom.
The house was sparsely furnished. There was very little and what was there was old, tattered or broken. The curtains on the window were merely rags.
The neighbour, whose name I never found out, led me into the bedroom and then left like a mist that evaporated when the sun strengthened. She lowered her head as she left and made the sign of the cross. This did not bode well.
The bedroom was lit only by a candlelight. A body lay on the bed, motionless. Outside, the wind rattled and as it pulsed and pushed, it moaned relentlessly through a small crack in the glass. The storm flew like a tyrant. In the dimly lit shadows, I saw only one chair, a table and the floor was only made from mud.
I approached carefully. As soon as I saw her face, a river of shock ran over me like a tidal wave out of control. As a doctor I had seen many horrific things in my life but never had I witnessed the like before.
For a moment, I felt physically sick. My stomach turned. My resolve weakened. My eyes turned away. This was most unlike me.
I gathered myself and turned and went to her side. She lay under one old, dirty blanket. The smell was strong. She was breathing.
Her eyes were closed at first as I leant over and then it was that I beheld the extent of her facial injuries. She had been burnt: burnt so badly. In some places, her hair was glued to her skin and there was a residual smell of burnt flesh. There were scabs forming over some blisters but others were still open with pus leaking out. The burning was obviously recent.
Any features of her face were now horribly distorted by this force of fire. It had ravaged her.
Quickly, I opened my bag and reached for some ointment to soothe the flesh. As my hand approached, the skin seemed to be bubbling again.
I could now feel the heat from her face. I briefly uncovered her body to find substantial other injuries as if she had fallen or possibly been beaten.
I realised quickly, that all I could do was ease her pain.
She made no sound as I touched her skin.
Yes, I touched the skin and as I did, I felt my body go somewhere else, as if I were no longer in control of it. I felt myself consumed by a fire but I could feel no heat or pain and yet the flames appeared real, even though they were silent.
Then, my body returned to me and as I applied the mixture, she opened her eyes. They were hazel, fiery in contemplation: greens and browns with a speck of orange.
She gazed up at me, not in fear, but in acceptance and also as if she knew me. I knew then that I was there for a higher reason.
I continued to soothe her skin. She did not flinch. Perhaps she was beyond pain: in another realm.
Desperately, I yearned for her name and also to find out what had happened to her. Who could be responsible for this?
‘Can you speak?’ I asked her. She nodded. Her lips were sore and reddened.
‘What is your name?’ It was a struggle for her. She sighed a deep breath, which, for an instant, I believed to be her last but it was only a prequel to her beginning. From some place, deep inside, she had found strength to tell me.
‘My name is unimportant. I…’ she paused, in obvious pain again. ‘I light the beacon on the hill. It is my calling. I ward off the ships on nights when nature is against us all. At the wooden tower. I save them as well as I can, but tonight…’ She began to cough and she spat up some blood. Somehow, she carried on, ‘When I went tonight, there were men waiting for me. Smugglers.’
I felt that I needed to stop her, for her to save what little reserves she had, to save her energy but I wanted to know too.
‘I had seen their light, the one they had lit to fool the ships, to shipwreck them and I had to light the true one. At first, I did not see them. I climbed the wooden ladder with my flame beside me, hearing them bashing behind me until I reached the top. Then, I must have been hit from behind.’
She stopped again and her face flinched in pain. ‘When I struggled on my light, the true one, it fell from my hands and as I fell, I struck my face again. I think I was unconscious for a time. When I awoke, the tower was ablaze around me, burning with such power and I was caught in the flames. I could feel my face…’ Her eyes glazed over; they lost all life for a second. ‘…then my body was engulfed. I tried to crawl outside and then just as I reached the doorway, I was pulled free and now… now…’
Abruptly, she stopped.
She exhaled her final breath.
There she lay, my finger still applying ointment as she passed. I focused on her face once again, wondering how she might have appeared without the blisters, scabs and burns.
So, her death was at the hands of evil. And those to be held guilty may never be found.
However, her story will live on in my words.
Her death, then, was the outcome of barbaric behaviour. The purposeful, wilful, striking of a woman cannot be expunged or excused. And that of a woman who only knew goodness. Surely, they have been sent to a private hell.
She died a heroine. She died too young. She died whilst saving others.
Here, I end my account of the death of Eliza Trench, aged 37: no more of this earth.
May she rest in peace.
Signed. Dr. Durrell.
Thank you for reading. The Lighthouse will be published Saturdays at 5.00pm UK time.