The Lightkeeper's Wife

8



Leon gripped the steering wheel hard as he hammered along the sand. He couldn’t believe he’d been lumped with this chore. Who was this crazy old dame he had to check on every day?

‘Mrs Mary Mason.’ He said it aloud in a whining derogatory tone. She was not part of his job description; that’s what he’d said to his boss when the idea had first been raised. But his boss had waved Leon’s protests away, saying it’d be a simple task and worth every cent of the extra money. Yeah, right. He’d imagined it’d be a quick drop-in, a wave through the door and a distant cheerio. But he could tell already this old woman expected more from him than that. She wanted company. She wanted attention. Her very greeting today spelled needy, in capital letters. He had enough stuff going down at home without having to take this on too.

He slung the car up the ramp from the beach and made a circle around the empty carpark at Whalebone Point. Should he bother with the toilets today? Or could he just leave them till tomorrow, given that he’d have to pass this place every day from now on, for who knew how many weeks? What a waste of time. And where had this old duck come from, anyway? His boss said she’d paid plenty to enlist some support. It was just to put her family at ease, apparently. Nothing too demanding. Leon snorted. What a pain in the arse. And she expected him to be polite and have cups of tea. To have conversations. That wasn’t part of the deal as he’d understood it.

He slammed out of the car and marched into the restrooms. Some idiot had pulled on one of the toilet rolls and there was a trail of paper all over the floor. Once he’d cleaned it up, there wasn’t much else to do. He ought to head back and confront the home scene. Not much to look forward to there either.

He’d been in this job a while now: three, maybe four years. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected—stocking toilet rolls, clearing rubbish and counting money out of National Park permit envelopes . . . if the tight-arse buggers decided to pay. Most visitors slunk by the pay stations, pretending they hadn’t seen them. Nobody would know, of course, because there were no manned booths; it was an honesty system.

When he’d done the ranger training in Hobart, he’d imagined himself in one of the big parks—Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair, or doing track maintenance in the Eastern or Western Arthurs. That would have been his prize posting—being paid to go bush, and maybe even manning one of the huts on the overnight walks. But once things had deteriorated at home, he hadn’t had a choice. With his sister gone up to Devonport years ago, he’d been the only one who could step in, like a United Nations peacekeeping force.

He hadn’t been particularly keen to get back to Adventure Bay. It was too damned quiet. Tourists might think it was pretty; the beaches were nice and there was a spectacular boat tour you could take out along the south-east coast of Bruny. But the place was a backwater, just the musty old museum and a few monuments and a coffee shop. If he hadn’t left Bruny for a spell to complete his course in Hobart, he’d have gone mad . . . although perhaps that was an exaggeration. He did love Bruny. And the coastline was in his blood.

But what was he going to do about this Mrs Mason? He cursed himself for agreeing to a cup of tea tomorrow. And what was he supposed to do, sit there and have a nice chat with her? What would he say, anyway? How was it back in the time of the ark? When are you booked in for your next blue rinse? But that was a bit harsh. He didn’t really know anything about her.

He swung the car up the mountain road and fanged around the curves. This was the benefit of knowing the roads so well; he could drive this route almost in his sleep. Not that he’d boast about that to his mother. Christ! Still living at home at his age. What an embarrassment. If only there was a resolution in sight—then he could apply for a job somewhere else. He’d tried to hint to his mother that she should seriously consider moving out, but he already knew she wouldn’t do it. The old man was a bastard. God knows why she stayed.

Up on the mountain, he pulled over for some fresh air, stomping up the Mount Mangana trail. The track was always wet underfoot and he found the smell of the damp bush soothing. It reminded him of compost, of the forest recycling itself. He liked that about nature, the cycle of things. It was a pity none of the big old trees were left. He’d have to get back over to mainland Tasmania for forests like that—where the trees had diameters larger than the distance around his four-wheel drive. Well, not his four-wheel drive. The Parks vehicle.

He often came here when things weren’t good at home. It was only about a twenty-minute drive from Adventure Bay. Few people came through on weekdays, especially at this time of year, and he could yell satisfyingly at the trees and the sky without worrying about disturbing anyone. Yelling was good for releasing tension, he’d discovered. And it was best done alone.

He figured he’d be doing a bit of yelling about Mary Mason up here over the next few weeks. Then he snorted. Truly, the old dame didn’t look too good. And that cough of hers was a shocker. It made him think of a death rattle. Maybe she wouldn’t be around too long anyway. The thought made him feel guilty; he shouldn’t wish her dead. And besides, guess who’d be the lucky sucker to find her if she did cark it? Living on Bruny, he’d sometimes imagined he might come across a body washed ashore—the coast was so remote around here. But this was different. Every time he went into that cabin at Cloudy Bay he’d be wondering if Mrs Mason was dead.

Well, the first hurdle was this cup of tea tomorrow. He’d hoped wearing his uniform today might discourage her, remind her of his numerous other responsibilities. But then again, he was being paid to check on her. And there was no such thing as a free lunch.

He climbed back into the car and drove down off the mountain to see what mess might be waiting for him at home.