Wildlight Page 23

  A community contained by three tall-timbered coastal mountains—the Three Brothers, named by no less than Captain Cook—by a lazy winding river home to oyster farms and flat-bottomed runabouts, to boys fishing after school in crumpled school shirts, a shoreline of pelicans pink-pouched and gawky, impatient to scoop up picnickers’ fish and chips discards. Steph sees how the Tom she knew would be drawn to this place. Even with the photo from the inflight magazine folded in her bag, her senses are primed for the profile of a face, an intonation of voice, a stance that matches her image of a nineteen-year-old boy.

  How to impart years of innocent misunderstanding.

  Steph spent a day in Sydney’s reference library before coming here. She trawled back through old Sydney newspapers without finding a mention. Finally she uncovered the story through digitised clippings in Tasmanian papers.

  The abandoned Perlita Lee, the land and air search, the upturned dinghy fouled by line that issued a plummeting of hopes of finding the brothers alive. These things she had known. But Steph saw, as she couldn’t back then, the anguish Tom’s mother would have suffered at the finding of a coat with a name, a body that Steph, like all of them, assumed to be Tom. Steph imagined her despair when the search was scaled down, her other son unlikely to be found. Steph balked at the coroner’s report, at grisly testimonials of a faceless carcass afloat in the water. A Mother’s Miracle, the Hobart paper read—Missing Son Walks Home. But not until Steph read of Frank’s tattoo—entwined anchors identical to Tom’s—did the pieces finally fit.

  Everything back then had been in disarray: mourning for Tom, despairing at her parents for selling off the house and packing to move away. Steph could barely focus on the glass school. No one lingered over television news, leafed through morning papers. Even after months on Maatsuyker, friends and relatives would not have connected them with the crew of a fishing boat in south-west Tasmania.

  Could Steph have unearthed the story if she’d had the wherewithal to search? Was Google even part of the vocabulary? She’d just turned seventeen, too raw, after Callam, to face another death. When she returned from Maatsuyker she’d not spoken of Tom to her friends, not to Gran in any detail, not to anyone but Lydia, and even then a long time after.

  In Canberra—a new city, new friends—she boxed up her feelings, sealed away loss, not seeing then the cost that such denial would have on her life, on her willingness to take another chance at love. Callous, it would seem to Tom, as if she hadn’t cared. She discovered soon enough that a glass foundry had no compassion for any plane of time beyond the present. She let herself be owned by glass, physically, emotionally, entirely.

  She could share with Tom the letter of condolence that she wrote to his mother months later, believing Tom was dead. A singular, heartfelt bow to loss, a declaration of her feelings, a testament she laboured over for days. What good could come from that admission? Steph still sees the biro line crossed through the front of the envelope, Return To Sender in his mother’s handwriting she recognised from Tom’s house. The letter had been opened, read, resealed with tape. Had his mother withheld it from her son? Or had Tom been offered it and shaken his head: all done with the past.

  At seventeen, that rejection from his mother delivered a stinging slap across her face: Keep away, her words on the envelope might as easily have read. Your kind brings nothing but trouble.

  Your kind. It grew into a silent incantation Steph carried deep within her, concealed behind the luminosity she strived for with glass. Prospects with good men, honourable men, she sabotaged and walked away from, denying them a chance for fear they’d fail. Safe haven had been a lover who was taken. A man she knew would never leave his wife.

  Did Tom ever try to find her? God, what would he make of the woman she’s become?

  Her kind? Tom’s mother had known a thing or two.

  *

  ‘All natural ingredients,’ says the bubbly woman from the homeopathic stall. An earth mother with long-flowing hair and a lilting voice. ‘Care to try something?’

  Steph pushes back her bangles, turns over her hands. ‘Are these a lost cause?’ Dry skin, scars from glass burns, violet tattoos from the ink jar of her childhood.

  ‘Not by a long shot.’ The woman dabs a tester of cream on each. ‘The most interesting hands are the ones that tell a story.’

  She rubs cream into her hands. It feels wholesome and good.

  ‘A small dab, morning and night. A jar will last a good six months.’

  ‘Sold.’ Steph pulls out her purse.

  The woman looks through her stock. ‘Sorry. I should have checked. I must have sold the last one. I have more at home. I can put one aside for next weekend.’

  ‘I’m only here for a couple of days.’

  ‘I do postal orders.’ The woman hands Steph a brochure and a card. ‘Or if you’re out and about, I’m twenty minutes up the road. Call in anytime.’

  On a whim. ‘Do you know a Tom Forrest?’

  ‘You bet,’ she chirps. ‘He has a place on the opposite side of the river. You’re a friend?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a very long time.’

  ‘Then head down thataway and surprise him. His stall’s at the end. Blue tarp roof.’

  Not Tom but a woman sorting tomatoes, weighing them into paper bags. ‘You missed him by half an hour. He’s raced off to the airport. Won’t be back today.’

  ‘Does he have a mobile? I’m a friend. I’m just visiting.’

  The woman looks wary. She passes Steph a brochure. ‘This has the shop details. He won’t be around. They’re having time away.’

  Steph curbs the urge to ask. She kneels down to the border collie stretched on her lead beneath the trestle. ‘You’re a sweet girl.’ She strokes her ears. The dog licks Steph’s hand, looks at her pleadingly. ‘Is she still a puppy?’

  ‘About a year old, I’d say. She’s Tom’s dog. Spoiled rotten. An overgrown puppy that likes to think she’s a person. Don’t you, Zulu?’

  The dog nuzzles Steph’s hand. ‘He called you Zulu?’ The one signal flag from Maatsuyker. Zulu blinks at her.

  ‘I believe Marcie took charge of the naming,’ the woman says. ‘Brought her up from Tassie as a puppy.’

  Marcie? Steph tightens. ‘Marcie with red hair?’

  ‘That’s her. Can talk underwater,’ the woman adds, none too kindly.

  ‘They’re married?’ The question is out before she can stop it.

  ‘If one of them has their way,’ the woman says. She busies herself bagging tomatoes.

  How? When? Steph catches herself. He owes her nothing. How they came to be together is not her business. And yet this graze of betrayal. She slips the brochure in her bag, feels compelled to make a purchase. ‘You choose. Whichever one you think is good.’

  ‘They’re all good.’ The woman sets her straight. ‘All Tom’s recipes.’ The woman packs a jar in a carry bag. ‘Try this one from the new range.’ She passes Steph her change. ‘We’re expecting them back Wednesday, if you’re still around.’

  She hears Lydia’s caution. Consequences. She hasn’t left the far side of the world to overturn a new round of lives. ‘Ships in the night,’ she says to the woman.

  ‘How did you say you knew Tom?’

  She didn’t. ‘It was years ago.’ She was silly to waltz up here unannounced. She’s been freewheeling through some jumbled, jet-lagged time warp. Did she really imagine she could pick up where she left off?

  ‘Tell him hello. Tell both of them hello. Tell them all the best from Stephanie.’

  31

  Tom stands on the balcony of Smoky Cape Lighthouse—painted stonework, brass railings, the whole sweep of ocean ruffled with dusk. To the north, beyond the former keepers’ cottages, hill after hill of rainforest. This would have been something in the old days, living and working out here on your own. Eighteen ninety-one. A new age. A coastline of lights giving ships their bearings.

  Down the hill, Marcie naps, the old light keepers’ cottage
s converted to upscale accommodation. She’s had this retreat planned for months. It feels churlish to think it, but Tom is thankful for this quiet reverie, just birdsong and bush, the sun tracked low enough behind the hills that the shallows of the ocean are cast indigo with shadow. He’d almost forgotten the sensation of sea salt heavy in the air, the trace of seaweed.

  You’re lucky to snag a week without other bookings. Marcie thanked the caretaker sweetly for giving them their choice of cottage. Back tomorrow arvo. The man entrusted Tom with the keys as if complicit with Marcie’s yearning for time on their own. Breeze curls around Tom’s legs.

  He circles the balcony, this solid footing anchored to the earth. He’s far above the ocean, his reflection in the glass, a place where a person could look down upon their life. Beyond the ridge of bush the crescent moon of North Smoky Beach.

  *

  Roo time. A mob of eastern grays moves across the empty car park, their tails pulling at shadows thrown across the asphalt. The roos gather on grass that lustres with evening sun. Thick tan coats, soft pale bellies, a female with her pouch distended. A large buck stands tall, giving Tom the eye.

  ‘See you down there,’ he calls to Marcie in the bathroom, her hair dryer shrill. He grabs his jacket from the verandah, plucks a box of matches from the glove box of his car, paces down the boardwalk to the beach.

  Waves pull back on sand. The ocean soughs. Tom stands near the water, looking out to sea, the beach chill with shadow. Perhaps he’ll never grow accustomed to the setting sun being eaten by the land; a limitless horizon is the legacy of a fisherman’s time at sea.

  Near the rocks he scoops a hollow in the sand a safe distance from the bush. He sets dried seaweed, leaves and branches, driftwood he’s dragged along the beach. Tom strikes a match and hears a crackle of leaves. He crosses smaller bits of wood on the flames. He shields his eyes from smoke, waiting for the fire to burst to life, for sparks and smoke to spiral through the air.

  Marcie jumps from the boardwalk and strides along the beach with a basket and rug, her red hair lifting like a sail in the breeze. She’s a beautiful woman. Childlike, he sometimes thinks. Am I what you want, Tom?

  The wooded headland stands buttery with flower, above it the dome of lighthouse. He could be back at Maat, setting pots beneath the cliff with Frank.

  ‘Are we allowed a fire?’

  Tom gives a sheepish shrug.

  ‘My,’ she teases. ‘Next you’ll be out there skinny dipping.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’

  He pours Marcie a glass of her champagne and digs the bottle in the sand. He chugs back on a beer. She has cheeses, crackers, olives, a jar of his salsa. Daylight is vanishing, the sky a quiet train of velvet sequinned with tiny sparks of light. An amphitheatre waiting for night to wind it up.

  ‘We should come back here.’ Marcie pours herself a second glass. ‘You’re relaxed here, away from work.’

  Tom sets another log, the breeze falling away like a slow exhalation. Waves scrabble at the sand. He rests on the rug beside Marcie, his head on his elbow. It’s hardly cold enough for a fire, but he savours the feel of it.

  ‘Look,’ Marcie cries. ‘The light’s on.’ She points to the headland. ‘The top of the lighthouse could be Maatsuyker. Twin lights.’

  The same year as Maatsuyker. The only light along this stretch you could even draw a likeness to. ‘A distant cousin, perhaps.’ Tom counts the beams one through nine. He draws in the night damp of salt air.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she declares, ‘I’ll get up early, watch the sunrise with you.’ Tom nods. He ought to encourage her, he ought to say, I’d love that. ‘Do you ever miss your old life?’ she says. ‘Being at sea?’

  He pulls his jacket close. ‘The skies, I miss. The seasons. Changes in the light.’ He doesn’t speak to Marcie about shooting pots at South West Cape, the cliffs aflame. Mornings when the Mewstone floated on a sky burning like a pyre. A different time. A different life.

  ‘When are you going to decommission this?’ She tugs at his sleeve. ‘You’ve had this daggy old jacket for as long as I’ve known you. It’s fit for the bin.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ He pulls his sleeve free. ‘Past its best, it may be. Which makes it an ideal fishing jacket.’

  She scoffs. ‘Pardon me for pointing out the obvious. You don’t fish. You don’t even put your big toe in the water.’

  ‘This,’ he ignores her and pats his jacket, ‘I have to thank for keeping me alive. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.’

  Marcie runs her fingers through his hair. ‘Alive, how?’

  ‘When I decided I’d walk one hundred ks home without gear or a stove, no food to speak of, this was about the only thing of sense I had to keep me warm.’

  ‘Unlike the Tom Forrest I know.’

  ‘I was younger. Impetuous. Trying to prove some point or other.’

  ‘You never had a tent?’

  ‘I had bugger-all. I slept on bare ground. A plastic tarp I found along the way.’

  ‘Were you doing a Bear Grylls? Wrestling wombats. Eating raw grubs. Did you drink the blood of leeches?’ She walks her fingers across his forehead.

  ‘I ate out of an old tin. Made a fire at night—or tried to with a useless box of matches. Luckily for me I met William halfway along. He had everything strapped to his back except the kitchen sink.’

  ‘I wish I could have met him.’

  ‘He was one of a kind.’

  Marcie pours herself another glass. She passes Tom a second beer. He closes his eyes, listens to the ocean.

  Marcie bumps him. ‘Keep talking. You never talk about back then. What else?’

  ‘Nothing. Just days of being wet and cold, feeling pissed off with myself.’ Tom shakes the box of matches in his hand. ‘What I would have given for a decent box of these. One night I was down to my last matches, hadn’t a hope of finding anything dry to get a fire started. I dug around in my pockets of this jacket.’ He pauses for emphasis. ‘Hey presto.’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘Paper, a sprig of dry twig. I can still see it, clear as day. Carefully tearing this small sheet of yellow graph paper into strips, delicately lacing it over the twigs, trying to shield the whole thing from the rain.’

  Marcie gives a shrug.

  ‘It may sound meagre to you,’ Tom sets her straight. ‘Back then it felt like a gift from the heavens. Enough to get a fire started, warm up some packet food. I believe I had a guardian angel looking over me during that time.’

  Marcie sits in silence, staring at the flames. ‘Maybe your guardian angel is closer than you think. I was the one who brought your jacket back from Maatsuyker Island.’

  Tom rubs her knee. ‘Your big day on the island. I’d forgotten. Thank you.’

  ‘Did you meet Stephanie’s mum?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘She took care of me like a daughter. She was so kind to me.’

  ‘They were nice.’

  ‘Her father was a light keeper, way back.’ Marcie guzzles her drink. ‘You see her after that?’

  Tom blinks. ‘Why would I see Gretchen?’

  ‘Stephanie. Did you get in touch with her?’

  ‘No.’ He’s told her that before.

  ‘She never called you?’ Tom takes a breath. This old road. Marcie changes shape if another woman so much as smiles in his direction. She even puts the ladies at the showroom on edge. ‘After the tragedy,’ Marcie clucks. ‘After everything that happened with your brother. Not much compassion.’

  ‘She was someone I crossed paths with a very long time ago. I’m sure she had her reasons.’ Tom closes his eyes to the crackle of the fire, the ocean stirring.

  ‘Last night. You sang out in your sleep.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You know you did, babe. You called your brother’s name.’ She loops her arm around his chest. ‘I think it would help if you opened up. Stop bottling things up. You hear about soldiers who come back from combat and they hold i
t all in and hide it from their loved ones and then years and years later they begin to unravel—’

  ‘Hush.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘I’ve never been to war. I’m not wounded. I have a few bad dreams. End of story.’ He doesn’t mean to sound sharp. He sees her chest rise, hears her breath change. This constant withholding on his part. This shabby imbalance. He reaches for her. ‘Don’t go getting upset.’

  She pushes him away. Wine spills across his jacket. ‘You always keep me at a distance. You don’t talk to me.’

  ‘What are we doing now?’

  ‘Why don’t you say you love me?’

  ‘Marcie. You’re lovely. I tell you all the time. I care for you. Very much.’

  The beam from the tower cuts the sky, nine prisms, nine sweeps of light. A burning log tumbles in a whoosh of sparks. The Milky Way strewn across the sky.

  ‘Do I make you happy?’

  This wariness he feels, headlong toward a trap. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let me move up here. Let’s give it a try. I could help you at home, with the business. What do we have to lose?’ She’s been angling toward this all year, impatient for the world’s worst ditherer to get his act together.

  How to put into words something he can’t fathom for himself? ‘It’s a big step. It would mean you giving up your job. Your apartment.’

  ‘I don’t care about my job.’

  ‘I’m not sure we’re quite ready.’

  Marcie sighs. ‘When will we be ready? How long will we wait?’

  ‘You’re free to make your own choices.’ Heartless, Tom. She drains her glass, moves to pack the things away. ‘Don’t go. Let’s enjoy tonight. Here. Together.’

  She cogitates. ‘You have a good business. A nice house. You have me. Zulu. Why can’t all that be enough?’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ Any answer will be wrong.

  ‘I want to know what you want from your life that you don’t already have. I’m serious, Tom. Name one thing.’

  Tom turns to the ocean, sees lines of phosphorescence, waves snapping at the sand. He listens hard and hears the ocean cackle. ‘I want peace. I want to be at peace.’