sorry!’ she said, about to get up.
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Ralph. ‘And here. From Hilda,’ he said, producing from behind his back something tied with a red ribbon.
‘Oh! Shall I open it now?’
‘You’d better! If I don’t give her a blow-by-blow report, I’ll never hear the end of it!’
Isabel opened the wrapping and found Bach’s Goldberg Variations.
‘Tom reckons you can play this sort of caper with your eyes shut.’
‘I haven’t played them for years. But – oh, I just love them! Thank you!’ She hugged Ralph and kissed his cheek. ‘And you too, Bluey,’ she said with a kiss that accidentally caught his lips as he turned.
He blushed violently and looked at the ground. ‘I never had much to do with it, I don’t reckon,’ he said, but Tom protested, ‘Don’t believe a word of it. He drove all the way to Albany to fetch him. Took him the whole day yesterday.’
‘In that case, you get an extra kiss,’ she said, and planted another on his other cheek.
‘And you too!’ she said, kissing the piano tuner for good measure.
That night as he checked the mantle, Tom was serenaded by Bach, the orderly notes climbing the stairs of the lighthouse and ringing around the lantern room, flittering between the prisms. Just like the mercury that made the light go around, Isabel was – mysterious. Able to cure and to poison; able to bear the whole weight of the light, but capable of fracturing into a thousand uncatchable particles, running off in all directions, escaping from itself. He went out onto the gallery. As the lights of the
Windward Spirit
disappeared over the horizon, he said a silent prayer for Isabel, and for their life together. Then he turned to the logbook, and wrote, in the ‘remarks’ column for Wednesday, 13 September 1922, ‘
Visit per store boat: Archie Pollock, piano tuner. Prior approval granted
.’
PART II
CHAPTER 10
27th April 1926
ISABEL’S LIPS WERE pale and her eyes downcast. She still placed her hand fondly on her stomach sometimes, before its flatness reminded her it was empty. And still, her blouses bore occasional patches from the last of the breast milk that had come in so abundantly in the first days, a feast for an absent guest. Then she would cry again, as though the news were fresh.
She stood with sheets in her hands: chores didn’t stop, just as the light didn’t stop. Having made the bed and folded her nightgown under the pillow, she headed up to the cliff, to sit by the graves a while. She tended the new one with great care, wondering whether the fledgling rosemary would take. She pulled a few weeds from around the two older crosses, now finely crystalled with years of salt, the rosemary growing doggedly despite the gales.
When a baby’s cry came to her on the wind, she looked instinctively to the new grave. Before logic could interfere, there was a moment when her mind told her it had all been a mistake – this last child had not been stillborn early, but was living and breathing.
The illusion dissolved, but the cry did not. Then Tom’s call from the gallery – ‘On the beach! A boat!’ – told her this was not a dream, and she moved as quickly as she could to join him on the way to the dinghy.
The man in it was dead, but Tom fished a screaming bundle out of the bow.
‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell, Izzy. It’s—’
‘A baby! Oh my Lord above! Oh Tom! Tom! Here – give it to me!’
Back in the cottage, Isabel’s belly quickened at the very sight of the baby – her arms knew instinctively how to hold the child and calm her, soothe her. As she scooped warm water over the infant, she registered the freshness of her skin, taut and soft and without a wrinkle. She kissed each of the tiny fingertips in turn, gently nibbling down the nails a fraction so the child would not scratch herself. She cupped the baby’s head in the palm of her hand, and with the silk handkerchief she kept for best, dabbed away a fine crust of
‘Not a bit of it,’ said Ralph. ‘And here. From Hilda,’ he said, producing from behind his back something tied with a red ribbon.
‘Oh! Shall I open it now?’
‘You’d better! If I don’t give her a blow-by-blow report, I’ll never hear the end of it!’
Isabel opened the wrapping and found Bach’s Goldberg Variations.
‘Tom reckons you can play this sort of caper with your eyes shut.’
‘I haven’t played them for years. But – oh, I just love them! Thank you!’ She hugged Ralph and kissed his cheek. ‘And you too, Bluey,’ she said with a kiss that accidentally caught his lips as he turned.
He blushed violently and looked at the ground. ‘I never had much to do with it, I don’t reckon,’ he said, but Tom protested, ‘Don’t believe a word of it. He drove all the way to Albany to fetch him. Took him the whole day yesterday.’
‘In that case, you get an extra kiss,’ she said, and planted another on his other cheek.
‘And you too!’ she said, kissing the piano tuner for good measure.
That night as he checked the mantle, Tom was serenaded by Bach, the orderly notes climbing the stairs of the lighthouse and ringing around the lantern room, flittering between the prisms. Just like the mercury that made the light go around, Isabel was – mysterious. Able to cure and to poison; able to bear the whole weight of the light, but capable of fracturing into a thousand uncatchable particles, running off in all directions, escaping from itself. He went out onto the gallery. As the lights of the
Windward Spirit
disappeared over the horizon, he said a silent prayer for Isabel, and for their life together. Then he turned to the logbook, and wrote, in the ‘remarks’ column for Wednesday, 13 September 1922, ‘
Visit per store boat: Archie Pollock, piano tuner. Prior approval granted
.’
PART II
CHAPTER 10
27th April 1926
ISABEL’S LIPS WERE pale and her eyes downcast. She still placed her hand fondly on her stomach sometimes, before its flatness reminded her it was empty. And still, her blouses bore occasional patches from the last of the breast milk that had come in so abundantly in the first days, a feast for an absent guest. Then she would cry again, as though the news were fresh.
She stood with sheets in her hands: chores didn’t stop, just as the light didn’t stop. Having made the bed and folded her nightgown under the pillow, she headed up to the cliff, to sit by the graves a while. She tended the new one with great care, wondering whether the fledgling rosemary would take. She pulled a few weeds from around the two older crosses, now finely crystalled with years of salt, the rosemary growing doggedly despite the gales.
When a baby’s cry came to her on the wind, she looked instinctively to the new grave. Before logic could interfere, there was a moment when her mind told her it had all been a mistake – this last child had not been stillborn early, but was living and breathing.
The illusion dissolved, but the cry did not. Then Tom’s call from the gallery – ‘On the beach! A boat!’ – told her this was not a dream, and she moved as quickly as she could to join him on the way to the dinghy.
The man in it was dead, but Tom fished a screaming bundle out of the bow.
‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell, Izzy. It’s—’
‘A baby! Oh my Lord above! Oh Tom! Tom! Here – give it to me!’
Back in the cottage, Isabel’s belly quickened at the very sight of the baby – her arms knew instinctively how to hold the child and calm her, soothe her. As she scooped warm water over the infant, she registered the freshness of her skin, taut and soft and without a wrinkle. She kissed each of the tiny fingertips in turn, gently nibbling down the nails a fraction so the child would not scratch herself. She cupped the baby’s head in the palm of her hand, and with the silk handkerchief she kept for best, dabbed away a fine crust of
Similar Books
