to the Railways doctor who sometimes dealt with lighthouse staff. I went for my annual medical and we had a chat. Good bloke. Keen fisherman. He told me that treating lighthouse staff at various places was fascinating. Said he wished he’d studied psychology. Apparently we’re an odd lot!’ He smiles. ‘Are we odd?’ He casts a quizzical glance at Rika.
‘Decidedly,’ she says with a laugh.
He puts out his hand very briefly as if to touch hers, then withdraws it calmly.
‘The island is a very healthy place. In fact, it was a joke that every time anyone went on shore leave they brought back some germ or other and we’d all go down for a week until the wind and the stink of guano killed off the bugs and we were well again. Same with the workers. Regular as clockwork. But the doc told me that he’d inherited the medical records from the retired man whose place he took and found them really interesting. Men suffered injuries – fish hooks, breaks, accidents with machinery. The wives were treated, one after the other, for what he called “melancholia”.’
Rika smiles. ‘A rather quaint way of putting it. But it hardly seems surprising.’
‘Except for dear old Maisie. I’m sure no one ever treated her for that.’ He laughs. ‘That woman is like no other.’
‘And how did the doctor deal with “melancholia”?’
‘Shore leave usually sorted it out. Some of the keepers have their own houses in a town if they can afford it and leave their families there if they have a difficult posting like being stuck on one of the islands. Works better for schooling. Mothers and children. Friends. Family. Then it’s like being married to a sailor. You know that in the old days a keeper might be at the same light for years. Now a stint lasts two or three – no more. There was one old bloke though – a contemporary of my father’s – who stayed at one of the most isolated lights for over thirty years. He wouldn’t even take leave.’
‘I assume he wasn’t married!’
‘If he was, we never heard about his wife.’
‘There comes your melancholia!’ Rika says a little dryly.
Hannes looks down at his hands, locks the knuckles. He says, ‘My mother committed suicide. She put weights in her pockets and drowned herself in the island well.’
Rika waits. She knows he is beyond any words of sympathy or comfort.
‘And now Aletta,’ he says. He is silent a moment. ‘Except she is a keeper’s daughter. In a way I always thought she
was
the light.’
And she was – until this island. Its misshapen tides, its hidden reefs.
Until this lighthouse with its prosaic square-rigged tower, somehow without the grandeur or the power, the height, the weight, the dignity of the others where they’d served.
Instead it had a deep, forbidding melancholy.
And yet, for Hannes, it was the only place where he belonged. Enough for him to say he could be buried there.
‘Does the lighthouse depend on the keeper or the keeper on the lighthouse?’ Hannes says. ‘There’s a question for you.’
‘You were speaking of Aletta,’ Rika says, leading him back.
‘I am. They are the same.’
‘It’s difficult dancing in the garage, Hannes. All your stuff is lying around and it’s too small and hot. Can I make a place in the old keeper’s quarters?’ Aletta said.
‘It’s also full of stuff.’
‘There are rooms and rooms.’
‘It hasn’t been lived in since the new houses were built.’
‘So?’
So.
Hannes cast about, looking for objections, not knowing why he was objecting. ‘It’s part of the lighthouse,’ he said. ‘And that’s off limits.’
‘It’s where we would have lived if they hadn’t built this godawful house,’ she said. ‘I could have chosen to live there if I’d wanted.’
‘But you didn’t want.’
‘Nor did you.’
‘No.’
‘Which is hardly the bloody point.’ She was defiant. ‘I just want some space to dance where I’m not disturbed.’
‘Since when have I ever
‘Decidedly,’ she says with a laugh.
He puts out his hand very briefly as if to touch hers, then withdraws it calmly.
‘The island is a very healthy place. In fact, it was a joke that every time anyone went on shore leave they brought back some germ or other and we’d all go down for a week until the wind and the stink of guano killed off the bugs and we were well again. Same with the workers. Regular as clockwork. But the doc told me that he’d inherited the medical records from the retired man whose place he took and found them really interesting. Men suffered injuries – fish hooks, breaks, accidents with machinery. The wives were treated, one after the other, for what he called “melancholia”.’
Rika smiles. ‘A rather quaint way of putting it. But it hardly seems surprising.’
‘Except for dear old Maisie. I’m sure no one ever treated her for that.’ He laughs. ‘That woman is like no other.’
‘And how did the doctor deal with “melancholia”?’
‘Shore leave usually sorted it out. Some of the keepers have their own houses in a town if they can afford it and leave their families there if they have a difficult posting like being stuck on one of the islands. Works better for schooling. Mothers and children. Friends. Family. Then it’s like being married to a sailor. You know that in the old days a keeper might be at the same light for years. Now a stint lasts two or three – no more. There was one old bloke though – a contemporary of my father’s – who stayed at one of the most isolated lights for over thirty years. He wouldn’t even take leave.’
‘I assume he wasn’t married!’
‘If he was, we never heard about his wife.’
‘There comes your melancholia!’ Rika says a little dryly.
Hannes looks down at his hands, locks the knuckles. He says, ‘My mother committed suicide. She put weights in her pockets and drowned herself in the island well.’
Rika waits. She knows he is beyond any words of sympathy or comfort.
‘And now Aletta,’ he says. He is silent a moment. ‘Except she is a keeper’s daughter. In a way I always thought she
was
the light.’
And she was – until this island. Its misshapen tides, its hidden reefs.
Until this lighthouse with its prosaic square-rigged tower, somehow without the grandeur or the power, the height, the weight, the dignity of the others where they’d served.
Instead it had a deep, forbidding melancholy.
And yet, for Hannes, it was the only place where he belonged. Enough for him to say he could be buried there.
‘Does the lighthouse depend on the keeper or the keeper on the lighthouse?’ Hannes says. ‘There’s a question for you.’
‘You were speaking of Aletta,’ Rika says, leading him back.
‘I am. They are the same.’
‘It’s difficult dancing in the garage, Hannes. All your stuff is lying around and it’s too small and hot. Can I make a place in the old keeper’s quarters?’ Aletta said.
‘It’s also full of stuff.’
‘There are rooms and rooms.’
‘It hasn’t been lived in since the new houses were built.’
‘So?’
So.
Hannes cast about, looking for objections, not knowing why he was objecting. ‘It’s part of the lighthouse,’ he said. ‘And that’s off limits.’
‘It’s where we would have lived if they hadn’t built this godawful house,’ she said. ‘I could have chosen to live there if I’d wanted.’
‘But you didn’t want.’
‘Nor did you.’
‘No.’
‘Which is hardly the bloody point.’ She was defiant. ‘I just want some space to dance where I’m not disturbed.’
‘Since when have I ever
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