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Authors: Marguerite Poland
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disturbed you?’ he said in surprise.
She did not answer but took up her book and opened it – failing to notice that she was holding it upside down.
The next morning, when Hannes came back from duty, he said, handing her a key, ‘Use the old place if you like, Aletta.’
‘Not off limits any more?’ She raised an eyebrow delicately, half-ironic.
‘Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I just don’t like going there myself.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘She used to close herself up in the old keeper’s quarters and play the music at full volume. I could even hear it on calm days if I was up in the lantern room. It was as if she invented partners. As if they were there. She was
that
lonely and there was nothing I could do to help. Sometimes I was afraid she was losing her mind. Then, suddenly, she would be herself again and I would run for her.’ He laughs. ‘Or for cover! Depending …’
Flinty or beguiling. There was no telling what would set her off.
‘“
That Aletta!”
Maisie used to say when she couldn’t find her in the house – and it spoke volumes!’ He turns to Rika. ‘You know, Uncle Cecil adored her. Even if he disapproved of her so much he used to act like an old parson when she was around. Yet, I knew.’
Rika smiles, standing serene and unruffled beside his bed, her knot of hair pinned at her nape, her watch and name-tag fastened to attention on her breast. He can just see the shadow at the hollow of her throat.
‘It was fine in the other lighthouses,’ he says. ‘Not in this one.’ He shakes his head. ‘In the end, I couldn’t reach her.’
His need was anguished; hers was angry.
She might have torn his skin off with her teeth and been glad to see him stripped. Or to have heard him weep. In counterpoint, there was a tenderness in Aletta when she danced.
All her gentleness. All her anguish. All her love.
At other times she danced with humour, with hilarity and wit, head flung back. Stamp, stamp, stamp – the rapid fire of her heels on the wooden floor. A leap, a pirouette – but the supporting hand that could have launched her, caught her, was not there to let her fly.
As the music ended she would stand poised, listening to the sea rollingin along the gullies, the peculiar hiss below the lip of the slope. It was applause, and she would raise her arms slowly, grandly, gathering it up into her outstretched palms.
Then it would die away.
And the cheering crowd was only gannets coming in to roost.
She would subside into silence then. And go and sit for hours in her darkened room.
Maisie might call ‘Cooee’ at the door but Aletta did not answer her. She did not go to open it to let her in and welcome her with tea. And only Hannes, returning from duty, might discover her somewhere in the silent house, sitting wrapped in a rug, her ashtray beside her, the room dank with smoke, sometimes asleep, her head resting on her arm – a bird’s wing folded in over her face.
Chapter 5
When Hannes was in the hospital, Rika had spoken once or twice to Maisie Beukes, the woman who came to visit him: she of the cake tin and the springy grey curls, the little sprig of hair defining a wart, the merry laugh, the chuckle in her throat kept for all absurdity. It was as if she found her husband, Cecil, and Hannes Harker quite absurd as they sat hunched and silent under the torrent of her words. She wiped her eyes with laughter, shook her head at them, fond and clucking.
Once she had said to Rika as she left the ward, Cecil lingering at Hannes’s bedside, ‘Thank you for looking after him so well, Sister. He says,’ and she had tapped Rika’s wrist with a plump finger, ‘you are better than the doctor and stronger than a man.’
Rika had laughed and, unaccountably, felt a flush at her neck.
‘No one knows about Hannes,’ Maisie Beukes had said. ‘He is such a silent chap – he only talks to gannets and gulls, you see,’ and she had cackled. ‘I have known him all my life
She did not answer but took up her book and opened it – failing to notice that she was holding it upside down.
The next morning, when Hannes came back from duty, he said, handing her a key, ‘Use the old place if you like, Aletta.’
‘Not off limits any more?’ She raised an eyebrow delicately, half-ironic.
‘Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I just don’t like going there myself.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘She used to close herself up in the old keeper’s quarters and play the music at full volume. I could even hear it on calm days if I was up in the lantern room. It was as if she invented partners. As if they were there. She was
that
lonely and there was nothing I could do to help. Sometimes I was afraid she was losing her mind. Then, suddenly, she would be herself again and I would run for her.’ He laughs. ‘Or for cover! Depending …’
Flinty or beguiling. There was no telling what would set her off.
‘“
That Aletta!”
Maisie used to say when she couldn’t find her in the house – and it spoke volumes!’ He turns to Rika. ‘You know, Uncle Cecil adored her. Even if he disapproved of her so much he used to act like an old parson when she was around. Yet, I knew.’
Rika smiles, standing serene and unruffled beside his bed, her knot of hair pinned at her nape, her watch and name-tag fastened to attention on her breast. He can just see the shadow at the hollow of her throat.
‘It was fine in the other lighthouses,’ he says. ‘Not in this one.’ He shakes his head. ‘In the end, I couldn’t reach her.’
His need was anguished; hers was angry.
She might have torn his skin off with her teeth and been glad to see him stripped. Or to have heard him weep. In counterpoint, there was a tenderness in Aletta when she danced.
All her gentleness. All her anguish. All her love.
At other times she danced with humour, with hilarity and wit, head flung back. Stamp, stamp, stamp – the rapid fire of her heels on the wooden floor. A leap, a pirouette – but the supporting hand that could have launched her, caught her, was not there to let her fly.
As the music ended she would stand poised, listening to the sea rollingin along the gullies, the peculiar hiss below the lip of the slope. It was applause, and she would raise her arms slowly, grandly, gathering it up into her outstretched palms.
Then it would die away.
And the cheering crowd was only gannets coming in to roost.
She would subside into silence then. And go and sit for hours in her darkened room.
Maisie might call ‘Cooee’ at the door but Aletta did not answer her. She did not go to open it to let her in and welcome her with tea. And only Hannes, returning from duty, might discover her somewhere in the silent house, sitting wrapped in a rug, her ashtray beside her, the room dank with smoke, sometimes asleep, her head resting on her arm – a bird’s wing folded in over her face.
Chapter 5
When Hannes was in the hospital, Rika had spoken once or twice to Maisie Beukes, the woman who came to visit him: she of the cake tin and the springy grey curls, the little sprig of hair defining a wart, the merry laugh, the chuckle in her throat kept for all absurdity. It was as if she found her husband, Cecil, and Hannes Harker quite absurd as they sat hunched and silent under the torrent of her words. She wiped her eyes with laughter, shook her head at them, fond and clucking.
Once she had said to Rika as she left the ward, Cecil lingering at Hannes’s bedside, ‘Thank you for looking after him so well, Sister. He says,’ and she had tapped Rika’s wrist with a plump finger, ‘you are better than the doctor and stronger than a man.’
Rika had laughed and, unaccountably, felt a flush at her neck.
‘No one knows about Hannes,’ Maisie Beukes had said. ‘He is such a silent chap – he only talks to gannets and gulls, you see,’ and she had cackled. ‘I have known him all my life
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