Benjamin Wayne Andrews

Excerpt From ‘The Lighthouse’

Chapter One.
The Lighthouse.

Working at the lighthouse on Griffitts Island during summers, the allure to join the swell of
tourists as they make their way through the Princes Highway and beyond Port Fairy was at
times, too much to bare. Feeling trapped inside, taking chore orders all day and night
whilst her friends and family picnic by the bay and the Belfast Lough.

The Estuary was beautiful at this time of year. Half submerged in golden light and sur-
rounded by swell and clear waters. On a particularly clear day, one could see Oceanic Lin-
ers making their way across the Bass Strait. She would imagine where they have been, or
where they were headed and what wonders the crew may have seen.

Perhaps they were not too dissimilar, the imagined crew of these international cargo ships
and her, stuck upon the Lighthouse. Both served a nautical purpose. Both felt trapped
amongst beauty whilst others roamed free.

She went back to the tasks and hoped for time to speed up, longing for the day’s work to
be over.

Years ago, she had hated the name. “Mercedes”. It felt so un-natural and vulgar coming off
the tongue. Her Father’s coercion of course became part of her reason for such destain.
“M” became easier, after many years of tantrums and idealist speeches over the dinner
table at home and with friends. Laura, whom she had known since kindergarten, always
seemed to love the name. Devil’s advocate should have been her own middle denomina-
tion. But Laura had helped as much as she had in jest hindered. Concocting fabricated
tales of Arabian Prince charmings and off shore wealth as a background to the forged
Mercedes narrative.

So now, it was just M. To strangers and visitors to the Port, it was probably and kindly as-
sumed as Em, Emma or Emily. Who cares now, she thought, peering over the sand dunes
from inside the flower beds. The cottages, once belonging to keepers after the war, some
of whom actually tended the Lighthouse, were long since demolished. In their place,
flower beds which at this time of year gave birth to banksias, calistemons and rosemary.
M kept up with the names and the subtle seasonal shifts in growth and varietals, but only
because it was a job, a chore, something he made her do.

It was her Father’s idea, the Lighthouse. A thinly failed attempt at summer grafting, really
an excuse to keep her from visiting the city and spending too much time with Laura. An-
other reason to hate him. It wasn’t even the isolation, or the work load for that matter. It
was because it felt like a Rapunzel-esque towered cage. As summer passed by, it became
clear to her that fewer opportunities would come the longer she stayed on the island. And
with each passing vessel or kite sky high, fewer things to look forward to.

In the mornings, it was cleaning and scrubbing. After lunch, weeding and exterior mainte-
nance. “Floral upkeep,” Ingrid would say. She was the woman in charge, a strong widow-
er who had not lost even an inkling of her thick Scottish accent even after thirty years on
the island. At times, and with certain expressions, M needed clarification and would ask
Ingrid to repeat herself. This was often met with surliness and a flick of the hand, like the
shoeing away of a wasp from one’s plate at dinner time.

Ingrid was a hard but fair boss. She always prepared lunch and enjoyed an often one
sided, colourful lexicon discussion on the weather, the tourists, the unclaimed dog drop-
pings back on the Princes Highway.

They think we dunno be notice, but aye it’s not like I’m fooled blind dear!

She said one afternoon, sandwich in hand. Her light grey hairs would frolic in the wind as
it picked up after 2pm, sometimes filling her lips and making the sandwich eating process
a slight comical struggle. It was after these lunches that M would feel most exhausted.
Belly full of white bread and miscellaneous meat, the clock seemed to toil at half the speed
to that of earlier in the day.

The readings came at night, when the Island was at its most silent. Ingrid had taught her
everything many times over, but when tiredness sets in and the noise from the freeway all
but vanishes, she would forget the order in which she was told. The mean sea-level pres-
sure, the altimeter adjustments, the mbar readings; they became superfluous and annoy-
ing after a time. The only thing that maintained her interest was the light itself. ‘A fourth
order dioptric double flashing white light every ten seconds.’ That’s what the manual said,
available for tourists to read and ponder. But M found it hard to look away from, especially
after dark. She would play the counting game, try and look at it in between flashes. Or
guess when the double strokes would occur without counting. It became obsessive.

She wondered what Laura would be doing this weekend. Before, it was beach cliffs and
stolen liquor. Or cigarettes purchased with a scratched out ID behind the dunes after sun
down. They always concocted elaborate escape plans that seemingly inevitably involved
unsuspecting boys cars and the city. But the consequences of such dreaming put into
practice would be severe these days. With his health deteriorating, it was guilt not ground-
ing that kept her on the coastline virtually all year round.

He had been diagnosed last summer, at a time when none of them had been expecting
nor ready for such news. Slow at first, they said. Then later, more severe. Little things
would be lost, giving way to a chasm of incurable torment. She was numb when the news
came. Mind racing as per usual had halted to a mere mosey. It became a coping mecha-
nism, she thought. Everyone has them processed differently they were told. Her’s was a
relief sometimes. A million thoughts and anxious ideas slowing down was perhaps the only
good thing to come from a terrible, diminishing circumstance.

Laura was waiting in the driveway when she finished work that Friday.

Hurry up let’s get to the IGA before it closes cunt!

She cackled at her own profanity. M smiled and walked up to the car more rapidly. She
was ready to forget the towering cage and the intermittent beams for the next 48 hours
and enjoy the last of the sunlight anywhere else other than on Griffitts. Laura offered her a
cigarette.

Thought this day would never end mate, how the fuck are ya? M said as she inhaled with
glee and wound the passenger window fully down and breathed in slowly.

Better now that you are here bud, and guess what?

What? M revelled in Laura’s uncompromising delight.

I have $40 to me name and a 30 gram pouch of champion rubes I racked from the servo
earlier so lets get a fucken move on!

M chuckled as it was always Laura’s way to make an announcement out of something so
elementary as obtaining a pack of darts through illegal means and the excitement of get-
ting drunk again.

Get a move on, Laura had said. But really, there was no reason to rush. It was still day-
light, just, and the IGA was open for another hour at least. It was always an exclamation
with Laura, always an adventure.

They ran into Marco at the supermarket. He was an Italian backpacker, stranded in Port
Fairy for the summer as his camper van had broken down whilst heading to Adelaide via
the coast and he hadn’t the money to fix it. He was tall, thin and had an always tanned
complexion that M decided would still be there even if he never saw another ray of sun
light as long as he lived. He loved it though, the outdoors. Fixing surf boards and swim-
ming in the ocean each day whilst waiting for some family loan to come in so he could fix
his vehicle and continue a seemingly endless Australian adventure was about the sum of
his parts M had surmised. He was chirpy enough though, smiling every time she met him
regardless of the contents to his day, or hers for that matter.

What’s happening tonight girls? He asked, his thick Calabrian drawl ever present, passing
the contents of his satchel across the counter to the cashier.
Nothing much, M stated, not really looking at him. She was thinking about Jane, her moth-
er, and if she should text her to let her know she would be out late. Jane worried, more so
now than before. She always called her by her name, Jane, not by her parental address
and for no real reason either. It just was. Perhaps an indignant slight on her own displea-
sure of meaning named after a car! So Jane it was.

I’m headed to Kilarney for some beers and a smoke if you wanna come with?

But neither Laura nor M were really listening. Laura grabbed M’s hand and gave it a rough
squeeze, a common tactic employed by her that indicates “let’s go!” before they have to
endure any more dullard or unnecessary situations. M felt bad but obliged. Marco was
only trying to be nice, but he was a dullard who lived on Skenes Road in a broken down
camper and that was not in any way of interest to the girls this weekend. Or any weekend
really. They had had beers with him and other friends before and he had made clumsy tip-
sy advances around the bonfire once or twice. A harmless fool. Port Fairy was full of them
during summer and those that stayed on after the season seemed pathetic and lost.

Bye Marco! Laura shouted as they paid for their beers, the look of disappointment on his
face only added to his unattractiveness.

They got back in the car and drove away. There were better beaches than Kilarney to drink
at, M thought as she opened a bottle of Asahi and straightened her left leg to rest outside
of the window, completely blocking the rear view mirror that Laura never looked at anyway.
It tasted bitter, that first drop. Almost instantly calming, the now night sky became flooded
with white fragments as she looked up at the clouds. The moon appeared more animated
out here than in the city, immediately obvious.

Laura always drove like a maniac. Seemingly barely paying attention, she would either be
on the phone, smoking or singing along to the radio at offensive vocal volumes. On this
occasion, she was somehow doing an amalgamation of all three. Cackling to a friend on
the phone discussing the meet up point, smoking with the window fully unwound and in
between screaming along to Aretha Franklin covering “Let It Be,” much to the amusement
of M.

She never felt scared or unsafe in the car, irrespective of this callous driving on display.
Sometimes she would forget to wear a seatbelt, or ask Laura to drive at speed. Always at
ease with all of it, and Laura always more than happy to oblige. The water, paradoxically,
was a different story. It was the great divide. The idea that all coastal born people should
yearn for it seemed preposterous to her. She had always feared it. Even as a good and
rapid lap swimmer at school, chalking up several medals in the under 16 state heats in
Melbourne, it was deemed a laughable offence to then be afraid of the ocean. But it was
stead fast and it only seemed to get worse with age. Laura was of course the opposite.
Armed with as little as undies and a tank top, she would strip off at a moments notice and
be further out than one could always see. M’s heart would skip watching her friend disap-
pear amongst the waves. Especially at night. Especially whilst under the influence.

Laura had chosen South Beach for tonight’s destination and eventual intoxication. The
locals called it Pea Soup, on account of all the scattered rocks in the water. At the peak of
summer, they looked translucent through the water, the sand has tinges of green and yel-
lows and blacks splattered beneath the waves and reaching a protective basalt seawall. It
was their favourite place at this time of year. Less people at night, less noise from the
road up at Ocean Drive and beyond.

They parked up on Mills Crescent and M almost tripped over, this time with the unexpected
force of Laura grabbing her whole arm and squeezing it tight and firm as she raced to-
wards the beach, M in one hand, the beers and car keys in her other.

With each sip and inhalation of sea air and nicotine, she was close to forgetting the Light-
house, her chores to return in full force come Monday morning, the deteriorating health of
er Father and all the anguish that comes with walking through her front door tomorrow,
hungover and guilty as soon as Jane lays eyes on her. One more mouthful of salt and al-
cohol and those foreboding thoughts will soon disappear she knew, or hoped, it would
work like all those times before.

Chapter Two,
The Beach.

They lay close together, stretched out making textured sand angels in the darkened
grains. It was rocky in places, Pea Soup, but they knew where the clear patches of soft
sand were found. Countless times after dark or early in the morning, waking groggy from
the booze with the first light dog walkers who no doubt frowned and moaned but M and
Laura didn’t care. Why should they? It was their beach as much as anyones. Marly was
supposed to meet them. In fact, she should already be there, perhaps caught up at home
as she seemed to stay in Warrnambool with her dad more often these days. M wondered
why, it was well known to be a tumultuous relationship with that family and after the di-
vorce she thought it odd that Marly had actively chosen her father as the primary parent.
He was a shrewd but parsimonious man, dabbling with Jehovah’s for much of their up-
bringing which crippled his relationship with both Marly and her younger brother Kirk. That
dabbling was probably the beginning of the end for that marriage, M thought as she
reached into Laura’s bag and pinched another cigarette.

She’s not coming I reckon mate, Laura said, impetuously.

Guess not. Has she texted you again?

M snapped the lighter under the bottle cap and prised open her next Asahi as if it were an
oyster shell, a shucking sound and then a pop. Another moment of imperturbation as she
took the first sip.

Nah, maybe she hated me singing in the car before.

Laura had called her whilst hazardously combining driving tasks and was now smiling with
reminiscent glee.

They both were completely unfazed. It was calming, splayed out on the sand with only a
few strangers in the distance to share the beach with. One couple, walking closer to the
water several hundred metres away, looked over dressed. Perhaps they had come from
work and were on their way home. M felt sleepy all of a sudden, a sensation she wished
would come over her more regularly instead of the aberrant insomnia that has plagued her
from an early age. She had tried things; multiple doctor’s giving her a plethora of sleeping
aids and breathing techniques but unless she really focussed (or became heavily intoxi-
cated) sleep seemed irrevocably stubborn and at its worst, an unfathomable task to con-
sistently master.

Laura was talking, distantly it seemed to M’s waning energy. About Melbourne, about
summer, about the environment. It was easy with Laura though. There was never a stern
bone to be found in her make up. She could just as happily sit in silence or prattle on end-
lessly and M could give just the same amount of attention, definitively not undivided, and Laura
would be content either way.

They were out of beers. The sky was dark now, cloudless over head but thunderous in the
distance. After years as a coastal dweller, one became a beacon for accurate weather
predictions and tonight, at some point, it was destined to rain.

M closed her eyes. Using her bag as a flat pillow, not as much for comfort as to keep the
sand out of her hair. Laura had moved now, up the beach towards the water. She was
talking on the phone, presumably to Marly again. A debriefing as to her whereabouts, as
presumed, a patriarchal blow out again. She should have just come. Leave Kirk to deal
with it for once. But Marly was stoic. They would not see her all weekend now, its always
like this. It would have been nice to see her, M thought, listening to the faint laughter and
the waves lapping against the sand and presumably Laura’s bare feet.
There were foot- steps, close by, but M ignored them. Not wanting to open her eyes until it was deemed absolutely necessary. Until Laura, as she often does, would grab her arm and almost yank
it out of its socket and say something obtuse like It’s time to go cunt! Or I will leave you
here Goddammit!

The night sounds slowed down and M felt her left arm become numb, as if she had been
sleeping on it in lieu of a pillow. Laura’s voice was a mere whisper now. She could no
longer hear any footsteps. The water was always there though, ever present, as if its fre-
quencies had embedded themselves in her cochlear forever.