SPRING ARRIVES LIKE an apologetic guest late to a party, and Longstone gladly shrugs off the last of the season’s storms with a grateful sigh. It is a day for sending washing flapping on the line. A day for tending to neglected chores. I inhale the warmth and the light as I enjoy an easy row across to Brownsman Island to turn over the soil in preparation for planting new seeds. All is purpose at the lighthouse and there are hungry mouths to feed at every mealtime.
My little niece and my new nephew grow as fat as dumplings. I am accustomed now to their familiar little shrieks and giggles and no longer surprised by their outrageous little tantrums when their faces turn as scarlet as summer strawberries. I have adjusted to my family being here, and enjoy their company very much, but occasionally—and increasingly so—I feel like a spectator sitting quietly at the edge of life, watching the rumpus go on around me, rather than being at the heart of things, as I once was. There are plenty of hands to assist now with the cleaning of the apartments and the polishing of the lenses. I often ascend the tower to find the wicks already trimmed and the oil reserves already filled and the dust sheets already hung, with care, over the lenses. Jane, especially, likes to make herself useful. As a new member of the family it is entirely understandable that she wants to help, and yet I find myself smothered by her. Without a husband or children to demand my attention and affection and give the same in return, it is difficult not to cling to the things I have always cherished as my own: the lighthouse and the lamps. I have, by my own admission, become something of a spare part. It is a truth that does not sit with me well.
With everyone packed into the lighthouse as tight as herrings in their pickling barrels, it is finally agreed that new accommodations will have to be built for Brooks and Jane and their expanding brood. Workmen are shipped over to the island, their hammering and hoisting and loud calls of instructions turning my quiet little home into a small industrial town. I find myself lacking in energy, stopping halfway up the stairs to catch my breath, too weary to continue the ascent. I say nothing to the family and yet my father notices the change in my demeanor.
“You are not yourself, Grace. I see how you withdraw from all the noise. I’d forgotten how many of us there are now.”
I am grateful for his concern, but ashamed of my inability to be more welcoming. “I am glad they are here, but sometimes I don’t have the energy for them,” I admit.
He smiles and takes my hand. “Perhaps you should take a break from us all. You and Thomasin could take a trip to Coquet Island to see how your brother is getting on.”
I start to say that surely they cannot spare me being away, but I know very well that they can.
“Go, Grace. Put the wind back in your sails. It’s a while since you and Thomasin spent time together. It will do you good to be with your sister, and William and Ann will be pleased to see you. Go. We can manage without you.”
It is those final words, more than any other, which see me agree to the trip. They can manage without me, and I, in turn, must learn to manage without them. I write to Thomasin to tell her I will arrive at North Sunderland the following Friday, from where we will take the steamer to Coquet Island. But it is with a heavy heart that I set out on the agreed date and as Longstone slips from view, I can’t help feeling that I am not just leaving for a change of scenery, but that part of me will never return.
COQUET ISLAND, SITUATED a mile offshore from the fishing port of Amble, is a wonderful place and I know, at once, that it was the right decision to come here. It reminds me of Longstone in the quiet days before the events of the Forfarshire; reminds me of who I used to be. I hope that a brief spell among Coquet’s white beaches and clear waters will see that happy carefree young woman return to me.
At low tide, when the low-lying rag stone is exposed, Thomasin and I walk around the island to the ruins of a Benedictine monastery. The sandy beaches are incredibly bright in the generous sunlight, the water almost turquoise when the light catches it. Rabbits dart about among the dunes. Puffin and roseate tern nest in abundance, and I wish we could stay long enough to watch the little pufflings emerge from the burrows. My brother, William, tells me the seal colony that used to inhabit the northern end of the island has dwindled in recent years, frightened away by the pleasure-seekers brought out in the summer from the Tyne. I’m not the only one, it seems, to have been forced away from my home by unwelcome intrusions.
I write home to tell Father all about Mr. Walker’s impressive lighthouse design and to reassure Mam that her dear Laddie—as William has always been affectionately known—is in fine health. I don’t tell them how he walks about with his chest puffed out, so proud of his appointment as Principal Keeper here since the Duke of Northumberland ordered the recent construction of the new lighthouse.
Spending time on this peaceful little island with Thomasin is a tonic. I had forgotten what it feels like not to have a constant dread in my stomach when a boat approaches. It really is blissful, and although I miss the familiarity of Longstone, it is a shame when the time comes, too soon, for us to leave.
As the steamship slips away from the island, I stand on deck, watching the island shrink with each wave that washes us further away and closer to Alnwick. Thomasin urges me to step inside as a light rain shower becomes heavier, but I tell her I don’t mind the damp. As the rainwater seeps into my clothes, I feel cleansed, ready to return to the bustle and clamor of Longstone. I wrap my cloak around my shoulders until I eventually give in to the turn in the weather and reluctantly step inside to rejoin my sister. But despite the comparative warmth, I cannot shake the chill from my bones.
Thomasin chides me for staying outside so long. “You’ll catch an influenza, Grace, and Mam will blame me.”
“I promise you I won’t catch an influenza, Thomasin. But you might make certain of it by fetching me a warm drink.”
She fakes annoyance and leaves me to fetch us a pot of tea.
I shiver all that afternoon and take to my bed as soon as I return to Longstone that evening.
Not even the dear old lighthouse can warm me.