All I actually remember of that day was that the morning was bright and clear, but by evening the storm had changed everything. What happened in between, I have pieced together from the disconnected threads of my memories, family stories defended at holidays and rumours whispered in the village shop, after church and at school.
We had not been at Red Rock long. A few months, at most. The island, contrary to its name, was not red. It was the lighthouse base that was built of red brick and rose out of the cliff edge like it had grown there as naturally as the trees and rocks that surrounded it. The base was a two-story fortress with a total of twenty small sea salted windows that would never be clean; the only way to really see out was to open them, exposing the room to the heavy damp. The tower was a similar red with the addition of white bricks; it marked the end of the island like fairground sweet. Inside the tower there was a spiral staircase that stretched from the basement to the lantern room where there were two galleries: the main lantern gallery and a watch gallery just below. We were never allowed on either gallery. No one except Pop was allowed to the very top. Pop couldn’t bare it if something had happened to us, after losing Mama and all. That’s what Margaret said. But Pop only pretended to listen to Margaret and when she went to the mainland for supplies, Clarise and I raced up the spiral stairs to the lantern room to watch out for ships until she came back and we were under our stepmother’s thumb again.
That morning, the sea was unusually calm and the sky a deep blue with only a few strands of white cloud that stretched across the from one side to the other like white rainbows. Clarise and I played around the foundation of the tower. It was only out of the corner of my eye that I would ever see him. A shadowy figure always disappearing. Pop said the island was filled with stories of lighthouse keepers past but they were nonsense. He didn’t believe in anything. Not after Mama. There was no God. Margaret was always quick to counter, saying that it’s important to have faith. She never said what to have faith in, but whatever it was, Pop was only interested in keeping the faith of the lantern – that’s what he was hired to do. But when you’re ten, you see everything. And I saw a shadowy figure. Clarise, a year younger, always listened to her older brother. It was a given and if I saw it, she saw it.
Someone had come to the door that day, a man in a suit, and had an argument with Pop. Their voices were raised and coarse as they stood in the doorway; Pop wouldn’t let him in. The man’s car was noisy and rattled as he drove away. Margaret baked a carrot cake – she had opened the window and the fruity sweet smell seeped out and mixed with the salty taste of the air.
Mrs Reynolds from the village shop said that Pop went after him. I don’t remember that. Pop closed door. Or was it the man’s car door that had closed? It’s hard to tell when the wind gets up and as they argued, the wind had grown stronger. I know because our ball rolled farther away. Or did it roll farther away because Clarise had given it a good whack because I wasn’t paying attention to her?
Clarise and I ran after the ball. We could see the road winding in and out of the trees as we approached it. And on the road, I saw the car, the man’s car appearing and disappearing through the trees. Mrs Thatcher, our schoolteacher, said it was Pop’s car. Both cars were dark blue, the man’s was rusted but could I see the rust from where I stood? I don’t remember Pop getting in his car, but the sky had darkened, and it had started to rain. Clarise wanted to go inside. She kept pulling my arm. I pushed her away and she fell in the mud. She cried. I told her I had to get the ball. I didn’t see her leave. I thought she’d wait for me. Margaret said she couldn’t find Clarise. But I was sure she could see us from the open window. When I returned, the window was closed. She said she couldn’t see us through the closed window – that’s what she told the police.
I walked back alone, shouting for Clarise as the rain grew heavy and my voice was lost in the growing storm. Father Vincent said he saw me sitting on the church wall. Did I stop to sit on the church wall in the storm? Did I walk that far? I remember the shadow that grew closer to me as I returned to the lighthouse. I remember hearing the crash. Everyone remembers hearing the crash. The fire rose from between the trees and even the storm did not dampen its intensity. Where was Clarise? Father Vincent said he helped me into the church. I do not remember being in the church. I remember holding the ball. The muddy ball. It was cold in my hands and my fingernails were caked in mud. I can still see my muddy fingernails. Was I chilled because I sat in the church? I remember shivering and the shadow grew so close to me that I could almost touch it.
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The Gold Shoe Writer 