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important is the lighthouse itself, which needs putty in the astragals of the lantern glazing. Next he gets rottenstone and sands the wood on the desk drawer where it has swollen with the weather, and goes over it with the wolf’s head brush. He patches the green paint on the landings where it is scuffed or worn away: it will be a long while before a crew comes to paint the whole station.
    The apparatus responds to his attention: the glass gleams, the brass shines, and the light rotates on its bath of mercury as smoothly as a skua gliding on currents of air. Now and again he manages to get down to the rocks to fish, or to walk along the sandy beach of the lagoon. He makes friends with the pair of black skinks which reside in the woodshed, and occasionally gives them some of the chooks’ food. He’s sparing with his rations: he won’t see the store boat for months.
    It’s a hard job, and a busy one. The lightkeepers have no union, not like the men on the store boats – no one strikes for better pay or conditions. The days can leave him exhausted or sore, worried by the look of a storm front coming in at a gallop, or frustrated by the way hailstones crush the vegetable patch. But if he doesn’t think about it too hard, he knows who he is and what he’s for. He just has to keep the light burning. Nothing more.

    The Father Christmas face, all red cheeks and whiskers, gave a big grin. ‘Well, Tom Sherbourne, how are you surviving?’ Ralph didn’t wait for a reply before throwing him the fat wet rope to wind around the bollard. Tom looked as fit and well after three months as any keeper the skipper had seen.
    Tom had been waiting for supplies for the light, and had given less thought to the fresh food which would be delivered. He had also forgotten that the boat would bring post, and was surprised when, toward the end of the day, Ralph handed him some envelopes. ‘Almost forgot,’ he said. There was a letter from the District Officer of the Lighthouse Service, retrospectively confirming his appointment and conditions. A letter from the Department of Repatriation set out certain benefits recently allowed to returned servicemen, including incapacity pension or a business loan. Neither applied to him, so he opened the next, a Commonwealth Bank statement confirming that he had earned four per cent interest on the five hundred pounds in his account. He left until last the envelope addressed by hand. He could not think of anyone who might write, and feared it might be some do-gooder sending him news of his brother or his father.
    He opened it. ‘
Dear Tom, I just thought I’d write and check that you hadn’t been blown away or swept out to sea or anything. And that the lack of roads isn’t causing you too many problems …
’ He skipped ahead to see the signature: ‘
Yours truly, Isabel Graysmark
.’ The gist of the middle was that she hoped he wasn’t too lonely out there, and that he should be sure to stop by and say hello before he went off to wherever he was going after his Janus posting. She had decorated the letter with a little sketch of a keeper leaning against his light tower, whistling a tune, while behind him a giant whale emerged from the water, its jaws wide open. She had added for good measure: ‘
Be sure not to get eaten by a whale before then
.’
    It made Tom smile. The absurdity of the picture. More than that, the innocence of it. Somehow his body felt lighter just to hold the letter in his hand.
    ‘Can you hang on a tick?’ he asked Ralph, who was gathering his things for the journey back.
    Tom dashed to his desk for paper and pen. He sat down to write, before realising he had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to
say
anything: just send her a smile.
    Dear Isabel
,
    Not blown away or swept (any further) out to sea, fortunately. I have seen many whales, but none has tried to eat me so far: I’m probably not very tasty
.
    I am bearing up pretty well, all things considered, and coping