He was standing one morning by the skipper in the wheelhouse. On the radio, a muddle of voices of other fishermen was cajoling, complaining, cursing, talking of the forthcoming storms and spreading the word. Their remarks were always in the background, and sometimes the sound of the radio would drown out the complaints of the sea. Then suddenly Darren heard Kimberley voice.
“Calling Blue Cormorant.”
The strange feeling of her personality at the end of the radio unnerved him. Each nuance was hers and yet not hers. She was present in the small engine room in a disembodied way, full of tact, irony, and sounding genteel.
“That’s for you, I’ll warrant,” said the skipper.
“That’s Kimberley,” said Darren, disbelievingly.
“Darren,” she said. “Are you here?”
“Darren Pearce here. Over.”
“When will you be coming in?”
“Friday at eight. Over.”
“Oh, that’s a pity. Did you get my letters?”
Darren looked around and whispered into the mike: “No. Over.”
“That’s strange. You should have had them by now.”
“They haven’t arrived, Kimberley. Over.”
“You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Neither do you. Over.”
“Have you gone out for a drink?”
“No,” he lied. “Over.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. You sound very businesslike. Over.”
“Under the circumstances, so would you. Over.”
“Am I embarrassing you?”
Her voice, filled with static, cut through the quiet, while the boat drifted in a calm east wind on a sea that was suddenly without landmarks, on a day that could have belonged to any of the seasons, in a sea that could have been any sea.
“I’ve made my mind up what to do. I’m sure you’ll be glad to know.”
“You have? Tell me. Over.”
The radio gave a hoarse crackle. A whistle blew. A sound like a streamer went through the airwaves.
“What did you say? Can you please repeat the message, Kimberley? Over.”
“I’ll be down next weekend. I’ll leave a letter in the house.”
“See you then. Over.”
“Goodbye, Darren. Over.”
“Goodbye, Kimberley. Over.”
He burst opened the door of the light-keeper’s house. He stepped into the hallway and found the letter for which he had prepared himself waiting inside the hall door. Then his heart began its furious beat. He kissed the damp envelope and tore it open. It was good to hear your voice. I hope you remember your promise to admit I’m also fighting off wretched imagining that someone else will be enjoying you in my place – but I’m trusting you, treading thin ice in the hope that someday we’ll be skating along without fear.
I love you.
His world had been magically restored. The nightmare was over.
Darren, she had written. I love you and want to be with you. You have a break this weekend and I’ll be down to see you. There are other people and we could be with them. But we know we want to be with each other. Let’s grow old and sober together.
He saw himself waiting on the bridge the following afternoon. He saw her alight from the car and begin running towards him. Overcome with happiness he sat there in the December dust. The bark of a dog flew by.
