The Lightkeeper's Wife by Karen Viggers

there.’
    The young man flushed and mumbled thanks.
    ‘I’m Mary,’ she said, standing up. ‘Who are you?’
    She offered a hand for him to shake, but he was already turning away. ‘Jack,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘I’m Jack Mason. Didn’t mean to disturb you.’
    Initially she hadn’t been interested in him; she was still consumed by anger and fixed on other dreams. But she was a maturing girl thrown into the company of three young men, so it was inevitable that something would happen.
    The two farm cottages were quite close and the families exchanged tools and assistance. They also shared celebrations: Christmas, Easter, picnics, fruit-picking. An only child from a strict Protestant family, Mary’s self-awareness was awakening and she was drawn to men, even though she knew little about them. And there she was, unleashed among approving male attention in the physical world of the farm. Strong bodies. Masculine work. She thrived on stolen glances and quick conversations. A joke here and there. Jack’s brothers were bolshie and fun-loving; they became the siblings she’d never had. But Jack was different. He was quiet and solid and strong. Restrained. There was something attractive in his steady silent presence. Something reassuring. And in his eyes, she saw a sparkle of a guarded interest. Despite herself, she was drawn to him. She wanted to know more.
    During hay season, the families helped each other out, lifting bales onto the back of the Masons’ old truck to get them into the barn before the next rain. It was heavy work. Mary could still remember Jack, shirtsleeves rolled up, the tight muscles of his forearms knotting as he swung bales onto the truck. His face had glowed with a sheen of sweat, his lips red, eyes blue, dark short-cropped hair scruffy with dust and stalks of hay.
    For part of the day she had worked with the men, bending and lugging bales for as long as her strength held. She could see they approved of her grittiness, the way she flung herself into the task, dragging and lifting and heaving with the rest of them. She had watched Jack secretly, peeking inside his shirt as he bent to hook his fingers into the next bale, his chest muscles twitching beneath a thin smattering of hair as he gripped the baling twine. She imagined the texture of his chest, the hair, the feel of those strong arms pulling her close. Later, when her body was aching with fatigue, she brought water and cakes from the house. As he swigged from a bottle, Jack caught her watching him. His eyes crinkled, a smile flickering on his lips. Tight with embarrassment, she held her face rigid, but his smile broadened.
    ‘Good cakes,’ he said, taking one from the tin she was carrying and wiping drops of water from his lips.
    They saw each other often like this. Small exchanges in a day of work. Accidental encounters on errands. Picking fruit in autumn, they ended up on the same tree, reaching and bending to shepherd apples into buckets. Talk was minimal, but they were alert to each other. Sly glances through a shield of leaves. The flash of a brown arm stretching for the same piece of fruit. Helping to fill a tipped bucket. Watching each other bite into the crisp white flesh of a just-ripe apple.
    He came often to the shed while she was milking, begging a jug of cream for his mother, dipping a cup into her bucket and drinking it warm, or simply standing at the shed door watching her, as he had done at their first meeting. She fumbled when his eyes were on her, making the cow tense up and interrupting the flow of milk. ‘Go away,’ she’d pout. ‘You’re bothering my cow.’ He’d laugh, his eyes dancing, and then he’d wander off down the path to find Uncle Max so he could borrow some tool or other.
    When she recognised her susceptibility to him, she saw a need to avoid him. If Max and Faye discovered her interest, she’d be parcelled off home. And by that stage, she didn’t want to go. She’d fallen in love with the