The Supply Boat

The supply boat left her on the jetty with four crates, a sack of mail addressed to someone else, and the distinct impression that the boatman had not wanted to tie up at all.

Mara Quill watched him go until the engine noise folded into the wind. Then she turned and looked at the light.

Grey Reach was smaller than the photographs had suggested. The tower stood white and squat on the island's only high ground, and the keeper's cottage crouched beside it like a dog waiting to be let in. Everything else was rock, thrift, and the long grey argument of the sea.

She carried the first crate up the path herself. By the time she reached the cottage door her arms ached and the light was going, and that was when she noticed the lamp at the top of the tower was already turning.

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The logbook sat open on the desk in the watch room. The last entry was dated the day before yesterday, in a careful, upright hand.

Wind NW, moderate. Visibility good. Lamp lit at 18:42. The new keeper arrives Friday. I hope she reads this.

Today was Friday.

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