The Second Night: A Light for the Lost

Nell climbed the tower stairs with the matchbox held tight in her fist. The lamp room smelled of paraffin and cold iron, the same smell every night of her life. Tessa was already there, hauling the ladder into place under the big glass lens.

“You’re slow,” Tessa said, but she said it lightly.

“I checked the wick twice,” Nell said. She struck a match and touched it to the burner. The flame caught, small and orange, then grew until the lamp threw a long yellow arm across the harbour. Nell wrote the time in her notebook: 5:47.

Downstairs, their father pulled on his coat. “Boat’s late,” he said. “The Sorrel. I’ll walk the pier and see if she’s coming round the point.”

“She’s always late,” Tessa said.

“She’s late and the tide’s dropping,” he said. “Back before the kettle’s cold.” The door shut behind him, and his boots went down the path, crunching on shingle.

Supper was bread and cold potatoes and the last of the pickle. Tessa ate standing at the window, watching the light sweep out and come back.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” she asked.

“Leaving where?”

“Here. Garrow. All of it.”

Nell thought about it properly, the way she thought about the tide tables. “No,” she said. “Do you?”

Tessa didn’t answer. She wiped the window with her sleeve. “Fog’s coming,” she said.

***

It came in fast, the way fog does at Garrow. One minute the pier was there, grey and wet; the next it was a smudge, and then it was gone. The lamp beam turned in the dark and found nothing. It lit the fog itself, a wall of soft yellow that ended three feet from the glass.

Nell stood at the window with her hands flat on the cold sill. “It’s thick,” she said.

“It’ll lift,” Tessa said, but she didn’t sound sure.

Boots on the stairs. Not their father’s — heavier, and grumbling. Mr Caddy came up with his cap in his hand and his coat shining with wet.

“Girls,” he said. “Where’s your father?”

“On the pier,” Nell said. “Looking for the Sorrel.”

Mr Caddy rubbed his jaw. “The Sorrel is overdue by three hours. She’s out there in this, and your light won’t cut it. Not through fog like this. I’ve seen it before — the beam just bounces back at you.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” Tessa said.

“There’s the flare,” Nell said quietly.

Mr Caddy looked at her. “That flare’s for emergencies. You set it off and every boat in the harbour thinks there’s a wreck. You wait. If she’s out there, she’ll find her way. Boats do.”

He put his cap back on. “I’ll be on the pier,” he said, and went down, and the stairs rang under him.

The lamp turned. The fog turned with it. Nell opened her notebook and wrote 9:12, and under it, flare?

Tessa shut the notebook with one finger still inside it.

“You’re not actually thinking about it,” she said.

Nell took the book back and held it against her chest. “Three hours, Tessa. The Sorrel left Marrow at four. Dad said she’d be in by seven.”

“Dad says a lot of things. Mr Caddy’s right — you light that flare and every boat in the harbour comes out thinking someone’s drowning. Then they’re all out there in the fog too.”

“Then they’d find her.”

“Or they’d hit her.” Tessa turned the lamp handle a quarter turn. The beam swung out and came back, grey with wet. “We wait. That’s what the flare is for — waiting until you know.”

Nell looked at the window. Fog pressed on the glass like a hand. “You know now,” she said. “You just don’t want to say it.”

“That’s not—“

“You never want to say it. You want Dad to say it. You want Mr Caddy to say it. Anyone but you.”

Tessa’s face went still. Down in the harbour a bell rang twice, slow, a buoy talking to itself. She didn’t answer.

Nell went to the cupboard under the chart table. The flare box sat behind the tide tables, red tin, cold to the touch. She lifted it out.

“Put that back,” Tessa said.

“No.”

“Nell.”

“It’s one flare. If I’m wrong, we’ve lost a flare. If you’re wrong, we’ve lost the Sorrel.”

Tessa stood with her back to the lamp. Her hands were white on the rail. “If you go down there in this, I can’t see you. You know that. I can’t see you from up here.”

“Then don’t watch,” Nell said, and pulled on her boots.

***

The stairs went down in a spiral, sixty-four steps, and Nell counted every one. Outside, the fog took the tower from her in four paces. She kept her hand on the wall until the wall ran out, then walked by memory: gravel, the gate, the path that sloped to the pier.

Her breath came back at her, wet. Somewhere to the left, water moved against stone. She could hear it and not see it, which was worse.

A shape loomed and resolved into Mr Caddy. “Who’s that? Nell? What are you doing out here?”

“The flare,” she said.

“I told you to leave that be.”

“You told us to wait. I did wait.” She kept walking. “Three hours and a bit.”

He followed a few steps, boots crunching, then stopped. “Your father will have my hide,” he said, but he didn’t take the tin off her.

The pier came up under her feet, planks slick with spray. At the end, the rail was cold and pitted. Nell set the tin on the rail, prised the lid, and took out the flare — a cardboard tube, a twist cap, a pull cord.

She turned to face the sea. Nothing. Fog and the small slop of waves and the bell ringing twice.

Up in the tower, the beam swung past, dim and yellow, and swung away.

Nell pulled the cord.

The flare went up hissing, red, and hung in the fog like a second sun. Everything turned the colour of the inside of her eyelids. The pier, the rail, her own hands — all red. Far off, faint, a horn sounded once.

She stood very still and held the tube until it burned down to nothing and dropped, hot, into the water.

Then the dark came back, and it was darker than before.

Tessa heard the hiss from the lamp room, saw the red flare bloom and fade. Then the dark came back, thicker than before. She gripped the window frame. Nell was a small shape on the pier, not moving.

“Nell!” she shouted, but the fog ate her voice. “Nell, come back!”

No answer. Just the bell, and the sea slopping against the stones.

Tessa’s hands were cold. She looked at the lamp, burning steady. Then at the hand lantern on its hook by the door. Her father’s rule: never leave the light.

But Nell was out there, alone, in the dark. And the flare was gone.

“Right,” she said, to no one. She took the lantern, lit it, and went down the stairs two at a time.

Outside, the fog pressed in like wet wool. The path to the pier was slick with salt. Tessa kept the lantern low, watching her feet, counting steps. Twenty to the gate. Thirty to the turn. The harbour was a grey nothing.

“Nell!” she called again. “Where are you?”

A small sound. Then Nell’s voice, shaky: “Here. By the rail.”

Tessa found her hunched over the wet planks, arms wrapped round herself. The flare tube was gone. Nell’s face was streaked with red light and tears.

“I missed,” Nell said. “I missed the boat. The flare wasn’t enough.”

Tessa knelt. The lantern threw a warm circle. “You didn’t miss. You lit the whole sky. They’ll have seen it.”

“But the horn stopped.”

“Horns stop when they’re coming in. That’s what they do.”

Nell looked up. “How do you know?”

“Because I’ve listened to Dad say it a hundred times. Come on. We need to get back up. The lamp’s still burning, but we have to keep it that way.”

She pulled Nell to her feet. Together they started back along the pier, the lantern swinging between them, two small lights in a world of grey.

***

Back in the lamp room, the air was warm and smelled of oil. Tessa checked the wick, trimmed it, wiped the glass. Nell stood by the window, watching the fog for any sign.

“What if they can’t find the harbour?” Nell said.

“Then we light the flare again. But we only had one.”

“We have the lamp.”

“We have the lamp,” Tessa agreed. “And the fog horn. But they need to know where the entrance is.”

She looked around the room. On the shelf, a box of matches. A tin of biscuits. A length of white cloth their mother had left for dusting.

“Nell. The cloth.”

Nell turned. “What?”

“We can wave it. In front of the lamp. Make the light flash. They’ll see it’s us.”

“That’s stupid. They can’t see a cloth in this.”

“They can see the light go on and off. It’s a signal. Dad showed me once.”

Nell bit her lip. “Fine. Give it here.”

They stood either side of the lamp, and Tessa counted. “One, two, three—“ and Nell passed the cloth across the glass, cutting the beam. “—four, five, six—“ and away. Over and over, a slow heartbeat of light in the fog.

After a while, Nell’s arms ached. Tessa took over. They didn’t speak. The bell rang. The sea kept on.

Then, faint and far, a horn. Long. Then short. Then long again.

Nell grabbed Tessa’s arm. “That’s the boat.”

“That’s the boat,” Tessa said. “Keep waving.”

They waved until their shoulders burned, and the horn got louder, and a shape came out of the fog — a dark hull, a wheelhouse, a man at the rail waving back. The boat slid past the pier and into the harbour, and the shouting started, and someone laughed.

Tessa let the cloth fall. Her hands were shaking. Nell was crying again, but smiling.

“We did it,” Nell said.

“You did it,” Tessa said. “I just brought the lantern.”

They stood together at the window. Below, the boat was tying up. The fog was thinning, going grey, then silver. The lamp above them burned on, steady, as if it had never doubted.

“Kettle?” Tessa said.

“Kettle,” Nell said.

They made tea and sat on the floor with their backs against the warm brick, cups in both hands. The sky outside turned from black to blue. The lamp gave one last flicker, and went out.

Nell leaned her head on Tessa’s shoulder.

“Same time tomorrow?” she said.

Tessa snorted. “Don’t push it.”