There were four keepers but only three were on duty at any one time. In the absence of the Principal Keeper the next senior Assistant Keeper became Keeper in Charge. They all did two months ‘off’ on the rock and one month ‘on’ on the world. Round Island was a ‘happy light’. When asked, singly in the dark watches of the night, they all agreed that they got on well together – all liked the Principal Keeper. They told me hair-raising stories of unhappy lighthouses, of being immured with keepers who were religious maniacs or drug fiends or smelly keepers, but these seemed mercifully rare – all agreed, however, that most of the new entrants were not up to previous standards. They all liked being lighthouse keepers, whether they were married or not, and had no crazy ideas about living in Sunningdale or having a second car for shopping.
Two of them had quitted the service temporarily. One, for what he regarded as a ghastly period, worked for Sun Life Assurance in Holborn, the other, more congenially, had worked in a pub; both had returned to it.
All were remarkably free from germs, as proud of the healthiness of their environment, and with presumably more reason, as the London sewermen whose subterranean empire I had visited previously. ‘You can come out here with a nasty sore throat after a turn ashore,’ Ray said. ‘After a day or so on the rock it’s gone.’ None of them was bearded. A mysterious regulation of Trinity House stated that ‘… all keepers after 18.11.52 to be either clean-shaven or wear beard and whiskers or moustache’ – what strange mutations were in existence before this date were not clear. The regulations were of an almost obsessive thoroughness and covered everything from chimney sweeping (‘keepers shall sweep the kitchen chimneys at their stations at least twice a year’); the number of teeth a keeper had to have – ‘a keeper must have sufficient teeth’ – the regulation said; to the wearing of uniform – compulsory if the keeper was to be photographed. None of the keepers on Round Island liked wearing their uniforms; but they had to during the annual visit of the Elder Brethren (all en grande tenue in their vessel, the Patricia, which bore a suspicious resemblance, at least from the outside, to a millionaire’s yacht).
They all possessed the enviable quality of being able to create an atmosphere of high fantasy and maintain it for long periods, rather in the same way as the more resilient prisoners-of-war of my acquaintance had succeeded in doing in Italy and Germany. This, with the fact that they each kept their own food supplies separate from one another’s (at meal times in the kitchen we peered at one another through a forest of sauce bottles), gave Round Island an uncanny resemblance to a prisoner-of-war camp of the better sort. From the moment I landed I never saw my hamper from Fortnum’s. It was whisked away, ‘We’ll keep this for a rainy day,’ they said, roguishly, like the worst sort of hosts, to whom you bring a couple of bottles of champagne hoping to enliven the evening. It never rained while I was there and I lived as they did. They seemed to have a morbid passion for Bird’s Custard.
They also had a little trolley on which, when they were not trying to photograph one another, with their keeper’s hats reversed like early racing motorists at Brooklands, they used to zoom down a concrete path from the high south end of the rock through the open gate in the protecting wall of their living quarters, round the base of the light and back again.
Their life was one of constant activity. If such a comparison were possible it could only be with that of a pre-1914 housewife whose cook and housemaid had left her, armed with nothing but a bottle of meths, paraffin, soap, lubricating oil and metal polish who finds herself saddled with a number of machines, the majority of them outmoded, all in need of constant attention, which are housed either in an embryonic skyscraper without a lift or else dotted about a rocky plateau exposed to the full force of North Atlantic weather.
On Round Island watches were from midnight to four, four until noon, then noon until eight and from eight until midnight. At 9.15a.m. day-workers were called to breakfast by the man who had the four to noon watch. Each keeper worked as a dayman two days out of three. Jobs included removing the seventy-two steel rollers which supported the sixteen-ton edifice of lenses – in some lighthouses it floated in mercury – cleaning them with meths, then oiling and reassembling them; oiling the clockwork mechanisms with which the rock was abundantly provided; cleaning some 350 square feet of lenses inside and out with a mixture of meths and water, cleaning an infinity of brass (some older Elder Brother must have had shares in a brass foundry); wiping over the exposed steelwork with oily rags, a job that had to be done with great care to be successful; maintaining the engines, scrubbing the floors and the spiral staircase; filling the stoves; riddling the ashes from the cooking range – on Saturdays the man who was cook cleaned the telescope, the kitchen window and the mirror, Monday’s cook washed the previous week’s dishcloths (changed on Sundays and Wednesdays); took the Elsan chemical closet from its exposed situation on the west side of the rock and emptied it over the cliff on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Better by far, they all said, than the lugubrious pilgrimages with a wheelbarrow that keepers used to go on from the old lighthouse at Dungeness, and better than hanging over the void in the lavatory on the outside gallery of the Longships Light off Land’s End – 110 feet up, and, if you were on duty in thick weather, rising every five minutes to change the guncotton charges on the manually operated fog signal, raise them high in the air on the counterbalanced jib, a facsimile of the one I had seen twenty-five years previously at Anvil Point in Dorset, and push down the plunger on the exploder, ‘Just like Lawrence and the Arabs,’ as one of them who had done it said.
At sunset the lamp was lit, a 75 mm Hood Petroleum Vapour Burner, visible twenty-one miles away, like the one at Anvil Point, but now very old-fashioned and soon to be supplanted by electricity, the product of one of the finest makers in the world, Chance Brothers of Birmingham. At last I realised a long-cherished ambition, to see the lamp of a lighthouse lit, and only just in time. The Keeper on Watch poured meths into a spirit cup under the upper and lower vaporizers. They were really nothing more than over-size Primus stoves. While he was waiting for them to heat up, he removed the curtains that shielded the lenses from the sun. The magnification was so great that if they were not shielded the sun would splinter the red Venetian shades on the mantles. Then he lit the mantles, which erupted like great crimson fungi. The light was economical. It only burned two and a quarter pints of paraffin in seven hours.
He then wound up the weight from the base of the tower to the level of the lantern. It weighed about 7 cwt and it took 400 turns of the handle to raise it. When the bell rang it meant that there were fifty more turns to be made. If he went over the fifty, the handle would begin to unwind and either remove his front teeth or else hit him in the pit of the stomach, according to whether he was a large or small light-house-keeper. He had to do this once every hour. At the end of the hour, the bell rang to tell him that the weight was almost down; but he would know, even if he did not hear the bell. ‘When it’s nearly down you feel it in your bones,’ one of them said.
Once the light was burning the only sounds were the hiss of the vaporiser, the whirr of the governor and the clacking of the ratchet when he began winding again. If fog came down he had to go over to the engine house and start the engine, a 22 h.p. Hornsby Fog Signal Engine, installed aout 1905, but looking like a copy of something much older. In order to start it he heated a metal dome at the end of the cylinder with a blow lamp. When it was nice and hot, he set the flywheel to top dead centre, opened the valve to the compressed air tank, switched on the paraffin and oil drips, and operated the starting lever in short jerks at every other revolution of the flywheel. The first time he did it while I was there he caught the piston on the wrong stroke, the engine went backwards, there was an explosion and the room was filled with dense smoke and a voice fucking the engine and the Brethren for not providing a replacement.
Once the thing was firing correctly he locked the starting lever and closed down the relief valve to allow the compressor to pump air back to the main tank. While he was doing this, being a good lighthousekeeper, he was wondering if the weight bell had sounded, whether the Radio Beacon was functioning (actually, he could see the monitor in the engine house); or whether he ought to be listening to Land’s End on the RT.
Now he had steam up and he could begin to operate the siren, which was miles away on the other side of the rock. Like everything else on