‘Over here, my good man,’ said Hercus.
‘Kemp?’ Begg called. ‘Where the blazes is Colton Kemp?’
‘We stock all of Sandow’s physical culture paraphernalia, of course,’ Hercus said to Jesse, who was not used to being spoken to with any sort of respect or reverence. ‘Quickly, man.’ Hercus hurried The Carpenter, whose approach looked laboured. Jesse wondered if it was due to the heavy woollen suit he wore on this warm summer’s morning, or simply age. ‘I’m afraid he’s rather taciturn,’ Hercus added.
‘Sorry, sir—’ Jesse began.
‘Oh, don’t worry. The Carpenter is the most able man in the field of displays. Just one look at our present window should allay any fears you may have. But why would you have fears? You’ve come to deposit Mr Sandow’s likeness at Hercus & Barling and you’re very much in the right spot.’
‘A sack of rats for Kemp,’ said Begg. ‘That’s what awaits him, a sack of rats.’
‘Come,’ Hercus said, placing his arm across Jesse’s shoulders, ‘let us repair to my store.’ He turned to The Carpenter. ‘I trust you can transport the precious cargo?’
The man nodded.
‘Never a peep, that fellow,’ Hercus said. ‘Now tell me, boy, what is your name and how long have you been associated with Mr Sandow?’
In which Colton Kemp keeps mum
The lighthouse, vacant since the death of its first and only keeper, stood at the head of a nameless crag. From the handful of times Kemp had gone fishing with his father he could recall the way the bluff and the land sloping down and away resembled the severed tail of a lizard. For twelve years the gas-powered light had acted as a beacon for ships—Mayor Raymond was still agitating for another townsperson to take up the mantle of lighthouse keeper—but for now the tall white tower and the rocks below attracted only would-be suicides.
Kemp was now a widower and a father of twins—all in the space of a morning. Two lives in exchange for one. But he did not care about those small, squirming things just now. He had left Flossie to deal with the aftermath, hadn’t told her where he was going. She was seventeen but had a good head on her shoulders. She had dealt with the sudden death of her parents quietly and had adjusted to life in slower, less accomplished circles. He knew she’d do a good job this time, that she feared and respected him.
The town of Marumaru was further down the lizard’s tail, where the cliffs ended and the short beach began. The walk to town was a dry dirt path bisecting a field of sheep-shorn grass that resembled a cricket pitch or, though he tried not to see it, a fairway. Before Kemp’s birth, his father had been the greenkeeper of a golf links north of Dunedin. He spoke of it only once: the pride he’d taken in turning scrub into emerald carpets of grass, the thought that went into the placement of each sand trap, the wickedness of a sou’wester on the thirteenth, the difficulties players faced in coming north—the boggy roads, slips and skittish horses—and the slow exodus of members to the Balmacewen course closer to home. The links had been abandoned in the end. In all likelihood it had now been divided into rectangles and was patrolled by Corriedale and cattle beast, though Kemp preferred to think of it overgrown: a shimmering straw-coloured fairway flanked by wild fennel gone to seed and gnarled macrocarpa leading the eye to a perfect circle of Scotch thistle where his father’s green had once shone. Kemp senior had been nearly sixty when he moved north to Marumaru and met his wife. His death concluded a roving, eventful life, but left his son with only a handful of memories. Single moments of grace or anger or despair from which Colton was expected to reconstruct a father.
He has been dead so long. Now Louisa has joined him.
This time he had a thousand memories. He had the raw materials to reconstruct his wife. It was impossible to avoid. But it was not enough. He thought of his failure to carve the likeness of her face and knew she was gone.
He stood on the edge of the crag, staring out to the horizon. Looking due east he was faced with over five thousand miles of uninterrupted ocean. All but six of those miles, however, were hidden by the curvature of the Earth. This thought, the concealed distance, the massive isolation, was more fearsome to him than the thought of the rocks thirty feet below. He looked down. The cliff face was vertical for the first half of its descent, then the moss started and the rock stretched out, eager to meet the water. It would take an almighty leap to make the creamy waves.
He did not leap. Instead, he unbuttoned his trousers and pissed out over the edge, the wind breaking up his stream after a few feet and beating it back into the rock face.
As he headed back down the slope he encountered a black-faced sheep, still heavy with winter wool, standing squarely on the path.
‘Hyah!’ he said and threw out his hand.
The sheep tilted its head to one side.
‘Hyah!’ he said again and thrust his shoulder forward in a mock charge.
The sheep turned slowly and began to leave the path, its undocked tail bouncing in clownish defiance. This slow retreat was no longer enough and Kemp ran up behind as if to kick the sheep. No, he truly meant to kick that woollen arse. The beast picked up its pace and rambled down the slope toward a clutch of cabbage trees. He pursued. In his escalating temper he wanted to do the sheep some harm, to feel its neck between his arm and torso, to wrench its head clean off, but the slope was greater than he had first anticipated. His fast wheeling feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. The wool-heavy sheep stopped behind the stout trunk of the leftmost tree, turned to see the man hurtling toward it and, at the last moment, set off in the direction of the town. But Kemp—spirit possessed and momentum unchecked—leapt forward to tackle his quarry. The tips of his fingers brushed wool, but caught nothing.
He lay on the ground, winded, thwarted, miserable.
‘Excuse me,’ a young voice called from near the path.
He rolled onto his side, wiped his eyes with the meat of his hands and looked back up the hill. It was Josephine Strachan, youngest daughter of the schoolmaster. How old was she? Seven, eight, nine? He was no good at this sort of thing, but he knew her by sight. Flossie had been helping Mr Strachan at the school several days a week. Josephine, most likely starved of attention, had taken a special liking to his sister-in-law. He remembered something about the girl visiting his house unannounced one evening while he laboured in his workshop.
‘Why were you trying to tackle that sheep, Mr Kemp?’
The beast, standing further down the slope, let out a tremulous bleat.
He got to his feet and dusted off his trousers. The rush of foolishness made his knees waver.
‘I was practising,’ he said.
The girl walked gingerly down the hill toward him. ‘But it’s not football season,’ she said and came to a stop a few feet from him. The slope meant that her eyes were level with his. ‘And aren’t you too old to play?’
‘That’s rather impertinent of you, Miss Strachan,’ he said, hoping to scold her, make her turn and run away crying. But all she said was, ‘I beg your pardon,’ and continued to stare into his eyes.
He looked away. The sheep, finally bored, turned its head and trotted off, its tail rigid and unmoving this time, as if it were a ferret fresh from the taxidermist.
Kemp grunted and started to climb back up to the path. The girl followed. ‘How long have you been up here at the lighthouse?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have you know,’ he said without turning, ‘I’m not too old for rugby. It may not seem it to you, but I’m still to reach my prime.’
Josephine