Mrs Trotter's Lighthouse

Short Story

The relentless fury of the coastal storm shook and heaved in livid defiance at the lonely rowing boat that had dared to brave it's hazardous waters. Dusk was imminent, though as Ritchie Black and his eccentric companion persisted in pursuit of their destination, the kind light of the moon to guide their way remained absent.

With the blur of his rain-speckled glasses obstructing his vision, thus being unable to differentiate between black cloud of doom or endless cliff-drop of death, Ritchie yelled at his companion over the howling wind. 'Are we sure we know where we're going?' His question was coated in civil politeness, for he had only just met his benefactor - he sure as hell didn't know the way - and knew little of her temperament other than that she must be referred to as nothing other than Mrs Trotter. Perhaps that was all he needed to know.

'Oh, we're quite sure, old Mr Blacky,' said Mrs Trotter. 'Just a few strokes to go! Try not to get struck by lightning, such an inconvenience would surely prolong our journey!' She laughed a manic cackle; the sound was shrill and pierced the forceful wind, seeming much out of character for a woman so young and fair. Ritchie was struck by how unaffected she was by the storm, not just in spirit but in her very being; while he rowed back and forth with all the strength and will his slender arms would allow, the heavens above had an apparent vendetta against him, heedless of his ageing body as he was battered and sprayed with rain and the salt seawater, while Mrs Trotter appeared dry and untouched, as if some magical spell protected her.

Ritchie had also never been addressed as 'old Mr Blacky' before, though he privately objected more to being presumed old, however obvious it now was. Ripening, he was, as his old lady had once put it.

They didn't talk for the majority of the journey, much to Ritchie's pleasure. He was keen to begin his new position as lighthouse keeper, and though he had a great many questions burgeoning enthusiastically within him, these were dampened in more ways than one, for as well as the weather that so eagerly seeked to depress his spirit, he had also concluded early upon meeting her that he was far from fond of Mrs Trotter. Of course, as the old man's 'ripeness' advanced, he was not in the habit of deliberating what he thought of people much anymore; he took people as he found them now, and had experienced much of life to determine whether someone was worth his effort or not. Still, Mrs Trotter was different; she was cold and disengaged (not without the occasional hint of madness), disparate in her unpleasantness, and he disliked her in an entirely respective form.

'I am worried, Mrs Trotter. When will we see your magnificent lighthouse?' Though the peeking moon had sneaked through a black cloud wreath, thus illuminating the rocky cliff-lined shores beyond, there was still no sign of Ritchie's new home. Still, the sky continued to rumble and the rain lashed down, beating only at Ritchie's face and thudding mercilessly against the wooden boat like machine gun bullets. Lightning forked and met the distant horizon.

Mrs Trotter smirked, her grey eyes vacant. 'Fret not, Mr Blacky, we're here already.' She averted the intensity of her gaze and looked towards the shore. Sure enough, the stone white of Mrs Trotter's lighthouse had managed to crawl it's way through cloud and darkness just enough to make its not-so-grand reveal. Though not a particularly magnificent structure (it was smaller than average, with a weather-beaten stone exterior and a protruding, crumbling brick walkway that lead back to shore), Ritchie definitely saw its necessity; the waters surrounding it were that of nightmares, angry and unrelenting, and an unwelcome hazard adding to the perilous reef below. He was happy to call it home.

They climbed out of the boat together, walking in silence towards the foot of the lighthouse. Its door was painted red, and with his eyes strained Ritchie could just about make out a red balloon tied around the iron door handle. He was about to ask Mrs Trotter about it, before she handed him the keys and inclined to turn away from him, clearly intent on rowing back from whence she came with not so much as a friendly goodbye.

Ritchie was perplexed. 'So that's it, I don't even get shown the ropes?'

'It's a lighthouse,' said Mrs Trotter, her expression dismissive. 'And you're a lighthouse keeper, are you not?'

'Yes, but-'

'Then tend to it. Maybe turn the lamp on now and then and wave to the boats. Hell knows I had my fun with that for a week or so.'

'And where will you go, Mrs Trotter?' Ritchie was dumbfounded that someone could hand over the keys to their property with such blasé indifference.

'Away,' she said. 'From all the wicked wretchedness that insists on lingering here.'

'You're not really selling the place for me,' said Ritchie, glancing at the looming structure towering over him; small though it was for a lighthouse, it's presence remained formidable now, almost intense and disapproving as it glowered over him against the moody backdrop of the sea.

Mrs Trotter gazed towards her lighthouse and smiled with a knowing fondness in her eyes, as if seeing something Ritchie could not, and for the first time Ritchie saw the spark of youth lighten the harshness of her face; her blonde hair was light and pretty in ringlets, and her porcelain features appeared bright and heavenly for one fleeting moment. She had a roman nose, prominent and striking, though it done nothing but heighten her strange beauty.

'I don't need to sell it,' she snapped, as if awaking from a trance. 'You're here, aren't you? You've already made your mind up, not that an old codger like you could resist such an offer.' She laughed her wicked cackle that Ritchie decided he loathed, and in an instant her foulness was reignited upon her face. She exuded a cold emptiness that felt unnatural to him. 'Besides,' she continued, 'How else would you get back without a boat?'

Turning her back to him, she walked away from the lighthouse, wading through the water and apparently unperturbed by the slippery grime that grew thick on the shore rocks. Her shrill shrieking resumed and seemed to echo in the whistling wind and reverberated throughout the caves within the seaside cliffs. The boat had disappeared, and as it dawned on Ritchie what Mrs Trotter was doing, he tried to run after her.

'Mrs Trotter! Mrs Trotter! Please come back!'

She called back distantly, still with her back to him. 'Bobby and I are taking a well deserved break. Please leave us be, Mr Blacky.'

Ritchie trudged through the water, his trousers quickly becoming heavy and restricting, though as he scrambled in a desperate plead, waist-deep in the icy sea and soaked to his skin, Mrs Trotter was unpursuable; she was not swimming, though she appeared to have advanced at great speed, walking calmly and unbothered, with the back of her long black coat billowing in the wind, until at last the storm seemed to swallow her in darkness and Ritchie saw her no more.

Panting and weighed down in the water, Ritchie stared in complete disbelief and confusion at what had happened. Though he knew next to nothing of Mrs Trotter's affairs, he could deduce confidentally that her actions were both peculiar and reckless at the very least. With a lump in his throat and tears blending with the rain on his cheeks, he swung around in circles, looking for anyone who could help, though his efforts were unavailing. He was entirely alone. He heaved himself out of the water and hurried with vigour towards the lighthouse, coughing and spluttering as the effects of nature took its toll, numbing him of any feeling in his body but the taste of salt in his mouth.

Ritchie reached the lighthouse door; it peeled a blood red, matching the balloon tied around the door handle, and revealed damp grey wooden panels underneath. Nailed to it, and unbeknown to Ritchie until then, was a shoddily-crafted silver plaque engraved with slanting writing. Ritchie leaned close, wiping his spectacles and straining to read as the rain continued to whack at the back of his head. He adjusted the plaque, for it hung from the door pathetically, before reading:



'In loving memory of

Martha Trotter
1923-1946

and her son

Robert Trotter
1942-1946

Though her husband James, also deceased, fought valiantly in the war, Martha and young Bobby were latterly claimed by their own unfortunate battles at home. May they rest in peace.'

Author's Note

Any feedback welcome :)