The Keeper's Chair

The key hangs where it always hangs, on its nail just inside the door. You lift it down out of habit, although nothing here has been locked in years. On the grass beside the wall, Prince Freddie settles down to wait for you, chin on his paws.

Inside, the stairs begin at once. They turn upward in a tight spiral, narrow and worn in the middle, where years of climbing have hollowed each tread into a shallow dip. The stone smells of salt and old whitewash. You climb without hurrying.

The stairs go round, and round again. A small window slides past, full of the beach going grey. Another shows the rocks at the foot of the headland. The last one holds nothing but sky. The air grows cooler with every turn.

At the top, the lantern room is just as it always is. The glass is clean. The chair stands by the window with the jacket folded over its back, and the thermos waits on the ledge. You shrug the jacket on. It is cold for a moment, and then it is not.

Outside, the sun has gone down behind the headland. The last of its colour lies along the brass of the window frame, and you rest your hand on it while it is still warm. There is no wind at all tonight. The sea is flat and dark below, and warmer than the air, the way it is here in October.

Far down, three fishing boats come round the point, one after another. Their engines are low and patient. They slip into the harbour before the dark, and their wakes spread out behind them and are gone.

You take the soft cloth from the ledge and wipe the big glass, slowly, in wide circles, the way you always do. Then you sit down in the chair and wait.