Old Lady Jane – I

She was known by the locals as Old Lady Jane. The others, the ones who came and went, rolling in annually with the same reliability as the incoming tide, would barely even notice her existence. They were focussed on other things, on the sun, the sea, the happy memories they were busily crafting. She used to smile at that. How desperate they all were to make the experience a special one. Something different, something that stood out from the thousands of other holidaymakers who visited the Cornish coast in summer. She had lived in the lighthouse for so long that she could barely distinguish one family from the next. Filling the beaches with their vibrant colours, spilling out of the carparks and dripping down the cliffs into the sea. The noise was insufferable, thought Old Lady Jane.

Old Lady Jane had been named so long ago that nobody could really remember where the name had come from. It made her smile too, how the name had been hers for so long that everyone had forgotten her real name: Julia. But that name was long gone now. Buried in the sand, washed away by the undertow and pulled out into the Atlantic, never to be seen again.

She lived in the lighthouse. On her own. Was she happy? It is impossible to say. But she carried out her days in the same persistent manner, rising at the same time each day, and watching for hours as the seasons rolled through, leaving their distinct marks on the landscape like footprints in the sand, ready to be washed away by the next change in weather. Every week she made one trip to the mainland to stock up on the necessities. Other than that, she had no regular contact with the other locals. This solitude, despite being comforting for the individual, gave the community an uncomfortable feeling which had built itself through rumours, lies and gossip into the notorious figure that was Old Lady Jane. She had become so used to her isolation, so accustomed to being veritably ignored by the locals, was so habitually treated as invisible by the tourists, that when the boy arrived, she was stunned into inaction.

It was the dog that she saw first. Scampering up towards her over the rocks to where she was sitting in her lounger, facing across the bay towards St Ives. The barrage of new and interesting scents was nigh overwhelming before the dog looked up, spotted the lady in the lounger, and let out an inquisitive bark.

Instantly, the boy appeared, his head bobbing as he made his way over the jagged rocks at the base of the island. He was calling, calling out to his dog. Sammy was a nice name for a dog, thought Old Lady Jane. The dog came closer, sniffing her outstretched hand, nuzzling her leg, letting her stroke his head. The boy stumbled up the slope, still calling out after Sammy, but stopped suddenly when he saw who was waiting for him.

He apologised. Rushed forward and grabbed Sammy by the collar, hurriedly explaining that he’s very friendly and not to worry because he doesn’t bite: he’s just curious. Old Lady Jane smiled and spoke in a voice which felt stiff and clumsy, like it had fallen out of use. She complimented the boy on his beautiful dog, and invited him to sit with her. Did he know that this was her island? Did he know that she lived in the lighthouse? How had he come here? When was he leaving?

The answers to some of these questions and more were voiced in the following conversation, and Old Lady Jane found that for the first time since she could remember, the first time since she had moved into the lighthouse, she was enjoying a conversation.

Old Lady Jane got up to fetch some elderflower for her and the boy, and a bowl of water for Sammy. Seeing her slow ascent from the lounger, the boy rushed to her aid and demanded that she direct him into preparing the drinks. Refreshed, sitting comfortably in the sun with the lighthouse to their backs, Old Lady Jane began to tell the boy stories.

She told him stories of what she had seen from the lighthouse. Stories of the tourists and their antics and how they came at this time every year. Stories of ships, boats and all manner of traffic that frequented the bay. She told him stories of mariners and their quests for mermaids. And followed these stories by telling more stories of the seals and how if your took a surfboard round the coast to the right little cove at the right time of night, they would surround you and even let you touch them. And all the while, as they sat talking, Sammy panting at their feet to keep cool, she was aware of the tide beginning to turn.

Before long, the boy began to get hungry, and it was this that prompted him to look at the sun, see how it had dropped from its midday height and was rapidly descending in a graceful arc, and begin to think about his parents. He began to make his goodbyes, but before he could take Sammy and proceed down the slope, over the rocks and back into his little boat, Old Lady Jane stopped him. It was the tide, she explained. Right now, it was flowing out fast. The stretch of water between the island and the mainland was narrow and easily crossed at high tide, but when the tide turned and began to pull away from the land, the waters became treacherous. Look, said Old Lady Jane, as she pointed at the bright white horses that glinted in the evening sun. The water was troubled tonight. The little boy in his small boat would run the risk of being swept out to sea, never to return. And so, thought Old Lady Jane, he would have to stay.