The Lackadaisical Lighthouse

The lackadaisical lighthouse: Part one- Has she been good to me?

"Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?"

A phrase which here means, "I have a message for you."

An old man with neatly trimmed grey hair and a moustache that turns up at the ends, wearing a flowered shirt, striped tie, tweed coat, plaid slacks with a sharp crease, and shined shoes, was last seen at a funeral. He used the afore mentioned phrase, and was asked, "The question is, has she been good to me?"

A phrase which here means, "I am a volunteer. Please give me the message."

He handed a young girl a brown paper bag. Then he disappeared.

It is hard to determine whether the young girl knew what she had been born in to. It is hard to determine whether the phrase was only something she had heard her parents say. However, I am happy to report that it is easy to determine what happened next.

A young woman looked out over the sea through a spy-glass. She took a lump of sugar from the tray next to her, and dissolved it in tepid tea with a spoon. There was nothing on the horizon, just as there had been nothing on the horizon for an interminably long time. Sighing, she put her spy-glass back in it's brown paper bag in a draw. There were still 16 lumps of sugar on the tray. She opened the window, letting in a cool breeze, and tipped the contents of the tea cup out and watched the beige liquid hit the rocks below. "Another one for you Esme. Lost your sugar bowl, and now your sugar, one piece at a time." She said this to no-one in particular, as no-one was there to witness it. The Violent Fructose Drop had become something of a tradition over the past few months. Everyday, she made tepid tea and dissolved a sugar cube from a very 'in' tea-tray, only to throw it out the window. 16 cubes meant 16 days left. Then she would leave. There was a brown stain on a map that needed investigating and an incredibly deadly training seminar in Peru that was of some interest.

As uncomfortable and spiteful as her regime may seem to the uninformed observer, the young woman had a certain right to be unkind to some herbal tea bags and sugar cubes. But I digress.

It was on the 1095th day of permanent residence in the Livid Lighthouse on the north end of Briny Beach, that something appeared on the afore mentioned horizon. With three sugar cubes left, the young woman had packed the rest of her personal items and was ready to leave after one last triad of tedious days. She was about to put away her spy-glass and was just pouring the water in to her cup, when something dark and distinctly boat shaped arose from the convexity of the distance. A boat.
She was so surprised by this unexpected development that she dropped the teapot in shock. It bounced once before smashing in to a billion tiny pieces. Figuratively, of course. Given the gravity of the situation, one might assume a mad rush down rickety and unsafe stairs to reach the shore, but she let herself have one moment to silently wish Esme could see the smashed teapot. Then after the latter activity was completed, she did indeed madly rush down rickety and unsafe stairs to reach the shore.

The current was strong and as the tide came in, it dragged in the boat. The young woman waited on the pebbles, staring out. As the boat neared the shore, it turned to the left slightly, and an arm was visible, dangling in the water. She rushed forward in to the shallows and waded through the water in her too big pinstripe trousers. A length of rope floated on the surface, and she pulled the boat up on to the shore. It may now be prudent to mention that this young woman was not the tallest individual in the world. Nor was she the strongest, but it is said that there is no chance, no destiny, no fate, that can hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul. And it was her determined soul that pulled the boat and it's passengers to immediate safety.

The contents of the boat is something that I am thankful for every day, even if my thanks is tinged with sadness. The arm belonged to a young man, who was hunched over and who was as pale as medusoid mycelium spores. In his arms he clutched a bundle. As the young woman leaned over the boat, the bundle moved and revealed itself to be a toddler. There was also another small form under a blanket, but it wasn't moving. She took the toddler gently from the arms of the young man, and he looked up for the first time. His face was sun-burned and filthy, but underneath the grime and weariness were soft features. His hands shook and he tried to speak, but the young woman shook her head and held out her hand to help him up. He could barely stand and it was a struggle to get him to the beach. He collapsed heavily on the ground and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"Stay with me, Duncan. Duncan!"

There were no sugar cubes left. She had been out of them for two weeks, but she couldn't have moved on and left her patients. The toddler was miraculously, relatively unharmed, just mildly underfed and with a raspy cough. The young man was exhausted and could only stay awake for a few minutes at a time to swallow some alphabet pasta in soup and some parsley soda. He was clean and dry now, and the young woman could see that he was about her age, perhaps 16 or 17, with mousy brown hair and the sort of lines around the eyes that would suggest he had spent time squinting at books in a dark library. The other form that had been in the boat was a petite little girl. The young woman couldn't bring herself to look at her poor face. She was beyond help. There was a fresh grave behind the lighthouse now.

The young man opened his eyes groggily. The young woman was by his side in seconds with a cup of water. He drank greedily then propped himself up. He looked stronger and had some colour in his cheeks. "Where am I?" His voice was raspy and he struggled to get the words out.

"Briny beach. Livid Lighthouse to be precise." the young woman placed a cool flannel on his forehead and he breathed deeply, closing his eyes. Suddenly he remembered something. He shot up to a sitting position, panic set deep in his eyes.

"Where are they? Where are they?" his voice killed her to hear. He tried to stand but she pushed him gently back down in to the bed.

"The baby is safe and well. I promise. She is in the next room with a book."

The young man breathed a sigh of relief. "And S..?"

She didn't let him finish. She had to tell him. "I'm so sorry Duncan. She was already gone by the time I..."

He closed his eyes, tears escaping down his cheeks. She put an arm on his shoulder but he shrugged it away and rolled over. She left the tiny room and closed the door, a single tear making it's way down her face as she took the toddler to bed.

When the young man was strong enough, she took him down to the grave, and helped him lay freshly cut violets on the soil. It would now be prudent to mention that the young woman thought that the young man was named Duncan, and the young man thought that the young woman was named Halley (as that is what he had been told). In this world, it is often safer to lie until you can be sure your company are fire-fighters, not fire-starters.

It was an October evening, when they were both sat in the small kitchen eating puttanesca sauce, when the truth surfaced.

"Why do you think I am called Duncan?" The questioned stunned the young woman, and she put her spoon down in confusion.

"Because you're Duncan...aren't you? Well I suppose you could have been Quigley, but they said he is tall and fair. I was told to wait for the Quagmire triplets who would come in by boat..."

"The Quagmire's?" his face fell. "No-one knows what happened to them."

"Then why did you let me think you were Duncan and that poor girl was Isadora?" The young woman was flushed and upset.

"Why did you let me think your name is Halley?" He looked at her with wide eyes, and she stared back, bewildered. "If there is one thing I don't like, it's when people think they can hide things from me. Now, I don't know your real name, but I do know that it isn't Halley."

They both looked at each other, each trying to work out what to say.

"I didn't realise this was such a sad occasion." he leaned forward.

"The world is quiet here." she leaned forward. "My name is Hermia de Hallivand."

"Klaus Baudelaire."

This revelation fills me with joy, as it means that one of the Baudelaire orphans survived The Great Unknown, but it saddens me, as there should have been three of them.

Sunny Baudelaire's grave bloomed with violets. Violet Baudelaire's grave was at the bottom of the sea. Beatrice Snicket continued to grow strong.