The Lighthouse Key

The Lighthouse Key

Rain drums on the tin roof of Vera Holt's clock shop on Wren Street. Vera, sixty, silver hair in a tight bun, round gold spectacles and a burgundy cardigan, winds the last cuckoo clock of the night. Her apprentice Sami, nineteen, lanky, with curly black hair and a yellow rain jacket, sweeps brass shavings from the floor.
"Sami, take the brass key to the lighthouse before the tide turns," Vera says, pressing a heavy brass key into his palm. "Theo has waited three days for it."
"Tonight? In this storm?" Sami asks.
"Tonight. The lamp will not turn without it."

On the harbour road the wind throws spray over the sea wall. Sami runs with the key clenched in his fist. He slips on the wet cobbles and slams his left knee into the kerb. His trouser leg tears open over a bleeding scrape. He limps on, gritting his teeth.

At the lighthouse door stands Theo Marsh, broad-shouldered, with a grey beard and a navy wool coat, a lantern in his hand.
"You're bleeding, lad," Theo says.
"It's nothing. Here's the key from Miss Holt," Sami says, holding it out.
Theo takes the brass key and turns it over in the lantern light. "She kept her promise."

In the lamp room at the top of the tower, Theo fits the key into the old clockwork that turns the great lens. Sami sits on an upturned crate, his left knee wrapped in Theo's red handkerchief. Theo's granddaughter Pip, eight, with two copper braids and a green scarf, peers at the bandage.
"Does it hurt?" Pip asks.
"Only when I laugh," Sami says, and she giggles.
Theo cranks the key. The gears groan, then click into rhythm. The lens begins to turn, and a beam of light sweeps across the black sea.

At dawn Sami limps back into the clock shop, the red handkerchief still tied around his left knee. Vera looks up from her bench.
"Well?" she asks.
"The light is turning," Sami says, and hands her a folded thank-you note from Theo.
Vera reads it, smiles, and sets a cup of tea beside him.