A Light Between Oceans Episode 11

Sandy had plopped down in the corner of the room with her box of toys, and was examining a collection of stones and shells while Donald stared at the kettle, waiting for it to boil.
At last he set the mugs on the table and sat down across from Hattie, his face clouded and distant.
“Donald, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help.
“I’m thinking of Sandy,” she added. “I can see things that it might be hard for you to see . . .”
It was all coming out horribly wrong, but Donald nodded, the darkness in his face retreating a little.
“I know you’re trying to help, Hattie.
“I don’t know how I’d cope without you, especially since the war, with no assistant keeper.
“Young men are scarce, and Belmouth just isn’t important enough, I suppose,” he added.
“I want to give you some money. We must come to some sort of arrangement about –”
“No!” It was Hattie’s turn to close up.
She was hurt and insulted by the suggestion that she should be paid to look after the little girl she so adored.
“I’m sorry, Hattie, but it isn’t right. Like you, I’m trying to help.”
Hattie smiled ruefully.
“Touché. Anyway, I’ll leave the crayons for Sandy.
“I’ve brought some soap,” she added brightly. “A grateful guest gave me some of his ration.
“And grateful he certainly should have been, as he didn’t have enough money to pay me for the room.”
“Hattie, you should ask for money in advance now. There can’t be many staying these days.”
She waved his comment aside.
“Soap is more precious.”
She put the bar of Sunlight on the table and gulped down her tea.
“I must bring in my washing before it rains. I hope the smoke screens haven’t streaked oil over it.”
The drone of aircraft had been streaming towards the coast, wing to wing.
“Thank you,” Donald said sheepishly “For everything.”
Hattie smiled.
“I’ll see you next week. Bye, Sandy!” she called, resisting the temptation to interrupt the girl’s play.
Donald stooped down to examine the shells with his daughter, and he gave Hattie a silent wave as she quietly closed the door.
Again she felt a surge of anger – this time towards Donald’s parents.
How could they have ignored their son’s artistic gifts, refusing to listen to Alexander Steed, the outstanding artist who had taught at the local school.
Having studied with no less than Henry Tonks, Mr Steed had seen exceptional promise in Donald, and had used every contact he could think of to arrange a bursary that would have enabled his protégé to live in London for a year and have lessons at the Slade.
Donald’s father, who was in the Merchant Navy, had been immovable on the matter.
Then, when he’d died, Donald’s mother heaped a sense of duty on her son, pressing him to honour his father’s name by becoming a lighthouse keeper.
When Donald qualified, Trinity House had, with what they obviously saw as the greatest compassion, posted him back home to Belmouth.
At least he’d continued to paint.
Of course, Hattie admitted to herself, if things had been different, Donald never would have fallen in love with Helen.
She remembered the lovely young woman who had moved to Belmouth with her parents, and the way Donald had one day seemed very different.
Hattie had known at once what had happened.
She sighed, then hurried over the rocky path as once again the distant hum overhead grew steadily louder until the deafening noise dulled all else.
Lucas wound his way through the maze of little streets to the promenade.
Minutes after he’d left Hattie’s sun-filled courtyard, the sky had begun to darken, and the silky surface of the sea was broken by choppy waves.
A sombre grey cloud blotted out the last of the blue, and the first splatters of rain quickly broke into a shower.