I draw the overlapping folds of the fields, and the spire of Stonegate church. And then I draw a dot on the distant Dover Road. The dot becomes a car. I start to draw more quickly – sketching one image after another: the car has taken the track between the pea field and the cabbage field and is stopping by the gate at the end of our garden . . . I realize I am holding my breath. I flip the page of my sketchbook.

I draw a lady climbing out of the rear door of the car. For the first time since the accident, I feel blood rushing into my legs; my whole body is straining to move, to leap up and fly down the stairs towards her, to run down the path and into her arms. But I know that I can’t do that – I must stay here and wait. It isn’t real yet. I must draw it first.

The lady looks very thin and tired. She is clutching a handkerchief in her fist – she has been crying, and, as she stands there, looking up at the Castle, she begins to cry once more. She holds on to the fence to steady herself.

An old man has walked down the path from the cottage to the garden gate. I draw him holding the gate open for the lady to come through. The two of them stand there for a moment, neither of them saying anything. The old man holds out his hand, then it falls back to his side again. It is a strange gesture – he does not know what to do, and she does not know what to do either. Then he opens both his arms and she steps quickly into his embrace.

I draw them standing together, her face pressed against his shoulder. She is crying, and there are tears running down his face too. He pats her back gently, as a father would his child. Perhaps he is saying something to her very quietly. Perhaps she understands.

I draw them walking up the path to the cottage, side by side. He carries her suitcase for her. She is looking up towards me here in the lantern room. The hand clutching the handkerchief is over her heart, and I wonder if hers is aching as much as mine is at this moment.

Do you think she can see me up here? The bright sun is behind me. I am just a shadow at the moment.

The song of the stones is humming soft and sweet all around the lighthouse now.

Today is the day, I think, for one last miracle.

I lift my hand from the paper at last, and dare to look out of the window.

Historical Note

HISTORICAL NOTE