Lighthousekeeping

by Jeanette Winterson

I was given a packet of crisps on Saturday nights, even though Miss Pinch had warned that it might lead to trouble, though she did not say what kind of trouble. The trouble seemed to be me. I had met her earlier in the day, as I was pushing our sack truck along the pot-holed road to the town. Her hand hung over me like one of those mechanical grabbers in scrapyards. She said she was Disappointed that I hadn’t been to school, and that this would Hinder my Progress. Immediately I thought of a bright blue boat beaten back by the waves. How could I be both the boat and the waves? This was very deep. ‘You are not listening to me,’ she said. ‘I am. It was the storm. We couldn’t leave the lighthouse.’ ‘Captain Scott was not discouraged by the weather,’ said Miss Pinch. ‘He reached the South Pole in spite of the snow.’ ‘But he died in his tent!’ ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ I had no idea.