The lighthouse keeper doesn’t scream or shout when I force open the door of her cabin and fall in and slam it behind me. The keeper is an old woman in dungarees and glasses. She makes delighted noises and puts down the axe head she’s been sharpening. She tries to pick up Hopey and kiss her and babble something about not getting many visitors.
She calls herself Doreen. Her husband died in 2033, she says. About ten years ago. I’m asking about the lighthouse, studying it, astonished by its power and beauty, and Doreen is chortling and smiling.
She insists me and Hopey sit down in her lounge, lined with curtains and cushions and driftwood sculptures. There’s a thick black iron fireplace. This entire cottage is a throwback to a hundred years ago. We’re in a time warp. This place is like human
