The fisherman looked at the cake.
‘There were only three candles left,’ Moominmamma said apologetically. ‘How old are you, if I may ask?’
‘I don’t remember,’ the fisherman muttered. His eyes moved anxiously from one window to the other and up to the trap-door.
‘Many happy returns of the day,’ said Moominpappa. ‘Pray be seated!’
But the fisherman remained standing and started to make for the door.
Suddenly Little My yelled at the top of her voice: ‘Sit down and behave yourself!’ she shouted angrily.
The fisherman was so startled that he came up to the table and sat down. Before he knew what was happening, Moominmamma had poured out the coffee and one of the others undid the parcel with the hat in it and put it on his tangled head.
He sat very still, trying to look at the hat from underneath. He wouldn’t have any coffee.
‘Try a little sea-grass,’ suggested Little My, giving him one of the presents done up in red leaves.
‘You can eat that yourself!’ said the fisherman politely, and the whole family laughed. It was funny to hear him say something so apt. The party was immediately more relaxed, and they went on talking easily among themselves and left him to himself for a while. After a while he took a sip of coffee. He pulled a wry face and took eight lumps of sugar, then he swallowed the lot at one go.
Then he opened Moomintroll’s present. The parcel was full of the things Moomintroll had left on the beach for the sea-horses, little bits of glass, pebbles and four copper weights. The fisherman looked at the weights for a while and said: ‘Huh!’ Then he opened the last little parcel and took out the shell with the inscription ‘a present from the seaside’ on it, and said: ‘Huh!’
‘That’s the best of the lot,’ said Moomintroll. ‘It was washed up on the beach.’
‘Was it really?’ said the fisherman, looking at the bottom drawer of the desk.
He got up and went slowly to the desk. The family watched him with interest. They were very surprised that he hadn’t thanked them for their presents.
It was getting dark. Only a small patch of sunlight from the setting sun shone on the apple tree on the wall. The three candles were burning steadily.
The fisherman caught sight of the bird’s nest on the desk.
‘That should be in the chimney,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s been there for years.’
‘We had thought we might hang it out of the window,’ said Moominmamma apologetically. ‘But we haven’t got round to doing it…’
The fisherman stood in front of the desk, looking in the mirror. He stared at Moominpappa’s hat and contemplated his own unfamiliar face. Then his eyes turned to the jigsaw puzzle. He picked up a piece and fitted it in immediately, and with short sharp movements went on putting pieces in while the family got up and came and stood behind him to see what he was doing.
He completed the puzzle. It was a picture of birds flying round a lighthouse. He turned round and looked at Moominpappa.
‘Now I remember,’ he said. ‘We’re both wearing the wrong hat.’
He took off the hat he was wearing and offered it to Moominpappa. They exchanged hats without saying a word to each other.
The lighthouse-keeper had come back.
He buttoned up his corduroy jacket and hitched up his trousers. Then he went and picked up his cup and said: ‘I wonder if there’s any more coffee?’
Moominmamma dashed to the stove.
They all sat down at the table, but it was very difficult to find anything to say. The lighthouse-keeper ate his piece of cake while the family looked at him a little shyly.
‘I have painted a little on one of the walls,’ Moominmamma remarked diffidently.
‘So I see,’ said the lighthouse-keeper. ‘A landscape. It makes a change, I suppose. It’s well done, too. What had you thought to paint on the other wall?’
‘A map, perhaps,’ said Moominmamma. ‘A map of the island, showing all the rocks and shallows and perhaps the depth of the water as well. My husband is very good at measuring the depth of the water.’
The lighthouse-keeper nodded appreciatively. Moominpappa felt very pleased but still couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
Little My’s bright little eyes wandered from one to the other. She looked tremendously amused and as though she was about to say something really unsuitable, but she didn’t.
Two of the candles had burned right down and run over the cake. It was dark, and the storm was still raging outside. But inside it was quiet. They had seldom had such a peaceful evening.
The thought of the Groke crossed Moomintroll’s mind. But he didn’t feel that he must think about her. He would see her later as usual, but he didn’t have to. Somehow he knew that she wasn’t afraid of being disappointed any longer.
At last Moominpappa said something.
‘I have that crate of whisky out there on your point. Do you think the wind will drop soon?’
‘When a south-westerly gale sets in it can be weeks before it blows itself out. Your crate will be quite safe, don’t worry,’ said the lighthouse-keeper.
‘I thought I might go and have a look at the weather in a little while,’ said Moominpappa, filling his pipe. ‘Do you think the boat’s all right?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the lighthouse-keeper. ‘There’s a new moon, so the water won’t rise any higher.’
The third candle went out, and only the glow of the fire shone over the floor.
‘I’ve washed your sheets,’ said Moominmamma, ‘although they were quite clean. Your bed is in its old place.’
‘Thank you very much,’ the lighthouse-keeper said, getting up from the table. ‘I think I’ll sleep up top tonight.’
They wished each other good night.
‘Shall we go over to the point?’ asked Moominpappa.
Moomintroll nodded his head.
*
Moominpappa and Moomintroll came out on the lighthouse-rock. The new moon was rising in the south-east. A little crescent moon – the beginning of a new month, a darker, autumn month. They walked down towards the heather.
‘Pappa,’ said Moomintroll. ‘I’ve got something to do on the beach. I ought to meet someone there.’
‘All right,’ said Moominpappa. ‘See you tomorrow. So long.’
‘So long,’ said Moomintroll.
Moominpappa walked on over the island. He wasn’t thinking of the crate of whisky or of the point particularly. What did one point matter? He had several of them.
He came to the edge of the water and stood watching the breakers. There was the sea – his sea – going past, wave after wave, foaming recklessly, raging furiously, but, somehow, tranquil at the same time. All Moominpappa’s thoughts and speculations vanished. He felt completely alive from the tips of his ears to the tip of his tail. This was a moment to live to the full.
When he turned to look at the island – his island – he saw a beam of light shining on the sea, moving out towards the horizon and then coming back towards the shore in long, even waves.
The lighthouse was working.
Tove Jansson, Moominpappa at Sea
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