The Light Between Oceans

by M. L. Stedman

  the stage were municipal engineers and Harbor and Lights employees who had been associated with Janus over the years. Outside the open windows, the summer’s night was alive with the chirrup of crickets. Isabel and her parents sat on one side of the hall, Bill Graysmark holding Lucy on his knee while she rabbited nursery rhymes.

  “Just keep your mind on the free beer, son,” Ralph whispered to Tom. “Even Jock Johnson can’t blather on too long tonight—that getup must be killing him.” He nodded in the direction of the bald, perspiring man bedecked with ermine-collared robe and mayoral chain who was pacing about, preparing to address the gathering in the rickety town hall.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Tom said. “Call of nature.” And he headed out to the toilet behind the hall.

  On the way back, he noticed a woman who seemed to be staring at him.

  He checked that his flies were buttoned; glanced behind him, in case she was observing someone else. Still she looked at him, and as she got closer, she said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Tom looked at her again. “Sorry, think you’ve got the wrong person.”

  “It was a long time ago now,” she said, blushing. In that instant something in her expression changed, and he recognized the face of the girl on the boat on his first trip to Point Partageuse. She had aged, and was thin now, with shadows under her eyes. He wondered if she had some sort of illness. He remembered her, in her nightgown, wide-eyed with fear and pinned to the wall by some drunken fool. The memory belonged to a different man, a different lifetime. Once or twice over the years, he’d wondered what had become of her, and of the cove who’d bailed her up. He had never bothered to mention the incident to anyone, Isabel included, and instinct told him it was too late to tell her about it now.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” the woman began, but was interrupted by a voice calling from the back door of the hall. “We’re about to start. Best be getting in.”

  “Excuse me,” said Tom. “Got to go, I’m afraid. See you afterward, perhaps.”

  As soon as he took up his seat onstage, proceedings got under way. There were speeches, a few anecdotes from some of the older lightkeepers; the unveiling of a model of the original structure.

  “This model,” the Mayor announced proudly, “was paid for by our local benefactor, Mr. Septimus Potts. I’m delighted that Mr. Potts and his charming daughters, Hannah and Gwen, are attending our little gathering tonight, and I’d ask you to show your thanks in the usual way.” He gestured to an older man sitting beside two women, the first of whom, Tom realized with a sick lurch, was the girl from the boat. He glanced at Isabel, who smiled stiffly as she applauded with the rest of the audience.

  The Mayor continued, “And of course, ladies and gentlemen, we also have with us tonight the current lightkeeper on Janus, Mr. Thomas Sherbourne. I’m sure Tom would be delighted to say a few words about life on Janus Rock today.” He turned to Tom, and gestured him to the podium.

  Tom froze. No one had mentioned a speech. He was still reeling from the realization that he had met Hannah Roennfeldt. The audience clapped. The Mayor beckoned him again, more forcefully this time. “Up you get, sport.”

  For just a second, he wondered whether everything, from the day the boat had washed up, might be just one terrible, merciful nightmare. But there in the audience he could see Isabel, the Pottses and Bluey, oppressively real and inescapable. He got to his feet, heart thudding, and walked to the lectern as if to the gallows.

  “Struth,” he began, sending a ripple of laughter through the audience. “I wasn’t expecting this.” He wiped his palms on the sides of his trousers, and gripped the lectern for support. “Life on Janus today…” He stopped, lost in a thought, and repeated, “Life on Janus today…” How could he explain the isolation? How could he make anyone know the world there, as far removed from their experience as another galaxy? The Janus bubble had shattered like glass: here he was, in a crowd, in an ordinary, real room, full of people, of other lives. In the presence of Hannah Roennfeldt. There was a long silence. A few cleared their throats, others shifted in their seats.

  “Janus Light was designed by some pretty smart characters,” he said. “And built by some pretty brave ones. I just try and do them justice. Keep the light burning.” He sought refuge in the technical, in the practical, which he could talk about without having to think. “People imagine the light must be huge, but it’s not—the actual luminescence comes from a flame of vaporized oil that burns in an incandescent mantle. It gets magnified and directed through a giant set of glass prisms twelve feet high, called a first order Fresnel lens, which bends the light into a beam so intense you can see it more than thirty miles away. Amazing to think a little thing can become so strong that you can see it miles off… My job—my job’s to keep it clean. Keep it turning.

  “It’s like being in a different world, out there, and a different time: nothing changes except the seasons. There are dozens of lighthouses all around the coast of Australia: plenty more fellows like me, trying to make the ships safe, keeping the light for whoever might need it, even though we’ll mostly never see them or know who they are.

  “Can’t think what else to say, really. Except you can never tell what the tide’s going to bring in from one day to the next—everything that two whole oceans fling at us.” He could see the Mayor checking his pocket watch. “Well, I reckon that’s kept you away from the spread for long enough: this is thirsty weather. Thanks,” he concluded, turning abruptly to sit down, to moderate applause from the bemused audience.

  “You all right, mate?” Ralph asked in a whisper. “You look a bit green about the gills.”

  “Not too keen on surprises,” was all Tom said.

  Mrs. Captain Hasluck loved a party. Her penchant was rarely indulged in Partageuse, so tonight she was beside herself with delight. She relished her duty, as Harbormaster’s wife, to encourage the guests to mix, especially seeing as there were visitors from Perth. She glided here and there, introducing people, reminding them of names and suggesting things they had in common. She kept an eye on Reverend Norkells’s sherry intake; engaged the Superintendent’s wife in small talk about the difficulty of laundering the gold braid on uniforms. She even managed to persuade old Neville Whittnish to tell the story of the day he saved the crew of a schooner whose cargo of rum had caught fire out near Janus in 1899. “Of course, that was before Federation,” he said. “And long before the Commonwealth got its hands on the Lights in 1915. A lot more red tape since then.” The State Governor’s wife nodded dutifully and wondered if he knew he had dandruff.

  Mrs. Captain looked about for her next task, and saw her opportunity. “Isabel, dear,” she said, laying a hand on her elbow. “What an interesting speech Tom gave!” She cooed to Lucy, who was perched on Isabel’s hip, “You’re up very late this evening, young lady. I hope you’re being a good girl for Mummy.”

  Isabel smiled. “Good as gold.”

  In a crochet-hook maneuver, Mrs. Hasluck reached out to gather in the arm of a woman who was just passing. “Gwen,” she said. “You know Isabel Sherbourne, don’t you?”

  Gwen Potts hesitated a moment. She and her sister were several years older than Isabel, and having been to boarding school in Perth, neither of them knew her well. Mrs. Captain registered the hesitation. “Graysmark. You’d know her as Isabel Graysmark,” she said.

  “I—well, I know who you are, of course,” she said with a polite smile. “Your father’s the headmaster.”

  “Yes,” replied Isabel, nausea creeping into her belly. She looked around, as though trying to escape with her eyes.

  Mrs. Captain was beginning to regret the introduction. The Potts girls had never really mixed much with the locals. And then, after all that business with the German, well, the sister… Oh dear… She was considering how to rescue the situation when Gwen gestured to Hannah, standing a few feet away.

  “Hannah, did you realize Mr. Sherbourne who gave that speech just now is married
to Isabel Graysmark? You know, the headmaster’s daughter.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” said Hannah, whose thoughts seemed elsewhere as she approached.

  Isabel froze, unable to speak, as a gaunt face slowly turned toward her. She clutched Lucy tighter and tried to utter a greeting, but no words came.

  “What’s your little one’s name?” asked Gwen with a smile.

  “Lucy.” It was only by supreme effort that Isabel managed not to run from the room.

  “Lovely name,” said Gwen.

  “Lucy,” said Hannah, as if pronouncing a word from a foreign language.

  She was staring at the child, and reached out to touch her arm.

  Isabel flinched with terror at the look in Hannah’s eyes as she surveyed the little girl.

  Lucy seemed hypnotized by the woman’s touch. She studied the dark eyes, and neither smiled nor frowned, as though concentrating on a puzzle. “Mamma,” she said, and both women blinked. She turned to Isabel. “Mamma,” she said again, “I’m sleepy,” and rubbed her eyes.

  For the briefest of moments, Isabel pictured herself handing Hannah the child. She was the mother. She had the right. But she was hallucinating. No, she had thought about it so many times. There was no going back on her decision. Whatever God meant by this, Isabel had to stay with the plan, go along with His will. She cast about in her mind for something to say.

  “Oh look,” said Mrs. Hasluck, seeing Tom approach, “here’s the man of the moment,” and pulled him in as she moved off to another little group. Tom had been anxious to catch Isabel and slip away, as people converged on the trestle tables of sausage rolls and sandwiches. As he realized who Isabel was talking to, his neck tingled, and his pulse raced harder.

  “Tom, this is Hannah and Gwen Potts,” said Isabel, attempting a smile.

  Tom stared as his wife, with Lucy on her hip, put her hand on his arm.

  “Hello,” said Gwen.

  “Pleased to meet you again, properly,” said Hannah, finally tearing her eyes from the child.

  Tom could find no words.

  “‘Properly’?” queried Gwen.

  “We actually met years ago, but I never knew his name.”

  Now Isabel was looking anxiously from one to the other.

  “Your husband was very gallant. Rescued me from a fellow who—well, who was bothering me. On a boat from Sydney.” She answered Gwen’s silent question. “Oh, I’ll tell you about it later. It’s all a long time ago now.” To Tom, she said, “I had no idea you were on Janus.”

  There was a heavy silence as they stood, inches from each other.

  “Dadda,” said Lucy finally, and held out her arms to him. Isabel resisted, but the child put her arms around his neck and Tom let her climb on to him and rest her head against his chest, listening to the drumbeat of his heart.

  Tom was about to take the chance to move away, when Hannah touched his elbow. “I liked what you said, by the way, about the light being there for whoever needed it.” She took a moment to work up to her next words. “Could I ask you something, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  The request filled him with dread, but he said, “What’s that?”

  “It may seem a strange question, but do ships ever rescue people far out to sea? Have you ever heard of boats being picked up? Survivors taken to the other side of the world, perhaps? I was just wondering whether you’d ever come across stories…”

  Tom cleared his throat. “When it comes to the ocean, anything’s possible, I suppose. Anything at all.”

  “I see… Thank you.” Hannah took a deep breath, and looked again at Lucy. “I took your advice,” she added. “About that fellow on the boat back then. Like you said, he had enough problems.” She turned to her sister. “Gwen, I’m ready for home. I’m not much of a one for this kind of do. Will you say goodbye to Dad for me? I don’t want to interrupt him.” Then to Tom and Isabel, “Excuse me.” She was about to leave when Lucy gave a sleepy “Ta-ta” and a wave. Hannah tried to smile. “Ta-ta,” she replied. Through tears she said, “You have a very lovely daughter. Excuse me,” and hurried to the door.

  “So sorry about that,” Gwen said. “Hannah had a terrible tragedy a few years ago. Family lost at sea—her husband, and a daughter who would have been about your girl’s age by now. She’s always asking that sort of thing. Seeing little ones sets her off.”

  “Dreadful,” Isabel managed to mutter.

  “I’d better go and see she’s all right.”

  As Gwen left, Isabel’s mother joined them. “Aren’t you proud of your daddy, Lucy? Isn’t he a clever fellow, giving speeches and what have you?” She turned to Isabel. “Shall I take her home? You and Tom can enjoy the party. Must be years since you’ve been to a dance.”

  Isabel looked to Tom for a response.

  “I promised Ralph and Bluey I’d have a beer with them. Not my cup of tea, all this.” Without another glance at his wife, he strode out into the darkness.

  Later that night, when Isabel looked into the mirror as she washed her face, for an instant it was Hannah’s features she glimpsed in the glass, etched with distress. She splashed more water on her skin, to wash away the unbearable image along with the sweat of the encounter. But she couldn’t make the picture go away, nor could she tame the other, almost imperceptible wire of fear that came from learning that Tom had met her. She couldn’t say why it made things worse, but somehow, it felt as if solid ground had moved imperceptibly beneath her feet.

  The encounter had been shocking. To see close up the darkness in Hannah Roennfeldt’s eyes. To smell the faded sweetness of powder on her. To feel, almost physically, the hopelessness that hung about her. But at the very same time, she had tasted the possibility of losing Lucy. The muscles in her arms stiffened now, as if to hold on to the child. “Oh God,” she prayed, “God, bring peace to Hannah Roennfeldt. And let me keep Lucy safe.”

  Tom had still not come home. She went into Lucy’s room to check on her. She took a picture book gently from her hand as she slept, and laid it on the dressing table. “Night night, my angel,” she whispered, and kissed her. As she stroked her hair, she found herself comparing the shape of Lucy’s face with the vision of Hannah in the mirror, looking for something in the curve of the chin or the arch of an eyebrow.

  CHAPTER 22

  Mamma, can we have a cat?” Lucy asked the next morning as she followed Isabel into the Graysmarks’ kitchen. The child had been fascinated by the exotic marmalade creature called Tabatha Tabby that patrolled the house. She had seen cats in storybooks, but this was the only one she had ever touched.

  “Oh, I don’t think a cat would be very happy on Janus, sweetie pie. He wouldn’t have any friends to play with.” Isabel’s voice had a distracted air.

  “Dadda, can we please have a cat?” asked the child without missing a beat, oblivious to the tension in the air.

  Tom had got home after Isabel was asleep, and risen before anyone else. He was sitting at the table, flipping through a week-old copy of the West Australian.

  “Lulu, why don’t you take Tabatha out into the garden for an adventure—go hunting for mice,” he said.

  She hauled the compliant animal up by its middle and stumbled to the door.

  Tom turned to Isabel. “How much longer, Izz? How much bloody longer?”

  “What?”

  “How can we do it? How can we carry on with this every day? You knew the poor woman had gone out of her mind because of us. Now you’ve seen her with your own eyes!”

  “Tom, there’s nothing we can do. I know it and so do you.” But Hannah’s face came back to her, her voice. As Tom set his jaw, she searched for some way of placating him. “Perhaps…” she ventured, “perhaps—when Lucy’s older, perhaps we can tell Hannah then, when it won’t be so devastating… But that’s years away, Tom, years.”

  Astounded both by the concession and by its inadequacy, he pressed on. “Isabel, what’s it going to take? It can’t wait years. Imagine her life! You even knew her!”
<
br />   Fear awoke in Isabel in earnest. “And it turns out you did too, Tom Sherbourne. But you kept that pretty quiet, didn’t you?”

  Tom was taken aback by the counter-attack. “I don’t know her. I met her. Once.”

  “When?”

  “On the boat from Sydney.”

  “That’s what’s brought this on though, isn’t it? Why didn’t you ever tell me about her? What did she mean, ‘You’re very gallant’? What are you hiding?”

  “What am I hiding? That’s rich.”

  “I know nothing about your life! What else have you kept secret, Tom? How many other shipboard romances?”

  Tom stood up. “Stop it! Stop it right there, Isabel! You’re carrying on like a two-bob watch over Hannah Roennfeldt to change the subject because you know I’m right. Makes no odds whether I’d seen her before or not.”

  He tried an appeal to reason. “Izz. You saw what she’s become. That’s our doing.” He turned away from her. “I saw things… I saw things in the war, Izz. Things I’ve never told you and never will. Christ, I did things…” His fists were closed tight and his jaw stiff. “I swore I’d never make anyone suffer after that, not if I could help it. Why do you think I went on the Lights anyway? I reckoned I could maybe do a bit of good, maybe save some poor bastard from being wrecked. And now look what I’ve gotten into. I wouldn’t want a dog to have to go through what Hannah Roennfeldt’s been through!” He searched for words. “Christ, I learned in France that you’re bloody lucky if you’ve got tucker for tea and teeth to chew it with.” He balked at the images that flooded his mind. “So when I met you, and you even looked twice at me, I thought I was bloody well in heaven!”

  He stopped for a moment. “What are we, Izzy? What do we think we’re playing at, for crying out loud? I swore I’d stay with you through thick and thin, Isabel, thick and thin! Well all I can say is, things have got pretty bloody thin,” he said, and strode away down the hall.

  The child stood in the back doorway, watching the end of the argument, spellbound. She had never heard so many words come from Tom’s mouth, never so loud. Never seen him cry.

  “She’s gone!” Isabel’s words greeted Tom as he returned to the Graysmarks’ that afternoon, in the company of Bluey.

  “Lucy! I left her outside playing with the cat while I went to pack. I thought Mum was watching her, and she thought I was watching her.”

  “Calm down. Calm down, Izz,” he said, and put a hand on each arm. “Take it quietly. When did you last see her?”

  “An hour ago? Two at the most.”

  “When did you realize she’d gone?”

  “Just now. Dad’s gone to look for her, up in the bush at the back.” Partageuse frilled in and out of native bush land at its fringes, and beyond the Graysmarks’ neat, lawned garden lay acres of scrub that led into forest.

  “Tom, thank goodness you’re back.” Violet came rushing on to the veranda. “I’m so sorry—it’s all my fault. I should have checked on her! Bill’s gone to search up along the old logging track…”

  “Are there any other places she’s likely to have gone?” Tom’s methodical, practical reflex came to the fore. “Anywhere you and Bill told her stories about?”

  “She could be anywhere,” said Violet, shaking her head.

  “Tom, there are snakes. Redbacks. God help us!” Isabel implored.

  Bluey spoke up. “I used to spend all day in that bush when I was a kid, Mrs. S. She’ll be all right. We’ll find her, no trouble. Come on, Tom.”

  “Izz—Bluey and I’ll head into the bush, see if we can find any tracks. You have another look around the garden and out the front. Violet, double-check the house—all the cupboards and under the beds. Anywhere she could have followed the cat. If we don’t find her in the next hour, we’ll have to send for the police, get the black-trackers out.”

  Isabel flashed him a look at the mention of police.

  “It won’t come to that,” said Bluey. “She’ll be right as rain, Mrs. S., you wait and see.”

  It was only when they were out of earshot of the women that Bluey said to Tom, “Let’s hope she’s been making a racket as she goes. Snakes sleep during the day. They’ll get out of your way if they hear you coming. But if they’re surprised… Has she ever wandered off before?”

  “She’s never had any-bloody-where to wander to,” Tom said sharply, then, “Sorry, Blue. Didn’t mean to— It’s just she hasn’t really got much of a feel for distance. On Janus, everywhere’s close to home.”

  They walked on, calling the child’s name as they went, and waiting in vain for a reply. They were following the remnants of a path, now mostly overgrown at adult height, where branches reached over the empty space below. But at her height, Lucy would have met no resistance.

  About fifteen minutes in, the path opened out into a clearing, then forked in opposite directions. “Loads of these trails,” said Bluey. “They’d clear a route, back in the old days, when they went scouting for good timber country. There are still soaks here and there, so you’ve got to watch out. They’re usually covered over,” he said, referring to the wells dug to get at groundwater.

  The child from the lighthouse has little fear. She knows not to go too near cliff edges. She understands that spiders can bite, and should be avoided. She is clear that she mustn’t try to swim unless Mamma or Dadda is beside her. In the water, she can tell the difference between the fin of a friendly dolphin, which goes up and down, and of a shark, which stays steady as it cuts the surface. In Partageuse, if she pulls the cat’s tail it might scratch her. These are the boundaries of danger.

  So as she follows Tabatha Tabby beyond the borders of the garden, she has no concept of getting lost. After a while she can no longer see the cat, but by then it is too late—she is too far away simply to retrace her steps, and the more she tries, the further she wanders.

  Eventually, she comes to a clearing, where she sits down by a log. She takes