The Light Between Oceans: A Novel

by M. L. Stedman

“Quite right. Mamma’s mamma is Grandma.”

  “And that’s Dadda’s dadda.”

  “No, that’s Mamma’s dadda. That’s Grandpa.”

  Lucy looks skeptical.

  “Yeah, it’s confusing, I know. But Grandma and Grandpa aren’t my mum and dad.”

  “Who are your mum and dad?”

  Tom shifted Lucy from one knee to the other. “My mum and dad were called Eleanora and Edward.”

  “Are they my grandma and grandpa too?”

  Tom sidestepped the question. “They both died, sweetie.”

  “Ah,” said Lucy, and nodded seriously, in a way that made him suspect she had no idea what he was talking about. “Like Flossie.”

  Tom had forgotten about the goat that had become ill and died a few weeks earlier. “Well, yes, like Flossie died.”

  “Why did your mamma and dadda die?”

  “Because they were old and sick.” He added, “It was a long time ago.”

  “Will I die?”

  “Not if I can help it, Lulu.”

  But lately, every day with this child seemed a precarious thing. The more she had access to words, the greater her ability to excavate the world around her, carving out the story of who she was. It gnawed away at Tom that her understanding of life and of herself would be founded on a single, enormous lie: a lie he himself had helped craft and refine.

  Every surface in the light room gleamed: Tom had always kept it diligently, but now he waged war on every screw, every fitting, until it surrendered a brilliant sheen. These days he smelled permanently of Duraglit. The prisms sparkled and the beam shone, unhindered by a speck of dust. Every cog in the works moved smoothly. The apparatus had never functioned with more precision.

  The cottage, on the other hand, had suffered. “Couldn’t you just put a bit of putty in that crack?” Isabel asked, as they sat in the kitchen after lunch.

  “I’ll do it once I’m ready for the inspection.”

  “But you’ve been ready for the inspection for weeks—for months, for that matter. It’s not as if the King’s coming, is it?”

  “I just want it shipshape, that’s all. I’ve told you, we’re in with a chance for the Point Moore posting. We’d be on land, close to Geraldton. Near people. And we’d be hundreds of miles from Partageuse.”

  “Time was you couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Janus.”

  “Yeah, well, times change.”

  “It’s not time that’s changed, Tom,” she said. “You’re the one who always says that if a lighthouse looks like it’s in a different place, it’s not the lighthouse that’s moved.”

  “Well you work out what has,” he said as he picked up his spanner and headed off down to the storage sheds, without looking back.

  That night, Tom took a bottle of whisky, and went to watch the stars from near the cliff. The breeze played on his face as he traced the constellations, and tasted the burn of the liquid. He turned his attention to the rotation of the beam, and gave a bitter laugh at the thought that the dip of the light meant that the island itself was always left in darkness. A lighthouse is for others; powerless to illuminate the space closest to it.

  CHAPTER 21

  The celebration at Point Partageuse three months later was big by South West standards. The Superintendent of the Mercantile Marine Office had come all the way from Perth, together with the State Governor. The town worthies were there—the Mayor, the Harbormaster, the vicar, as well as three of the last five lightkeepers. They had gathered to commemorate the day on which Janus was first lit, forty years earlier in January 1890. The occasion brought with it a grant of brief special shore leave for the Sherbourne family.

  Tom ran his finger between his neck and the starched collar which imprisoned it. “I feel like a Christmas goose!” he complained to Ralph as the two stood backstage, looking out from behind the curtains. Already sitting in neat rows on 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.r />
  “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.