Hannah held the sergeant with a silent, steady gaze, forcing him into speech again.
“It really would be out of the ordinary, I’m afraid. All due respect…”
“But not against the rules? Against the law?”
“Look, ma’am. It’s going to be hard enough for you when it all comes to Court. Take it from me: it’s a distressing thing, a trial like this. You really don’t want to be stirring things up for yourself before it even starts.”
“I want to see him. I want to look him in the eye, the man who killed my child.”
“Killed your child? Steady on now.”
“The baby I lost is never coming back, Sergeant, never. Grace will never be the same.”
“Look, I’m not sure what you mean, Mrs. Roennfeldt, but in any case I—”
“I’m entitled to that much, don’t you think?”
Knuckey sighed. The woman was a pitiful sight. She’d been haunting the town for years now. Maybe this would let her lay her ghosts to rest. “If you wait here…”
Tom had risen to his feet, still puzzled by the news. “Hannah Roennfeldt wants to talk to me? What for?”
“You’re not obliged, of course. I can send her away.”
“No… ,” Tom said. “I’ll see her. Thank you.”
“Up to you.”
A few moments later, Hannah entered, followed by Constable Garstone bearing a small wooden chair. He placed it a few feet from the bars.
“I’ll leave the door open, Mrs. Roennfeldt, and wait outside. Or I can stay here if you’d prefer?”
“There’s no need. I won’t be long.”
Garstone gave one of his pouts and jangled his keys. “Right. I’ll leave you to it, ma’am,” he said, and marched back down the corridor.
Hannah stared in silence, taking in every inch of Tom: the small hook-shaped shrapnel scar just below his left ear; the unattached earlobes, the fingers that were long and fine despite their calluses.
He submitted to her inspection without flinching, like quarry offering itself up to a hunter at close range. All the while, scenes flashed through his mind—the boat, the body, the rattle, each fresh and vivid. Then other memories—writing the first letter late at night in the Graysmarks’ kitchen, the churning in his gut as he chose the words; the smoothness of Lucy’s skin, her giggle, the way her hair floated like seaweed as he held her in the water at Shipwreck Beach. The moment he discovered he had known the mother of the child all along. He could feel the sweat on his back.
“Thank you for letting me see you, Mr. Sherbourne…”
If Hannah had sworn at him or hurled her chair at the bars, Tom would have been less shocked than at this civility.
“I realize you didn’t have to.”
He gave just a slight nod.
“Strange, isn’t it?” she went on. “Until a few weeks ago, if I’d thought of you at all, it would have been with gratitude. But it turns out you were the one I should have been afraid of that night, not the drunk. ‘Being over there changes a man,’ you said. ‘Can’t tell the difference between right and wrong.’ I finally understand what you meant.”
In a steady voice she asked, “I need to know: was this really all your doing?”
Tom nodded, slowly and gravely.
Pain flitted across Hannah’s face, as if she had been slapped. “Are you sorry for what you did?”
The question stabbed him, and he focused on a knot in the floorboard. “I’m sorrier than I can say.”
“Didn’t you even think for a moment that the child might have had a mother? Didn’t it occur to you that she might be loved and missed?” She looked about the cell, then back to Tom. “Why? If I could understand why you did it…”
His jaw was rigid. “I really can’t say why I did what I did.”
“Try. Please?”
She deserved the truth. But there was nothing he could say to her without betraying Isabel. He had done what mattered—Lucy had been returned, and he was taking the consequences. The rest was just words. “Really. I can’t tell you.”
“That policeman from Albany thinks you killed my husband. Did you?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “I swear to you, he was already dead when I found him… I know I should have done things differently. I’m truly sorry how much harm the decisions I’ve made since that day have done. But your husband was already dead.”
She took a deep breath, about to leave.
“Do what you like to me. I’m not asking for forgiveness,” Tom said, “… but my wife—had no choice. She loves that little girl. She cared for her like she was the only thing in the world. Show her some mercy.”
The bitterness in Hannah’s face faded to weary sadness. “Frank was a lovely man,” she said, and walked slowly back down the corridor.
In the dim light, Tom listened to the cicadas that seemed to tick the seconds away, thousands at a time. He became aware of opening and closing his hands, as though they might take him somewhere his feet could not. He looked at them, and for a moment, considered all they had done. This collection of cells and muscles and thoughts was his life—and yet surely there was more to it. He came back to the present, to the hot walls and the thick air. The last rung of the ladder that might lead him out of hell had been taken away.
For hours at a time, Isabel put Tom from her mind: as she helped her mother around the house; as she looked at the paintings Violet had kept, done by Lucy during her brief visits back; as she felt ever more deeply the grief of losing her child. Then thoughts of Tom would creep back and she pictured the letter Ralph had delivered, banished to the drawer.
Gwen had promised to bring Lucy to see her again, but she hadn’t appeared at the park in the days afterward, even though Isabel had waited for hours. But she must stay firm, while there was the merest sliver of a hope of seeing her daughter again. She must hate Tom, for Lucy’s sake. And yet. She took the letter out, observed the tear in the corner where she had begun to open it. She put it back, and hurried out to the park, to wait, just in case.
“Tell me what you want me to do, Tom. You know I want to help you. Please, just tell me what to do.” Bluey’s voice was tight and his eyes glistened.
“Nothing more needs doing, Blue.” Tom’s cell was hot, and smelled of carbolic from the mopping an hour earlier.
“I wish to Christ I’d never seen that bloody rattle. Should have kept me trap shut.” He gripped the bars. “That sergeant from Albany came to see me, asking all sorts of questions about you—whether you were handy with your fists, whether you were a drinker. He’s been to see Ralph, too. People are talking about—they’re talking about murder, for Pete’s sake, Tom. Down the pub they’re talking about hanging!”
Tom looked him in the eye. “Do you believe them?”
“Of course I don’t believe them. But I believe that sort of talk takes on a life of its own. And I believe that an innocent bloke can be accused of something he never did. It’s no use saying sorry when he’s dead.” Bluey’s expression continued to implore Tom silently.
“There are things that are hard to explain,” Tom said. “There are reasons why I did what I did.”
“But what did you do?”
“I did some things that have ruined people’s lives, and now it’s time to pay.”
“They’re saying how Old Man Potts reckons that if a bloke’s wife won’t stick up for him, then he must have done something pretty crook.”
“Thanks, mate. You’re a real comfort.”
“Don’t go down without a fight, Tom. Promise me!”
“I’ll be right, Blue.”
But as Bluey’s footsteps echoed away, Tom wondered how true that was. Isabel had not responded to his letter, and he had to face the fact that it could be for the very worst of reasons. Still, he had to hold on to what he knew of her, of who he knew her to be.
On the outskirts of the town are the old timber workers’ cottages, meager clapboard constructions ranging from the derelict to the respectable. T
hey’re set on smaller blocks of land, near the pumping station that brings the town its water. One of them, Isabel knows, is where Hannah Roennfeldt lives, and where her treasured Lucy has been taken. Isabel has waited in vain for Gwen to appear. In desperation, she now seeks Lucy out. Just to see where she is. Just to know she is coping. It’s midday and there isn’t a soul in the broad street, braided with jacarandas.
One of the houses is particularly well kept. Its wood is newly painted, its grass cut, and, unlike the others, it’s bounded by a tall hedge, more effective than a fence in keeping prying eyes away.
Isabel goes to the laneway at the back of the houses, and from behind the hedge, hears the rhythmic squeak of iron. She peers through a tiny gap in the foliage, and her breath comes faster as she sees her little girl, riding a tricycle up and down the pathway. All alone, she has no expression of happiness or sadness, just fierce concentration as she pedals. She is so close: Isabel could almost touch her, hold her, comfort her. Suddenly, it’s absurd that she can’t be with the child—as if the whole town has gone mad, and she is the only sane one left.
She considers things. The train comes once a day from Perth down to Albany, and once a day from Albany to Perth. If she waited until the last minute to get on, might there be a chance that no one would notice her? That the child’s absence mightn’t be discovered? In Perth, it would be easier to melt into anonymity. Then she could get to Sydney by the boat. England, even. A new life. The fact that she has not a shilling to her name—has never held a bank account—doesn’t seem to stop her. She watches her daughter, and weighs up her next action.
Harry Garstone hammered on the Graysmarks’ door. Bill answered, after peering through the glass to see who it could be at this hour.
“Mr. Graysmark,” the constable said, and gave a peremptory nod.
“Evening, Harry. What brings you here?”
“Official business.”
“I see,” said Bill, braced for more grim news.
“I’m looking for the Roennfeldt girl.”
“Hannah?”
“No, her daughter. Grace.”
It took Bill a moment to realize he meant Lucy, and he gave the policeman a questioning look.
“Have you got her here?” Garstone asked.
“Of course I haven’t got her. Why on earth… ?”
“Well, she’s not with Hannah Roennfeldt. She’s gone missing.”
“Hannah lost her?”
“Or she was taken. Is your daughter at home?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?” he asked, just faintly disappointed.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Been here all day, has she?”
“Not all day, no. What are you on about? Where’s Lucy?”
By now Violet was standing behind Bill. “Whatever’s the matter?”
“I need to see your daughter, Mrs. Graysmark,” said Garstone. “Could you get her, please?”
Reluctantly, Violet went to Isabel’s room, but it was empty. She hurried out to the back, where she found her sitting on the swinging seat, staring into space.
“Isabel! It’s Harry Garstone!”
“What does he want?”
“I think you’d better come and see him,” Violet said, and something in her tone made Isabel follow her mother through the house to the front door.
“Evening, Mrs. Sherbourne. I’m here about Grace Roennfeldt,” Garstone began.
“What about her?” asked Isabel.
“When did you last see her?”
“She hasn’t been near her since she came back,” her mother protested, before correcting herself. “Well, she did… come across her, by accident, at Mouchemore’s, but that’s the only time—”
“That right, Mrs. Sherbourne?”
Isabel didn’t speak, so her father said, “Of course it’s right. What do you think she—”
“No, Dad. Actually, I did see her.”
Both parents turned, mouths open in confusion.
“At the park, three days ago. Gwen Potts brought her to see me.” Isabel considered whether to say more. “I didn’t go looking for her—Gwen brought her to me, I swear. Where’s Lucy?”
“Gone. Disappeared.”
“When?”
“I thought you might be able to tell me that,” said the policeman. “Mr. Graysmark, do you mind if I have a look around? Just to be sure.”
Bill was about to protest, but the new information from Isabel worried him. “There’s nothing to hide in this house. Look where you like.”
The policeman, who still remembered getting the cane from Bill Graysmark for cheating on a maths test, made a show of opening wardrobes and peering under beds, though he did so with a trace of nerves, as though it wasn’t impossible that the headmaster might still give him six of the best. Finally, he returned to the hallway. “Thank you. If you see her, make sure you let us know.”
“Let you know!” Isabel was outraged. “Haven’t you started a search? Why aren’t you out looking for her?”
“That’s not your concern, Mrs. Sherbourne.”
As soon as Garstone had gone, Isabel turned to her father. “Dad, we’ve got to find her! Where on earth could she be? I’ve got to go and—”
“Hold your horses, Izz. Let me see if I can get some sense out of Vernon Knuckey. I’ll telephone the station, and see what’s going on.”
CHAPTER 33
From her earliest days, the child from Janus Rock has experienced the extremes of human life as the norm. Who knows what visceral memories of her first trip to the island, and the scene that caused it, linger in her body? Even if that has been erased completely, her days at the lighthouse, in a world inhabited by only three people, have seeped into her very being. Her bond with the couple who raised her is fierce and beyond questioning. She cannot name the sensation of losing them as grief. She has no word for longing or despair.
But she aches for Mamma and Dadda, pines for them and spends her days thinking of them, even now she has been onshore for many weeks. She must have done something very naughty to make Mamma cry so much. As for the woman with the dark hair and the dark eyes who says she is her real mother… lying is wrong. So why does this sad lady insist on telling such a big lie, and to everyone? Why do the grown-ups let her?
She knows Mamma is here in Partageuse. She knows the bad men took Dadda away, but doesn’t know where. She has heard the word “police” many times, but has only the vaguest notion of what they are. She has overheard many conversations. People in the street, muttering, “What a to-do, what a dreadful situation.” Hannah saying she will never see Mamma again.
Janus is enormous, yet she knows every inch of it: Shipwreck Beach, Treacherous Cove, Windy Ridge. To get home, she need only look for the lighthouse, Dadda always says. She knows, for she has heard it said many times, that Partageuse is a very small place.
While Hannah is in the kitchen, and Gwen is out, the little girl goes to her room. She looks about her. Carefully, she buckles on her sandals. In a satchel, she puts a drawing of the lighthouse with Mamma and Dadda and Lulu. She adds the apple the lady gave her this morning; the pegs she uses as dolls.
She closes the back door quietly, and searches the hedge at the back of the garden, until she finds a narrow gap just wide enough to slip through. She has seen Mamma at the park. She will go there. She will find her. They will find Dadda. They will go home.
It is late in the afternoon when she embarks on her mission. The sun is slanting in from the side of the sky, and the shadows of the trees are already stretched like rubber to improbable lengths.
Having scrambled through the hedge, the girl drags her satchel along the ground as she makes her way through low scrub behind the house. The sounds here are so different from Janus. So many birds, calling to one another. As she wanders, the scrub becomes more dense, and the vegetation greener. She isn’t frightened of the skinks she sees skittering now, black and quick and scaly, through the undergrowth. Skinks won’t hurt her, sh
e knows well. But she doesn’t know that, unlike Janus, here not everything black and slithering is a skink. She has never had to make the vital distinction between the lizards that have legs, and those that don’t. She has never seen a snake.
By the time the little girl reaches the park, the light is fading. She runs to the bench, but finds no trace of her mother. Hauling her satchel up after her, she sits there, taking in the empty surroundings. From the satchel she pulls out the apple, bruised from the journey, and takes a bite.
At this hour, the kitchens of Partageuse are busy places, filled with testy mothers and hungry children. There is much washing of hands and faces, grubby from a day’s skirmishing in trees or walking back from the beach. Fathers allow themselves a beer from the Coolgardie safe, mothers oversee saucepans boiling potatoes and ovens incubating stews. Families gather, safe and whole, at the end of another day. And darkness seeps into the sky second by second, until the shadows no longer fall but rise from the ground and fill the air completely. Humans withdraw to their homes, and surrender the night to the creatures that own it: the crickets, the owls, the snakes. A world that hasn’t changed for hundreds of thousands of years wakes up, and carries on as if the daylight and the humans and the changes to the landscape have been an illusion. No one walks the streets.
By the time Sergeant Knuckey has arrived at the park, there is only a satchel on the park bench, and an apple core with small teeth marks, though ants have overrun the remains now.
As the night falls, lights begin to twinkle in the gloom. Dots in the darkness, sometimes from a gas lamp in a window; sometimes electric lights, from the newer houses. The main street of Partageuse has electric street lights strung along its length on either side. The stars, too, illuminate the clear air, and the Milky Way rubs a bright smudge across the darkness.
Some of the bright dots among the trees sway like fiery fruit: people with lanterns are searching the bush. Not just police, but men from Potts’s Timber Mill, men from Harbor and Lights. Hannah waits anxiously at home, as she’s been instructed. The Graysmarks walk the bush paths, calling the child’s name. Both “Lucy” and “Grace” fill the air, though only one child is lost.
The Light Between Oceans: A Novel Page 28