The Light Between Oceans: A Novel

by M. L. Stedman

  A set of stairs no more than two feet wide began a spiral across one side of the wall and disappeared into the solid metal of the landing above. Tom followed the old man up to the next, narrower level, where the helix continued from the opposite wall up to the next floor, and on again until they arrived at the fifth one, just below the lantern room—the administrative heart of the lighthouse. Here in the watch room was the desk with the logbooks, the Morse equipment, the binoculars. Of course, it was forbidden to have a bed or any furniture in the light tower on which one could recline, but there was at least a straight-backed wooden chair, its arms worn smooth by generations of craggy palms.

  The barometer could do with a polish, Tom noted, before his eye was caught by something sitting beside the marine charts. It was a ball of wool with knitting needles stuck through it, and what looked like the beginnings of a scarf.

  “Old Docherty’s,” said Whittnish with a nod.

  Tom knew the variety of activities the keepers used to while away any quiet moments on duty: carving scrimshaw or shells; making chess pieces. Knitting was common enough.

  Whittnish ran through the logbook and the weather observations, then led Tom to the light itself, on the next level up. The glazing of the light room was interrupted only by the crisscrossing of astragals that kept the panes in place. Outside, the metal gallery circled the tower, and a perilous ladder arched against the dome, up to the thin catwalk just below the weather vane that swung in the wind.

  “She’s a beauty all right,” said Tom, taking in the giant lens, far taller than himself, atop the rotating pedestal: a palace of prisms like a beehive made from glass. It was the very heart of Janus, all light and clarity and silence.

  A barely perceptible smile passed over the old keeper’s lips as he said, “I’ve known her since I was barely a boy. Ah yes, a beauty.”

  The following morning, Ralph stood on the jetty. “Nearly ready for the off, then. Want us to bring out all the newspapers you’ve missed next trip?”

  “It’s hardly news if it’s months old. I’d rather save my money and buy a good book,” replied Tom.

  Ralph looked about him, checking everything was in order. “Well, that’s that then. No changing your mind now, son.”

  Tom gave a rueful laugh. “Reckon you’re right on that score, Ralph.”

  “We’ll be back before you know it. Three months is nothing as long as you’re not trying to hold your breath!”

  “You treat the light right and she won’t give you any trouble,” said Whittnish. “All you need is patience and a bit of nous.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Tom. Then he turned to Bluey, who was getting ready to cast off. “See you in three months then, Blue?”

  “You bet.”

  The boat pulled away, churning the water behind it and battling the wind with a smoky roar. The distance pressed it further and further into the gray horizon like a thumb pushing it into putty, until it was subsumed completely.

  Then, a moment’s stillness. Not silence: the waves still shattered on the rocks, the wind screeched around his ears, and a loose door on one of the storage sheds banged a disgruntled drumbeat. But something inside Tom was still for the first time in years.

  He walked up to the cliff top and stood. A goat’s bell clanged; two chickens squabbled. Suddenly these pinpricks of sound took on a new importance: sounds from living things. Tom climbed the 184 stairs to the lantern room and opened the door to the gallery. The wind pounced on him like a predator, slamming him back into the doorway until he gathered the strength to launch himself outward and grip the iron handrail.

  For the first time he took in the scale of the view. Hundreds of feet above sea level, he was mesmerized by the drop to the ocean crashing against the cliffs directly below. The water sloshed like white paint, milky-thick, the foam occasionally scraped off long enough to reveal a deep blue undercoat. At the other end of the island, a row of immense boulders created a break against the surf and left the water inside it as calm as a bath. He had the impression he was hanging from the sky, not rising from the earth. Very slowly, he turned a full circle, taking in the nothingness of it all. It seemed his lungs could never be large enough to breathe in this much air, his eyes could never see this much space, nor could he hear the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefest moment, he had no edges.

  He blinked, and shook his head quickly. He was nearing a vortex, and to pull himself back he paid attention to his heartbeat, felt his feet on the ground and his heels in his boots. He drew himself up to his full height. He picked a point on the door of the light tower—a hinge that had worked itself loose—and resolved to start with that. Something solid. He must turn to something solid, because if he didn’t, who knew where his mind or his soul could blow away to, like a balloon without ballast. That was the only thing that had got him through four years of blood and madness: know exactly where your gun is when you doze for ten minutes in your dugout; always check your gas mask; see that your men have understood their orders to the letter. You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.

  He raised the binoculars and scoured the island for more signs of life: he needed to see the goats, the sheep; to count them. Stick to the solid. To the brass fittings which had to be polished, the glass which had to be cleaned—first the outer glass of the lantern, then the prisms themselves. Getting the oil in, keeping the cogs moving smoothly, topping up the mercury to let the light glide. He gripped each thought like the rung of a ladder by which to haul himself back to the knowable; back to this life.

  That night, as he lit the lamp, he moved as slowly and carefully as one of the priests might have done thousands of years earlier in the first lighthouse at Pharos. He climbed the tiny metal stairs that led to the inner deck around the light itself, ducked through the opening and into the apparatus of the light. He primed the oil by lighting a flame under its dish so that it vaporized and reached the mantle as a gas. He then set a match to the mantle, which transformed the vapor into a white brilliance. He went down to the next level and started the motor. The light began to turn with the exact, even rhythm of the five-second flash. He picked up the pen, and wrote in the wide, leather-bound log: “Lit up at 5:09 p.m. Wind N/NE 15 knots. Overcast, squally. Sea 6.” Then, he added his initials—T.S. His handwriting took over the telling of the story where Whittnish had left off only hours before, and Docherty before that—he was part of the unbroken chain of keepers bearing witness to the light.

  Once he was satisfied everything was in order, he went back to the cottage. His body craved sleep, but he knew too well that if you don’t eat you can’t work. In the larder off the kitchen, tins of bully beef and peas and pears sat on shelves beside sardines and sugar and a big jar of humbugs, of which the late Mrs. Docherty had been legendarily fond. For his first night’s supper he cut a hunk of the damper Whittnish had left behind, a piece of cheddar and a wrinkled apple.

  At the kitchen table, the flame of the oil lamp wavered occasionally. The wind continued its ancient vendetta against the windows, accompanied by the liquid thunder of waves. Tom tingled at the knowledge that he was the only one to hear any of it: the only living man for the better part of a hundred miles in any direction. He thought of the gulls nestled into their wiry homes on the cliffs, the fish hovering stilly in the safety of the reefs, protected by the icy water. Every creature needed its place of refuge.

  Tom carried the lamp into the bedroom. His shadow pressed itself against the wall, a flat giant, as he pulled off his boots and stripped down to his long johns. His hair was thick with salt and his skin raw from the wind. He pulled back the sheets and climbed in, falling into dreams as his body kept up the sway of the waves and the wind. All night, far above him the light stood guard, slicing the darkness like a sword.

  CHAPTER 4

  Once he has extinguished the light at sunrise each morning, Tom sets off to explore another part of his ne
w territory before getting on with the day’s work. The northern side of the island is a sheer granite cliff which sets its jaw stiffly against the ocean below. The land slopes down toward the south and slides gently under the water of the shallow lagoon. Beside its little beach is the water wheel, which carries fresh water from the spring up to the cottage: from the mainland, all the way out along the ocean floor to the island and beyond, there are fissures from which fresh water springs mysteriously. When the French described the phenomenon in the eighteenth century, it was dismissed as a myth. But sure enough, fresh water was to be found even in various parts of the ocean, like a magic trick played by nature.

  He begins to shape his routine. Regulations require that each Sunday he hoist the ensign and he does, first thing. He raises it too when any “man o’ war,” as the rules put it, passes the island. He knows keepers who swear under their breath at the obligation, but Tom takes comfort from the orderliness of it. It is a luxury to do something that serves no practical purpose: the luxury of civilization.

  He sets about fixing things that have fallen into disrepair since the decline of Trimble Docherty. Most important is the lighthouse itself, which needs putty in the astragals of the lantern glazing. Next he gets rottenstone and sands the wood on the desk drawer where it has swollen with the weather, and goes over it with the wolf’s-head brush. He patches the green paint on the landings where it is scuffed or worn away: it will be a long while before a crew comes to paint the whole station.

  The apparatus responds to his attention: the glass gleams, the brass shines, and the light rotates on its bath of mercury as smoothly as a skua gliding on currents of air. Now and again he manages to get down to the rocks to fish, or to walk along the sandy beach of the lagoon. He makes friends with the pair of black skinks which reside in the woodshed, and occasionally gives them some of the chooks’ food. He’s sparing with his rations: he won’t see the store boat for months.

  It’s a hard job, and a busy one. The lightkeepers have no union—not like the men on the store boats—no one strikes for better pay or conditions. The days can leave him exhausted or sore, worried by the look of a storm front coming in at a gallop, or frustrated by the way hailstones crush the vegetable patch. But if he doesn’t think about it too hard, he knows who he is and what he’s for. He just has to keep the light burning. Nothing more.

  The Father Christmas face, all red cheeks and whiskers, gave a big grin. “Well, Tom Sherbourne, how are you surviving?” Ralph didn’t wait for a reply before throwing him the fat, wet rope to wind around the bollard. Tom looked as fit and well after three months as any keeper the skipper had seen.

  Tom had been waiting for supplies for the light, and had given less thought to the fresh food which would be delivered. He had also forgotten that the boat would bring post, and was surprised when, toward the end of the day, Ralph handed him some envelopes. “Almost forgot,” he said. There was a letter from the District Officer of the Lighthouse Service, retrospectively confirming his appointment and conditions. A letter from the Department of Repatriation set out certain benefits recently allowed to returned servicemen, including incapacity pension or a business loan. Neither applied to him, so he opened the next, a Commonwealth Bank statement confirming that he had earned four per cent interest on the five hundred pounds in his account. He left until last the envelope addressed by hand. He could not think of anyone who might write, and feared it might be some do-gooder sending him news of his brother or his father.

  He opened it. “Dear Tom, I just thought I’d write and check that you hadn’t been blown away or swept out to sea or anything. And that the lack of roads isn’t causing you too many problems…” He skipped ahead to see the signature: “Yours truly, Isabel Graysmark.” The gist of the middle was that she hoped he wasn’t too lonely out there, and that he should be sure to stop by and say hello before he went off to wherever he was going after his Janus posting. She had decorated the letter with a little sketch of a keeper leaning against his light tower, whistling a tune, while behind him a giant whale emerged from the water, its jaws wide open. She had added for good measure: “Be sure not to get eaten by a whale before then.”

  It made Tom smile. The absurdity of the picture. More than that, the innocence of it. Somehow his body felt lighter just to hold the letter in his hand.

  “Can you hang on a tick?” he asked Ralph, who was gathering his things for the journey back.

  Tom dashed to his desk for paper and pen. He sat down to write, before realizing he had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to say anything: just send her a smile.

  Dear Isabel,

  Not blown away or swept (any further) out to sea, fortunately. I have seen many whales, but none has tried to eat me so far: I’m probably not very tasty.

  I am bearing up pretty well, all things considered, and coping adequately with the absence of roads. I trust you are keeping the local birdlife well fed. I look forward to seeing you before I leave Partageuse for—who knows where?—in three months’ time.

  How should he sign it?

  “Nearly ready?” called Ralph.

  “Nearly,” he replied, and wrote, “Tom.” He sealed and addressed the envelope, and handed it to the skipper. “Any chance you could post that for me?”

  Ralph looked at the address and winked. “I’ll deliver it in person. Got to go past that place anyway.”

  CHAPTER 5

  At the end of his six months, Tom savored the delights of Mrs. Mewett’s hospitality once again, for an unexpected reason: the Janus vacancy had become permanent. Far from finding his marbles, Trimble Docherty had lost the few he still had, and had thrown himself over the vast granite cliff-face at Albany known as the Gap, apparently convinced he was jumping onto a boat skippered by his beloved wife. So Tom had been summoned to shore to discuss the post, do the paperwork, and take some leave before he officially took up the job. By now he had proved himself so capable that Fremantle did not bother to look elsewhere to fill the position.

  “Never underestimate the importance of the right wife,” Captain Hasluck had said when Tom was about to leave his office. “Old Moira Docherty could have worked the light herself, she’d been with Trimble for so long. Takes a special kind of woman to live on the Lights. When you find the right one, you want to snap her up, quick smart. Mind you, you’ll have to wait a bit now…”

  As Tom wandered back to Mrs. Mewett’s, he thought about the little relics at the lighthouse—Docherty’s knitting, his wife’s jar of humbugs that sat untouched in the pantry. Lives gone, traces left. And he wondered about the despair of the man, destroyed by grief. It didn’t take a war to push you over that edge.

  Two days after his return to Partageuse, Tom sat stiff as a whalebone in the Graysmarks’ lounge room, where both parents watched over their only daughter like eagles with a chick. Struggling to come up with suitable topics of conversation, Tom stuck to the weather, the wind, of which there was an abundance, and Graysmark cousins in other parts of Western Australia. It was relatively easy to steer the conversation away from himself.

  As Isabel walked him to the gate afterward she asked, “How long till you go back?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Then we’d better make the most of it,” she said, as though concluding a long discussion.

  “Is that so?” asked Tom, as amused as he was surprised. He had a sense of being waltzed backward.

  Isabel smiled. “Yes, that’s so.” And the way the light caught her eyes, he imagined he could see into her: see a clarity, an openness, which drew him in. “Come and visit tomorrow. I’ll make a picnic. We can go down by the bay.”

  “I should ask your father first, shouldn’t I? Or your mother?” He leaned his head to one side. “I mean, if it’s not a rude question, how old are you?”

  “Old enough to go on a picnic.”

  “And in ordinary numbers that would make you… ?”

  “Nineteen. Just about. So you can leave my parents to me,” she said, and g
ave him a wave as she headed back inside.

  Tom set off back to Mrs. Mewett’s with a lightness in his step. Why, he could not say. He didn’t know the first thing about this girl, except that she smiled a lot, and that something inside just felt—good.

  The following day, Tom approached the Graysmarks’ house, not so much nervous as puzzled, not quite sure how it was that he was heading back there so soon.

  Mrs. Graysmark smiled as she opened the door. “Nice and punctual,” she noted on some invisible checklist.

  “Army habits…” said Tom.

  Isabel appeared with a picnic basket, which she handed to him. “You’re in charge of getting it there in one piece,” she said, and turned to kiss her mother on the cheek. “Bye, Ma. See you later.”

  “Mind you keep out of the sun, now. Don’t want you spoiling your skin with freckles,” she said to her daughter. She gave Tom a look which conveyed something sterner than the words, “Enjoy your picnic. Don’t be too late back.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Graysmark. We won’t be.”

  Isabel led the way as they walked beyond the few streets that marked out the town proper and approached the ocean.

  “Where are we going?” asked Tom.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  They wandered along the dirt road which led up to the headland, bordered with dense, scrubby trees on each side. These were not the giants from the forest a mile or so further in, but wiry, stocky things, which could cope with the salt and the blasting of the wind. “It’s a bit of a walk. You won’t get too tired, will you?” she asked.

  Tom laughed. “I’ll just about manage without a walking stick.”

  “Well I just thought, you don’t have very far to walk on Janus, do you?”

  “Believe me, getting up and down the stairs of the light all day keeps you in trim.” He was still taking stock of this girl and her uncanny ability to tip him a fraction off balance.

  The trees began to thin out the further they walked, and the sounds of the ocean grew louder. “I suppose Partageuse seems dead boring, coming from Sydney,” ventured Isabel.