The Light Between Oceans: A Novel

by M. L. Stedman

  When Isabel had been safely asleep and Bill was dozing beside the last of the fire, Violet went to her wardrobe and fetched down the old biscuit tin. She fished around inside it, moving aside the few pennies, a small mirror, a watch, a wallet, until she came to the envelope frayed at the edges now from years of opening. She sat on the bed, and by the yellow light of the lamp, set to reading the clumsy script, though she knew the words by heart.

  Dear Mrs. Graysmark,

  I hope you will forgive me writing to you: you don’t know me. My name is Betsy Parmenter and I live in Kent.

  Two weeks ago I was visiting my son Fred, who was sent back from the front on account of bad shrapnel wounds. He was in the 1st Southern General hospital in Stourbridge, and I have a sister who lives nearby, so I was able to visit him every day.

  Well I am writing because one afternoon they brought in a wounded Australian soldier who I understand was your son Hugh. He was in a bad way, on account as you will know of being blinded and lost an arm. He could still manage some words though, and spoke very fondly of his family and his home in Australia. He was a very brave lad. I saw him each day, and at one stage there was high hopes that he would recover, but then it seems he developed blood poisoning, and he went downhill.

  I just wanted you to know that I brought him flowers (the early tulips were just blooming and they’re such lovely things) and some cigarettes. I think my Fred and him got along well. He even ate some fruitcake I brought in one day which was very pleasing to see and it seemed to give him pleasure. I was there the morning when he went downhill, and we all three said the Lord’s Prayer and we sang “Abide With Me.” The doctors eased his pain as best they could, and I think he did not suffer too much at the end. There was a vicar came and blessed him.

  I would like to say how much we all appreciate the great sacrifice that your brave son made. He mentioned his brother, Alfie, and I pray that he comes back to you safe and sound.

  I am sorry for the delay in writing this to you, only my Fred passed away a week after your boy and it has taken a lot of doing things as you can imagine.

  With very best wishes and prayers,

  (Mrs.) Betsy Parmenter

  Hugh would only have known tulips from picture books, Violet thought, and it comforted her that he had perhaps touched one and felt its shape. She wondered whether tulips had a scent.

  She recalled how the postman had looked grave and almost guilty a couple of weeks later as he handed her the parcel: brown paper tied with string, addressed to Bill. She was so upset that she did not even read the printing on the form: she did not need to. Many a woman had received the meager collection of things which constituted her son’s life.

  The receipt form from Melbourne read:

  Dear Sir,

  Forwarded herewith, per separate registered post, is one package containing the effects of the late No. 4497 Pte Graysmark, 28th Bn. received ex “Themistocles” as per inventory attached.

  I shall be much obliged if you would kindly let me know whether it comes safely to hand, by signing and returning the enclosed printed receipt slip.

  Yours faithfully

  J. M. Johnson, Major,

  Officer in Charge, Base Records.

  On a separate slip of paper from “The Kit Store, 110 Greyhound Road, Fulham, London SW” was the inventory of the effects. Violet was struck by something as she read the list: shaving mirror; belt; three pennies; wristwatch with leather strap, harmonica. How odd that Alfie’s mouth organ was among Hugh’s belongings. Then she looked again at the list, the forms, the letter, the parcel, and read the name more carefully. A. H. Graysmark. Not H. A. Alfred Henry, not Hugh Albert. She ran to find her husband. “Bill! Oh Bill!” she cried. “There’s been the most dreadful mistake!”

  It took a good deal of correspondence, on black-edged paper on the part of the Graysmarks, to find that Alfie had died within a day of Hugh, three days after arriving in France. Joining the same regiment on the same day, the brothers had been proud of their consecutive service numbers. The signalman, who had with his own eyes seen Hugh shipped out alive on a stretcher, disregarded the instruction to send the KIA telegram for A. H. Graysmark, assuming it meant H. A. The first Violet knew of her second son’s death was the bland package in her hands. It was an easy enough mistake to have made on a battlefield, she had said.

  Coming back last time to the house she grew up in, Isabel had been reminded of the darkness that had descended with her brothers’ deaths, how loss had leaked all over her mother’s life like a stain. As a fourteen-year-old, Isabel had searched the dictionary. She knew that if a wife lost a husband, there was a whole new word to describe who she was: she was now a widow. A husband became a widower. But if a parent lost a child, there was no special label for their grief. They were still just a mother or a father, even if they no longer had a son or a daughter. That seemed odd. As to her own status, she wondered whether she was still technically a sister, now that her adored brothers had died.

  It was as if one of the shells from the French front line had exploded in the middle of her family, leaving a crater that she could never fill or repair. Violet would spend days tidying her sons’ rooms, polishing the silver frames of their photographs. Bill became silent. Whatever topic of conversation Isabel tried to engage him in, he didn’t answer, or even wandered out of the room. Her job, she decided, was not to cause her parents any more bother or concern. She was the consolation prize—what they had instead of their sons.

  Now, her parents’ rapture confirmed to Isabel that she had done the right thing in keeping Lucy. Any lingering shadows were swept away. The baby had healed so many lives: not only hers and Tom’s, but now the lives of these two people who had been so resigned to loss.

  At Christmas lunch, Bill Graysmark said grace and in a choked voice thanked the Lord for the gift of Lucy. In the kitchen later, Violet confided to Tom that her husband had had a new lease of life from the day he had heard about Lucy’s birth. “It’s done wonders. Like a magic tonic.”

  She gazed through the window at the pink hibiscus. “Bill took the news about Hugh hard enough, but when he found out about Alfie, it fair knocked him for six. For a long time he wouldn’t believe it. Said it was impossible that such a thing could have happened. He spent months writing here, there and everywhere, determined to show it was a mistake. In a way, I was glad of it: proud of him for fighting the news. But there were plenty of people hereabouts who’d lost more than one boy. I knew it was true.

  “Eventually the fire went out of him. He just lost heart.” She took a breath. “But these days”—she raised her eyes and smiled in wonder—“he’s his old self again, thanks to Lucy. I’d wager your little girl means as much to Bill as she does to you. She’s given him the world back.” She reached up and kissed Tom’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  As the women did the dishes after lunch, Tom sat out the back on the shady grass with Lucy, where she toddled about, circling back now and again to give him ravenous kisses. “Jeez, thanks, littlie!” he chuckled. “Don’t eat me.” She looked at him, with those eyes that sought his like a mirror, until he pulled her in to him and tickled her again.

  “Ah! The perfect dad!” said a voice from behind. Tom turned to see his fatherin-law approaching.

  “Thought I’d come and make sure you were managing. Vi always said I had the knack with our three.” As the last word came out, a shadow flitted across his face. He recovered and stretched out his arms. “Come to Grandpa. Come and pull his whiskers. Ah, my little princess!”

  Lucy tottered over and stretched out her arms. “Up you come,” he said, sweeping her up. She reached for the fob watch in his waistcoat pocket, and tugged it out.

  “You want to know what time it is? Again?” Bill laughed, and he went through the ritual of opening the gold case and showing her the hands. She immediately snapped it shut, and thrust it back at him to reopen. “It’s hard on Violet, you know,” he said to Tom.

  Tom brushed the grass off his tro
users as he stood up. “What is, Bill?”

  “Being without Isabel, and now, missing out on this little one…” He paused. “There must be jobs you could get around Partageuse way… ? You’ve got a university degree, for goodness’ sake…”

  Tom shifted his weight uneasily to his other foot.

  “Oh, I know what they say—once a lightkeeper, always a lightkeeper.”

  “That’s what they say,” said Tom.

  “And is it true?”

  “More or less.”

  “But you could leave? If you really wanted to?”

  Tom gave it thought before replying, “Bill, a man could leave his wife, if he really wanted to. Doesn’t make it the right thing to do.”

  Bill gave him a look.

  “Hardly fair to let them train you up, get the experience, and then leave them in the lurch. And you get used to it.” He glanced up at the sky as he considered. “It’s where I belong. And Isabel loves it.”

  The child reached out her arms to Tom, who transferred her to his hip in a reflex movement.

  “Well, you mind you look after my girls. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “I’ll do my best. I promise you that.”

  The most important Boxing Day tradition in Point Partageuse was the Church Fête. A gathering of residents from the town and far beyond, it had been established long ago, by someone with an eye for business who had seen the advantage of holding the fund-raising event on a day when no one had an excuse to say they were too busy with work to attend. And, it being still Christmastime, they had no excuse not to be generous either.

  As well as the sale of cakes and toffees, and jars of jam that occasionally exploded in the fierce sun, the event was famous for its sports and novelty events: the egg and spoon race, three-legged race, sack race—all were staples of the day. The coconut shy still ran, though they’d given up on the shooting gallery after the war, because the newly honed skills of the local men meant it started to lose money.

  The events were open to all, and participation was something of a three-line whip. Families made a day of it, and patties and sausages were barbecued over half a forty-four-gallon drum, and sold off at sixpence a go. Tom sat with Lucy and Isabel on a blanket in the shade, eating sausages in buns, while Lucy dismantled her lunch and redistributed it on the plate beside her.

  “The boys were great runners,” Isabel said. “Even used to win the three-legged race. And I think Mum’s still got the cup I won for the sack race one year.”

  Tom smiled. “Didn’t know I’d married a champion athlete.”

  She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “I’m just telling you the Graysmark family legends.”

  Tom was attending to the mess that threatened to spill over from Lucy’s plate when a boy with a marshal’s rosette appeared beside them. Clasping a pad and pencil, he said, “’Scuse me. That your baby?”

  The question startled Tom. “Pardon?”

  “Just asking if that’s your baby.”

  Though words came from Tom’s mouth, they were incoherent.

  The boy turned to Isabel. “That your baby, Missus?”

  Isabel frowned for a second, and then gave a slow nod as she understood. “You on the round-up for the dads’ race?”

  “That’s right.” He lifted the pencil to the page and asked Tom, “How do you spell your name?”

  Tom looked again at Isabel, but there was no trace of discomfort in her face. “I can spell it if you’ve forgotten how,” she teased.

  Tom waited for her to understand his alarm, but her smile didn’t waver. Finally, he said, “Not really my strong point, running.”

  “But all the dads do it,” said the boy, at what was clearly the first refusal he’d come across.

  Tom chose his words carefully. “I wouldn’t make the qualifying round.”

  As the boy wandered off to find his next conscript, Isabel said lightly, “Never mind, Lucy. I’ll go in the mums’ race instead. At least one of your parents is prepared to make a fool of themselves for you.” But Tom didn’t return her smile.

  Dr. Sumpton washed his hands as, behind the curtain, Isabel dressed again. She had kept her promise to Tom to see the doctor while they were back in Partageuse.

  “Nothing wrong, mechanically speaking,” he said.

  “So? What is it? Am I sick?”

  “Not at all. It’s just the change of life,” the doctor said as he wrote up his notes. “You’re lucky enough to have a baby already, so it’s not as hard on you as it is on some women, when it comes unusually early like this. As for the other symptoms, well, I’m afraid you just have to grin and bear it. They’ll pass in a year or so. It’s just the way of things.” He gave her a jolly smile. “And then, it’ll be a blessed relief: you’ll be past all the problems of menses. Some women would envy you.”

  As she walked back to her parents’ house, Isabel tried not to cry. She had Lucy; she had Tom—at a time when many women had lost forever those they loved most. It would be greedy to want anything more.

  A few days later, Tom signed the paperwork for another three-year term. The District Officer, who came down from Fremantle to see to the formalities, again paid close attention to his handwriting and signature, comparing them to his original documentation. Any sign of a tremor creeping into his hand and he wouldn’t be allowed back. Mercury poisoning was common enough: if they could catch it at the stage where it just caused shaky handwriting, they could avoid sending out a keeper who like as not would be mad as a meat ax by the end of his next stint.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lucy’s christening, originally arranged for the first week of their leave, had been postponed because of the lengthy “indisposition” of Reverend Norkells. It finally took place the day before their return to Janus in early January. That scorching morning, Ralph and Hilda walked to the church with Tom and Isabel. The only shade to be had while they waited for the doors to open was under a cluster of mallee trees beside the gravestones.

  “Let’s hope Norkells isn’t on another bender,” said Ralph.

  “Ralph! Really!” said Hilda. To change the subject, she tutted at a fresh granite stone a few feet away. “Such a shame.”

  “What is, Hilda?” asked Isabel.

  “Oh, the poor baby and her father, the ones that drowned. At least they’ve finally got a memorial.”

  Isabel froze. For a moment, she feared she might faint, and the sounds around her became distant and then suddenly booming. She struggled to make sense of the bright gold letters on the stone: “In loving memory of Franz Johannes Roennfeldt, dearly beloved husband of Hannah, and of their precious daughter Grace Ellen. Watched over by God.” Then under that, “Selig Sind die da Leid tragen.” Fresh flowers lay at the foot of the memorial. With this heat, they couldn’t have been left more than an hour before.

  “What happened?” she asked, as a tingling spread to her hands and feet.

  “Ah, shocking,” said Ralph with a shake of his head. “Hannah Potts as was.” Isabel recognized the name immediately. “Septimus Potts, old Potts of Money, they call him. Richest fella for miles. He came here from London fifty-odd years back as an orphan with nothing. Made a fortune in timber. Wife died when his two girls were only small. What’s the other one’s name, Hilda?”

  “Gwen. Hannah’s the oldest. Both went to that fancy boarding school up in Perth.”

  “Then a few years back Hannah went and married a Hun… Well, old Potts wouldn’t speak to her after that. Cut off the money. They lived in that run-down cottage by the pumping station. Old man finally came around when the baby was born. Anyway, there was a bit of a barney on Anzac Day, year before last now—”

  “Not now, Ralph.” Hilda cautioned with a look.

  “Just telling them…”

  “This is hardly the time or the place.” She turned to Isabel. “Let’s just say there was a misunderstanding between Frank Roennfeldt and some of the locals, and he ended up jumping into a rowing boat with the baby. They… well, they to
ok against him because he was German. Or as good as. No need to go into all of that here, at a christening and all. Better forgotten.”

  Isabel had stopped taking breaths as she listened to the tale, and now gave an involuntary gasp as her body clamored for air.

  “Yes, I know!” Hilda said, to show her agreement. “And it gets worse…”

  Tom glanced urgently at Isabel, his eyes wide, sweat beading on his lip. He wondered if it was possible for others to hear his heart beating, it was thundering so wildly.

  “Well, the bloke was no sailor,” Ralph went on. “Had a dicky heart since he was a kid, by all accounts: he was no match for these currents. Storm blew up and no one saw hide nor hair of them again. Must have drowned. Old man Potts put up a reward for information: a thousand guineas!” He gave a shake of the head. “That would’ve brought ’em out of the woodwork if anyone knew anything. Even had a mind to look for them myself! Mind you—I’m no Boche-lover. But the baby… Barely two months old. You can’t hold it against a baby now, can you? Little mite.”

  “Poor Hannah never recovered,” sighed Hilda. “Her father only persuaded her to put up the memorial a few months ago.” She paused as she pulled her gloves up. “Funny how lives turn out, isn’t it? Born to more money than you can shake a stick at; went all the way to Sydney University to get a degree in something or other; married the love of her life—and you see her now sometimes, wandering about, like she’s got no home to go to.”

  Now, Isabel felt plunged into ice, as the flowers on the memorial taunted her, threatened her with the closeness of the mother’s presence. She leaned against a tree, dizzy.

  “Are you all right, dear?” asked Hilda, concerned at the sudden change in her color.

  “Yes. It’s just the heat. I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  The heavy jarrah doors swung open and the vicar stepped out of the church. “All ready for the big day, then?” he asked, wincing at the light.