The Light Between Oceans(105)

Then, on that last evening, just as the waning moon parted wintry clouds, her breathing changed in the way Tom knew all too well, and she slipped away from him.

Even though they had electricity, he sat with just the soft glow of the kerosene lamp to bathe her face: so much gentler, the light of a flame. Kinder. He stayed by the body all night, waiting until dawn before telephoning the doctor. Standing to, like in the old days.

As Tom walks down the path, he snaps off a yellow bud from one of the rose bushes Isabel planted when they first moved here. Its fragrance is already strong, and takes him back almost two decades to the picture of her, kneeling in the freshly dug bed, hands pressing down the earth around the young bush. ‘We’ve finally got our rose garden, Tom,’ she had said. It was the first time he had seen her smile since she had left Partageuse, and the image stayed with him, as clear as a photograph.

There is a small gathering at the church hall after the funeral. Tom stays as long as politeness demands. But he wishes the people really knew who they were mourning: the Isabel he had met on the jetty, so full of life and daring and mischief. His Izzy. His other half of the sky.



Two days after the funeral, Tom sat alone, in a house now empty and silent. A plume of dust fanned out in the sky, signalling the arrival of a car. One of the farm hands coming back, probably. As it got closer, he looked again. It was expensive, new, with Perth number plates.

The car drew up near the house, and Tom came to the front door.

A woman emerged and took a moment to smooth down her blonde hair, gathered in a twist at the nape of her neck. She looked around her, then walked slowly up to the verandah, where Tom now waited.

‘Afternoon,’ he said. ‘You lost?’

‘I hope not,’ replied the woman.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for the Sherbournes’ property.’

‘You’ve found it. I’m Tom Sherbourne.’ He waited for clarification.

‘Then I’m not lost.’ She gave a tentative smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom, ‘it’s been a long week. Have I forgotten something? An appointment?’

‘No, I haven’t got an appointment, but it’s you I’ve come to see. And …’ she hesitated, ‘Mrs Sherbourne. I heard she was very ill.’

Tom was puzzled, and she said, ‘My name’s Lucy-Grace Rutherford. Roennfeldt as was …’ She smiled again. ‘I’m Lucy.’

He looked in disbelief. ‘Lulu? Little Lulu,’ he said, almost to himself. He didn’t move.

The woman blushed. ‘I don’t know what I should call you. Or … Mrs Sherbourne.’ Suddenly a thought crossed her face and she asked, ‘I hope she won’t mind. I hope I haven’t intruded.’

‘She always hoped you’d come.’

‘Wait. I’ve brought something to show you,’ she said, and headed back to the car. She reached into the front seat, and returned carrying a bassinet, her face a mixture of tenderness and pride.

‘This is Christopher, my little boy. He’s three months old.’

Tom saw peeping out from a blanket a child who so exactly resembled Lucy as a baby that a tingle crept through him. ‘Izzy would have loved to have met him. It would have meant so much to her, that you came.’

‘Oh. I’m so sorry … When did … ?’ She let the words trail off.

‘A week ago. Her funeral was on Monday.’

‘I didn’t know. If you’d prefer I left …’

He continued to look at the baby for a good while, and when he eventually raised his head, there was a wistful smile about his lips. ‘Come in.’

Tom brought in a tray with teapot and cups, as Lucy-Grace sat looking out at the ocean, the baby beside her in the basket.

‘Where do we begin?’ she asked.

‘What say we just sit quietly for a bit?’ Tom replied. ‘Get used to things.’ He sighed. ‘Little Lucy. After all these years.’

They sat silently, drinking their tea, listening to the wind which came roaring up from the ocean, occasionally banishing a cloud long enough to let a shaft of sunlight slice through the glass and on to the carpet. Lucy breathed in the smells of the house: old wood, and fire smoke, and polish. She didn’t dare look directly at Tom, but glanced around the room. An icon of St Michael; a vase of yellow roses. A wedding photo of Tom and Isabel looking radiantly young and hopeful. On the shelves were books about navigation and light and music, some, such as the one called Brown’s Star Atlas, so big that they had to lie flat. There was a piano in the corner, with sheet music piled on top of it.

‘How did you hear?’ Tom asked eventually. ‘About Isabel?’

‘Mum told me. When you wrote to Ralph Addicott, to let him know how ill she was, he went to see my mother.’

‘In Partageuse?’

‘She lives back down there now. Mum took me to Perth when I was five – wanted to start again. She only moved back to Partageuse when I joined the WAAF in 1944. After that, well, she seemed settled there with Aunty Gwen at Bermondsey, Granddad’s old place. I stayed in Perth after the war.’

‘And your husband?’

She gave a bright smile. ‘Henry! Air Force romance … He’s a lovely man. We got married last year. I’m so lucky.’ She looked out at the distant water and said, ‘I’ve thought of you both so often, over the years. Wondered about you. But it wasn’t – ’ she paused, ‘well, it wasn’t until I had Christopher that I really understood: why you two did what you did. And why Mum couldn’t forgive you for it. I’d kill for my baby. No question.’