The Light Between Oceans(2)

‘It’s a girl,’ said Isabel with a smile. ‘I gave her a bath. She seems healthy enough.’

The baby turned to him with wide eyes, drinking in his glance. ‘What on earth must she make of it all?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Given her some milk too, haven’t I, sweet thing?’ Isabel cooed, turning it into a question for the baby. ‘Oh, she’s so, so perfect, Tom,’ she said, and kissed the child. ‘Lord knows what she’s been through.’

Tom took a bottle of brandy from the pine cupboard and poured himself a small measure, downing it in one. He sat beside his wife, watching the light play on her face as she contemplated the treasure in her arms. The baby followed every movement of her eyes, as though Isabel might escape if she did not hold her with her gaze.

‘Oh, little one,’ Isabel crooned, ‘poor, poor little one,’ as the baby nuzzled her face in towards her breast. Tom could hear tears in her voice, and the memory of an invisible presence hung in the air between them.

‘She likes you,’ he said. Then, almost to himself, ‘Makes me think of how things might have been.’ He added quickly, ‘I mean … I didn’t mean … You look like you were born to it, that’s all.’ He stroked her cheek.

Isabel glanced up at him. ‘I know, love. I know what you mean. I feel the same.’

He put his arms around his wife and the child. Isabel could smell the brandy on his breath. She murmured, ‘Oh Tom, thank God we found her in time.’

Tom kissed her, then put his lips to the baby’s forehead. The three of them stayed like that for a long moment, until the child began to wriggle, thrusting a fist out from under the blanket.

‘Well,’ Tom gave a stretch as he stood up, ‘I’ll go and send a signal, report the dinghy; get them to send a boat for the body. And for Miss Muffet here.’

‘Not yet!’ Isabel said, as she touched the baby’s fingers. ‘I mean, there’s no rush to do it right this minute. The poor man’s not going to get any worse now. And this little chicken’s had quite enough of boats for the moment, I’d say. Leave it a while. Give her a chance to catch her breath.’

‘It’ll take hours for them to get here. She’ll be all right. You’ve already quietened her down, poor little thing.’

‘Let’s just wait. After all, it can’t make much difference.’

‘It’s all got to go in the log, pet. You know I’ve got to report everything straight away,’ Tom said, for his duties included noting every significant event at or near the light station, from passing ships and weather, to problems with the apparatus.

‘Do it in the morning, eh?’

‘But what if the boat’s from a ship?’

‘It’s a dinghy, not a lifeboat,’ she said.

‘Then the baby’s probably got a mother waiting for it somewhere on shore, tearing her hair out. How would you feel if it was yours?’

‘You saw the cardigan. The mother must have fallen out of the boat and drowned.’

‘Sweetheart, we don’t have any idea about the mother. Or about who the man was.’

‘It’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it? Infants don’t just wander off from their parents.’

‘Izzy, anything’s possible. We just don’t know.’

‘When did you ever hear of a tiny baby setting off in a boat without its mother?’ She held the child a fraction closer.

‘This is serious. The man’s dead, Izz.’

‘And the baby’s alive. Have a heart, Tom.’

Something in her tone struck him, and instead of simply contradicting her, he paused and considered her plea. Perhaps she needed a bit of time with a baby. Perhaps he owed her that. There was a silence, and Isabel turned to him in wordless appeal. ‘I suppose, at a pinch …’ he conceded, the words coming with great difficulty, ‘I could – leave the signal until the morning. First thing, though. As soon as the light’s out.’

Isabel kissed him, and squeezed his arm.

‘Better get back to the lantern room. I was in the middle of replacing the vapour tube,’ he said.

As he walked down the path, he heard the sweet notes of Isabel’s voice as she sang, ‘Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, blow the wind south o’er the bonnie blue sea.’ Though the music was tuneful, it failed to comfort him as he climbed the stairs of the light, fending off a strange uneasiness at the concession he had made.





CHAPTER 1

16th December 1918



‘YES, I REALISE that,’ Tom Sherbourne said. He was sitting in a spartan room, barely cooler than the sultry day outside. The Sydney summer rain pelted the window, and sent the people on the pavement scurrying for shelter.

‘I mean very tough.’ The man across the desk leaned forward for emphasis. ‘It’s no picnic. Not that Byron Bay’s the worst posting on the Lights, but I want to make sure you know what you’re in for.’ He tamped down the tobacco with his thumb and lit his pipe. Tom’s letter of application had told the same story as many a fellow’s around that time: born 28 September 1893; war spent in the Army; experience with the International Code and Morse; physically fit and well; honourable discharge. The rules stipulated that preference should be given to ex-servicemen.