The Light Between Oceans(30)

That night, they sat down to dinner accompanied by the snuffling of the child, the occasional gurgle bringing a smile to Isabel’s lips. ‘I wonder what will become of her?’ she pondered aloud. ‘It’s sad to think she could end up in an orphanage. Like Sarah Porter’s little boy.’

Later they made love for the first time since the stillbirth. Isabel seemed different to Tom: assured, relaxed. She kissed him afterwards and said, ‘Let’s plant a rose garden when spring comes. One that’ll be here years after we’re gone.’



‘I’ll send the signal this morning,’ Tom said just after dawn, as he returned from extinguishing the light. The pearl-shell glow of day stole into the bedroom and caressed the baby’s face. She had woken in the night and Isabel had brought her in to sleep between them. She put her finger to her lips as she nodded towards the sleeping infant, and rose from the bed to lead Tom into the kitchen.

‘Sit down, love, and I’ll make tea,’ she whispered, and marshalled cups, pot and kettle as quietly as she could. As she put the kettle on the stove, she said, ‘Tom, I’ve been thinking.’

‘What about, Izzy?’

‘Lucy. It can’t just be a coincidence that she turned up so soon after …’ The sentence did not need completing. ‘We can’t just ship her off to an orphanage.’ She turned to Tom and took his hands in hers. ‘Sweetheart, I think she should stay with us.’

‘Fair go now, darl! She’s a lovely baby, but she doesn’t belong to us. We can’t keep her.’

‘Why not? Think about it. I mean, practically speaking, who’s to know she’s here?’

‘When Ralph and Bluey come in a few weeks, they’ll know, for a start.’

‘Yes, but it occurred to me last night that they won’t know she’s not ours. Everyone still thinks I’m expecting. They’ll just be surprised she arrived early.’

Tom watched, his mouth open. ‘But … Izzy, are you in your right mind? Do you realise what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting kindness. That’s all. Love for a baby. I’m suggesting, sweetheart,’ she clasped his hands tighter, ‘that we accept this gift that’s been sent to us. How long have we wanted a baby, prayed for a baby?’

Turning to the window, Tom put his hands on his head and started to laugh, then stretched his arms up in appeal. ‘For heaven’s sakes, Isabel! When I tell them about the fellow in the boat, eventually someone will know who he is. And they’ll work out that there was a baby. Maybe not straight away, but in the long run …’

‘Then I think you shouldn’t tell them.’

‘Not tell them?’ His tone was suddenly sober.

She stroked his hair. ‘Don’t tell them, sweetheart. We’ve done nothing wrong except give shelter to a helpless baby. We can give the poor man a decent burial. And the boat, well – just set it adrift again.’

‘Izzy, Izzy! You know I’d do anything for you, darl, but – whoever that man is and whatever he’s done, he deserves to be dealt with properly. And lawfully, for that matter. What if the mother’s not dead, and he’s got a wife fretting, waiting for them both?’

‘What woman would let her baby out of her sight? Face it, Tom: she must have drowned.’ She clasped his hand again. ‘I know how much your rules mean to you, and I know that this is technically breaking them. But what are those rules for? They’re to save lives! That’s all I’m saying we should do, sweetheart: save this life. She’s here and she needs us and we can help her. Please.’

‘Izzy, I can’t. This isn’t up to me. Don’t you understand?’

Her face darkened. ‘How can you be so hard-hearted? All you care about is your rules and your ships and your bloody light.’ These were accusations Tom had heard before, when, wild with grief after her miscarriages, Isabel had let loose her rage against the only person there – the man who continued to do his duty, who comforted her as best he could, but kept his own grieving to himself. Once again, he sensed her close to a dangerous brink, perhaps closer this time than she had ever been.





CHAPTER 11



AN INQUISITIVE GULL watched tom from its seaweed-cushioned rock. It followed him with an implacable eye as he wrapped the body, now pungent with that smell of the dead, in the canvas. It was hard to tell what the man might have been in life. His face was neither very old nor very young. He was slight; blond. He had a small scar on his left cheek. Tom wondered who missed him; who might have cause to love or hate him.

The old graves from the shipwreck lay on low ground, near the beach. As he set about digging the fresh hole, his muscles took over, executing their familiar task from blind memory in a ritual he had never expected to repeat.

The first time he had reported for the daily burial parade he had vomited at the sight of the corpses stretched out side by side, waiting for his shovel. After a while, it became just a job. He would hope to get the skinny bloke, or the one with his legs blown off, because he was a bloody sight easier to move. Bury them. Mark the grave. Salute, and walk away. That’s how it was. Hoping for the one with the most bits blown off: Tom went cold at the thought that there had seemed nothing strange about that back then.

The shovel gave a gasp at each contact with the sandy soil. Once the ground had been patted back into a neat mound, he stopped for a moment to pray for whoever the poor wretch was, but he found himself whispering, ‘Forgive me, Lord, for this, and all my sins. And forgive Isabel. You know how much goodness there is in her. And you know how much she’s suffered. Forgive us both. Have mercy.’ He crossed himself and returned to the boat, ready to drag it back into the water. He gave it a heave, and a ray of light pricked his eyes as the sun glinted off something. He peered into the hull of the dinghy. Something shiny was wedged under the rib of the bow, and resisted his first attempt to grasp it. After pulling for a moment he prised away a cold, hard shape, which came to life, jangling: a silver rattle, embossed with cherubs and hallmarked.