The Light Between Oceans(31)
He turned it over and over, as if waiting for it to speak to him, to give him some kind of clue. He thrust it in his pocket: any number of stories might account for the arrival of this strange pair on the island, but only telling himself Izzy’s story that the child was an orphan would allow him to sleep at night. It did not bear thinking beyond that, and he needed to avoid any proof to the contrary. He fixed his eyes on the line where the ocean met the sky like a pair of pursed lips. Better not to know.
He made sure that the boat had been picked up by the southerly current before wading back in to the beach. He was grateful for the salty stink of the green-black seaweed rotting on the rocks, which washed the smell of death from his nostrils. A tiny purple sand crab ventured out from under a ledge, sidled busily over to a dead blow-fish, swollen and spiky even in death, and began to pincer little pieces from the belly into its own mouth. Tom shivered, and started the steep trek up the path.
‘Most days, there’s nowhere to escape the wind around here. It’s all right if you’re a seagull, or an albatross: see how they just sit on the currents of air, like they’re having a rest?’ As he sat on the verandah, Tom pointed to a great silver bird which had made its way from some other island, and seemed to hang in a still sky on a thread, despite the turbulent air.
The baby ignored Tom’s finger and instead gazed into his eyes, mesmerised by the movement of his lips and the deep resonance of his chest. She cooed – a high-pitched half-hiccup. Tom tried to ignore the way his heart kicked in response, and continued his discourse. ‘But in that bay, just that little cove, it’s one spot where you’re most likely to find a bit of peace and quiet, because it faces north, and the wind hardly ever comes in due north. That side’s the Indian Ocean – nice and calm and warm. Southern Ocean’s on the other side – wild and dangerous as anything. You want to keep away from that fella.’
The child flung an arm above her blanket in response, and Tom let her hand wrap around his index finger. In the week since her arrival, he had become accustomed to her gurgles, to her silent, sleeping presence in her cot, which seemed to waft through the cottage like the smell of baking or flowers. It worried him that he could find himself listening out for her to wake in the morning, or going by reflex to pick her up when she started to cry.
‘You’re falling in love with her, aren’t you?’ said Isabel, who had been watching from the doorway. Tom frowned, and she said with a smile, ‘It’s impossible not to.’
‘All those little expressions she does …’
‘You’re going to be a beaut dad.’
He shifted in his chair. ‘Izz, it’s still wrong, not reporting it.’
‘Just look at her. Does she look like we’ve done anything wrong?’
‘But – that’s just it. We don’t need to do anything wrong. We could report her now and apply to adopt her. It’s not too late, Izz. We can still make it right.’
‘Adopt her?’ Isabel stiffened. ‘They’d never send a baby to a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere: no doctor; no school. No church probably worries them the most. And even if they did put her up for adoption, they’d want to give her to some couple in a town somewhere. And besides, it takes forever to go through the rigmarole. They’d want to meet us. You’d never get leave to go and see them, and we’re not due back onshore for another year and a half.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know we’ll cope. I know you’re going to be a wonderful dad. But they don’t.’
She gazed at the baby, and put a finger to her soft cheek. ‘Love’s bigger than rulebooks, Tom. If you’d reported the boat, she’d be stuck in some dreadful orphanage by now.’ She rested her hand on his arm. ‘Our prayers have been answered. The baby’s prayers have been answered. Who’d be ungrateful enough to send her away?’
The simple fact was that, sure as a graft will take and fuse on a rose bush, the rootstock of Isabel’s motherhood – her every drive and instinct, left raw and exposed by the recent stillbirth – had grafted seamlessly to the scion, the baby which needed mothering. Grief and distance bound the wound, perfecting the bond with a speed only nature could engineer.
When Tom came down from the lantern room that evening, Isabel was sitting beside the first fire of the autumn, nursing the baby in the rocking chair he had made four years ago now. She hadn’t noticed him, and he watched her in silence for a moment. She seemed to handle the child by sheer instinct, incorporating her into every move. He fought back his gnawing doubt. Perhaps Isabel was right. Who was he to part this woman from a baby?
In her hands was the Book of Common Prayer, to which Isabel had turned more frequently after the first miscarriage. Now, she read silently ‘The Churching of Women’, prayers for women after childbirth. ‘ Lo, children and the fruit of the womb: are an heritage and gift that cometh of the Lord …
The next morning, Isabel stood beside Tom below the lantern room, holding the baby as he tapped out the signal. He had thought carefully about the wording. His fingers were unsteady as he began: he had been dreading sending news of the stillbirth, but this felt much worse. ‘Baby arrived early stop took us both by surprise stop Isabel recovering well stop no need for medical help stop little girl stop Lucy—’ He turned to Isabel. ‘Anything else?’