The Light Between Oceans(38)

‘Ah! The perfect dad!’ said a voice from behind. Tom turned to see his father-in-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 re-open. ‘It’s hard on Violet, you know,’ he said to Tom,

Tom brushed the grass off his trousers 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 Christmas time, 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 waiver. 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?’