The Light Between Oceans(40)

‘Are you all right, dear?’ asked Hilda, concerned at the sudden change in her colour.

‘Yes. It’s just the heat. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

The heavy jarrah doors swung open and the vicar stepped out of the church. ‘All ready for the big day, then?’ he asked, wincing at the light.



‘We’ve got to say something! Now! Call off the christening …’ Tom’s voice was low and urgent as he faced Isabel in the vestry while Bill and Violet showed off their granddaughter to the guests in the church.

‘Tom, we can’t.’ Her breath was shallow and her face was pale. ‘It’s too late!’ she said.

‘We have to put this right! We have to tell people, now.’

‘We can’t!’ Still reeling, she cast about for any words that made sense. ‘We can’t do that to Lucy! We’re the only parents she’s ever known. Besides, what would we say? That we suddenly remembered I didn’t actually have a baby?’ Her face turned grey. ‘What about the man’s body? It’s all gone too far.’ Every instinct told her to buy time. She was too confused, too terrified to do anything else. She tried to sound calm. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Right now we have to go through with the christening.’ A shaft of light caught the sea-green irises of her eyes, and Tom could see the fear in them. She took a step towards him and he sprang back, as if they were opposing magnets.

The vicar’s footsteps rose above the murmur of the guests in the church as he approached. Tom’s head spun. ‘In sickness and in health. For better, for worse.’ The words, uttered by him in this church years earlier, thudded in his skull.

‘All ready for you,’ beamed the vicar.

‘Hath this child already been baptised or no?’ began Reverend Norkells. Those gathered at the font replied, ‘No.’ Alongside Tom and Isabel, Ralph stood as godfather, Isabel’s cousin Freda as godmother.

The godparents held candles and intoned the answers to the vicar’s questions: ‘Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works …?’

‘I renounce them all,’ the godparents replied in unison.

As the words echoed off the sandstone walls, Tom looked sternly at his shiny new boots and concentrated on a burning blister on his heel.

‘Wilt thou then obediently keep God’s holy will and commandments …?’

‘I will.’

With each promise, Tom flexed his foot against the stiff leather, immersing himself in the pain.

Lucy seemed mesmerised by the fireworks of the stained-glass windows, and it occurred to Isabel, even in her turmoil, that the child had never seen such brilliant colours.

‘Oh merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this child may be so buried, that the new man may be raised up in her …’

Tom thought of the unmarked grave on Janus. He saw the face of Frank Roennfeldt as he had covered it with canvas – detached, expressionless – leaving Tom to be his own accuser.

Outside, the noise of children playing French cricket in the church playground peppered the air with thwacks and cries of ‘Owzat?’ In the second row of pews, Hilda Addicott whispered to her neighbour, ‘Look, Tom’s got a tear in his eye. Now that’s a soft heart for you. He may look a great rock of a man, but it’s a real soft heart he’s got.’

Norkells took the child into his arms and said to Ralph and Freda, ‘Name this child.’

‘Lucy Violet,’ they said.

‘Lucy Violet. I baptise thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,’ said the priest, pouring water on the head of the little girl, who let out a shriek of protest, soon accompanied by Mrs Rafferty coaxing ‘Crimond’ out of the decrepit wooden organ.

Before the service had finished, Isabel excused herself and hurried to the outhouse at the end of the path. The small brick space was as hot as an oven, and she shooed away flies before leaning over to retch violently. A gecko clung to the wall, watching her in silence. When she pulled the chain it scampered up to the tin roof, to safety. As she rejoined her parents, she said weakly, ‘Upset tummy,’ to head off her mother’s enquiries. Holding out her arms for Lucy, she hugged her so tight that the child put her hands to Isabel’s chest and levered herself away a little.

At the christening lunch at the Palace Hotel, Isabel’s father sat at the table with Violet, who was wearing her blue cotton shift with the white lace collar. Her corset was pinching, and the bun into which she had tidied her hair was giving her a headache. She was determined, however, that nothing would spoil this day – the christening of her first and, she now understood from Isabel, her only grandchild.

‘Tom doesn’t seem his usual self, does he, Vi? Not usually much of a drinker, but he’s on the whisky today.’ Bill shrugged, as if to convince himself. ‘Just wetting the baby’s head, I suppose.’

‘I think it’s just nerves – such a big day. Isabel’s come over all touchy too. Probably that tummy trouble.’

Over at the bar with Tom, Ralph said, ‘That little girl’s made all the difference to your missus, hasn’t she? She’s like a new woman.’

Tom turned his empty glass round and round in his hands. ‘It’s brought out a different side of her, all right.’