The Light Between Oceans(63)

She lit a storm-lantern and ventured through the front door, careful not to wake her sister, only vaguely wary of disturbing any snakes which might be taking advantage of the inky blackness to hunt for mice or frogs. Her pale feet made no sound on the path.

The door to the letterbox swung gently back and forward, giving glimpses of a shape inside. As she held the lantern closer, the outline of a small oblong emerged – a parcel. She pulled it out. Not much bigger than her hand, it was wrapped in brown paper. She looked about for any hint of how it had got there, but the darkness curled around her lamp like a closing fist. She hurried back to her bedroom, fetching her sewing scissors to cut the string. The package was addressed to her, in the same neat hand as before. She opened it.

As she pulled out layer upon layer of newspaper, something made a noise with each movement. As the last of the packing was removed, there, returning the soft glimmer of the lantern, was the silver rattle her father had commissioned in Perth for his granddaughter. There was no mistaking the embossed cherubs on the handle. Beneath the rattle was a note.

She is safe. She is loved and cared for. Please pray for me.

Nothing more. No date, no initial, no sign.

‘Gwen! Gwen, quick!’ She hammered on her sister’s door. ‘Look at this! She’s alive! Grace is alive. I knew it!’

Gwen stumbled from her bed, ready to hear yet another outlandish idea. But confronted by the rattle, she became instantly alert, for she had sat with her father at the counter in Caris Brothers up in Perth as he discussed the design with the silversmith. She touched it warily, as though it were an egg that might hatch a monster.

Hannah was weeping and smiling, laughing at the ceiling, at the floor. ‘I told you, didn’t I? Oh, my darling Grace! She’s alive!’

Gwen laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Let’s not get carried away, Hannah. We’ll go and see Dad in the morning and get him to come with us to the police. They’ll know what to do. Now, go back to sleep. You’ll need a clear head tomorrow.’

Sleep was out of the question. Hannah was terrified that if she closed her eyes she might wake up. She went out to the back yard and sat in the swinging seat where once she had sat with Frank and Grace, and looked at the thousands of stars that dotted the hemisphere; they soothed her with their steadiness, like pinpricks of hope in the night. Little lives could barely be heard or felt on a canvas this vast. Yet she had the rattle, and the rattle brought her hope. This was no hoax. This was a talisman of love – a symbol of her father’s forgiveness; a thing touched by her child and those who treasured her. She thought back to her Classics studies, and the tale of Demeter and Persephone. Suddenly this ancient story was alive for her, as she contemplated her daughter’s return from wherever she had been held captive.

She felt – no, she knew – she was coming to the end of a dreadful journey. Once Grace was back with her, life would begin again – together they would harvest the happiness so long denied them both. She found herself laughing at funny memories: Frank struggling to change a nappy; her father’s attempt at composure when his granddaughter brought up her recent feed onto the shoulder of his best suit. For the first time in years, her belly was tight with excitement. If she could just make it to the morning.

When a glimmer of doubt crept into her thoughts, she turned her mind to the specific: the way Grace’s hair was slightly thinner at the back from rubbing against her sheet; the way her fingernails had little half moons at their base. She would anchor her child in memory and draw her home by sheer will – by ensuring that in one place on this earth there was the knowing of every aspect of her. She would love her home to safety.



The town was full of talk. It was a dummy had been found. No, a teething ring. It was something that proved the baby was dead; it was something that proved she was alive. The father had killed her; the father had been murdered. From the butcher’s to the greengrocer’s, from the farrier’s to the church hall, the story acquired and shed facts and frills as it passed from mouth to ear, always with a ‘tut’ or a pursing of lips to disguise the thrill of each teller.



‘Mr Potts, we’re not for a minute doubting you can recognise your own purchases. But I’m sure you’ll appreciate that it doesn’t prove the child’s alive.’ Sergeant Knuckey was trying to calm the now ruddy-faced Septimus, who stood before him, chin up, chest out, like a prize-fighter.

‘You’ve got to investigate it! Why would someone have waited until now to hand it in? In the middle of the night? Not tried to claim the reward?’ His whiskers seemed even whiter as his face grew more puce.

‘All due respect, but how the bloody hell would I know?’

‘That’s enough of that language, thank you very much! There are ladies present!’

‘I apologise.’ Knuckey pursed his lips. ‘We will be investigating, I can assure you.’

‘How, exactly?’ demanded Septimus.

‘We … I … You have my word that I will.’

Hannah’s heart sank. It would be the same as before. Still, she took to staying up late into the night, watching the letterbox, waiting for a sign.



‘Right, I’ll need a picture of this, Bernie,’ announced Constable Lynch. Standing at the counter of Gutcher’s studio, he produced the silver rattle from a felt bag.

Bernie Gutcher looked askance. ‘Since when have you been interested in babies?’