The Light Between Oceans(79)

But, having lost the only grandchild he would ever have, Bill’s loyalty was to his one surviving child. His instinctive judgement was elbowed aside: blood was thicker than water – God knows he’d learned that the hard way.

‘It’s a terrible business, Vernon. A terrible business. Poor Isabel’s a wreck,’ he said, as they sat in the corner of the pub.

‘As long as she gives evidence against Tom,’ said Knuckey, ‘she’s got nothing to worry about.’

Bill questioned him with a look.

‘She’s not criminally liable for anything he made her do, so she just needs to put her side of the story. She’s what we call “competent but not compellable” as a witness for this sort of case,’ the policeman explained. ‘Her evidence is admissible – the Court says it’s as good as anyone’s. But you can’t force a wife to testify against her husband. And of course, he’s got the right to remain silent. We can’t make him say anything against her either, if he doesn’t want to, and he’s made it quite clear he’s not going to say a word.’ He paused. ‘Isabel – did she ever seem, well, uneasy about the child?’

Bill shot him a glance. ‘Let’s not get dragged off the point here, Vernon.’

Knuckey let it pass. He mused aloud, ‘Being a lighthouse keeper’s a position of trust, you know. Our whole country – the whole world, if you want to look at it that way – depends on them being men of good character: honest, decent. We can’t have them running around falsifying government records, coercing their wives. Let alone doing whatever it was he did to Frank Roennfeldt before he buried him.’ He registered the alarm on Bill’s face, but continued, ‘No. Best put a stop to that sort of thing right away. Magistrate will be here in a few weeks for the committal hearing. Given what Sherbourne’s said so far, well … He’ll probably be sent to Albany, where the Court’s got power to dish out harsher penalties. Or they could really take against him and drag him up to Perth. Spragg’s looking for any hint that the fellow wasn’t dead when he reached Janus.’ As he drained the last of his beer, he said, ‘Things don’t look good for him, Bill, I can tell you that much.’



‘Do you like books, darling?’ Hannah ventured. She had been trying everything she could think of to build a bridge with her daughter. She herself had loved stories as a child, and one of the few memories she could still muster of her own mother was being read The Tale of Peter Rabbit, one sunny afternoon on the lawns of Bermondsey. She remembered clearly the pale-blue silk of her mother’s blouse, the scent she wore – something floral and rare. And her mother’s smile – the greatest treasure of all. ‘What’s that word?’ she was asking Hannah. ‘You know that word, don’t you?’

‘Carrot,’ Hannah had proclaimed proudly.

‘Clever Hannah!’ her mother had smiled. ‘You’re as bright as a button.’ The memory faded out there, like the end of a story, so she would start it again, over and over.

Now she tried to tempt Grace with the same book. ‘You see? It’s about a rabbit. Come and read it with me.’

But the child looked at her sullenly. ‘I want my mamma. I hate the book!’

‘Oh, come on, you haven’t even looked at it.’ She took a breath and tried again. ‘Just one page. Let’s read one page and if you don’t like it, we’ll stop.’

The girl snatched the book from her hands and threw it at her, the corner striking Hannah’s cheek, narrowly missing her eye. Then she darted from the room, running straight into Gwen, who was coming in at the same moment.

‘Hey, hey there, missie!’ said Gwen. ‘What have you done to Hannah? Go and say sorry!’

‘Leave her be, Gwen,’ said Hannah. ‘She didn’t mean any harm. It was an accident.’ She picked up the book and put it carefully on the shelf. ‘I thought I might try her with some chicken soup for dinner tonight. Everyone likes chicken soup, don’t they?’ she asked, without much conviction.

Hours later, she was on her hands and knees, mopping up the soup her daughter had vomited on the floor.



‘When you think about it, what did we ever really know about him? All the stories about being from Sydney – that could all be a furphy. All we know for certain is that he’s not from Partageuse.’ Violet Graysmark was speaking to Bill when their daughter was safely asleep. ‘What sort of man is he? Waits until she can’t live without the child, then whisks her away.’ Her eyes were on the framed photograph of her granddaughter. She had removed it from the mantelpiece, and was stowing it under the linen in her underwear drawer.

‘But, well, what do you make of it, Vi? Really?’

‘For heaven’s sake. Even if he didn’t hold a gun to her head, he’s still responsible. She was clearly beside herself with losing that third baby. And to blame her for it … It was up to him to stick to the rules then and there, if that’s what he was going to do. Not start backtracking years later, when so many people were affected. We live with the decisions we make, Bill. That’s what bravery is. Standing by the consequences of your mistakes.’

Bill said nothing, and as she rearranged the dainty bags of lavender, she continued, ‘It was rubbing salt in the wound, to put his own guilty conscience above what it would do to Isabel or to Lucy, or …’ she put her hand on his, ‘to us, for that matter, dear. Not a thought for us in any of this business. As if we hadn’t had enough to deal with along the way.’ A tear glistened in her eye. ‘Our little granddaughter, Bill. All that love …’ She closed the drawer slowly.