The Light Between Oceans(9)

‘Well, if you’ve lived through Maatsuyker, there’s a chance you’ll survive Janus. Probably,’ Ralph said. He looked at his watch. ‘Why not grab forty winks while you can? We’ve got a way to go yet, boy.’

When Tom re-emerged from the bunk below, Bluey was speaking in a low voice to Ralph, who was shaking his head.

‘I just want to know if it’s true. No harm in asking him, is there?’ Bluey was saying.

‘Asking me what?’ said Tom.

‘If …’ Bluey looked at Ralph. Torn between his own eagerness and Ralph’s bulldog scowl, he blushed and fell silent.

‘Fair enough. None of my business,’ said Tom, and looked out at the water, which had now turned seal-grey, as the swell rose around them.

‘I was too young. Ma wouldn’t let me bump up me age to join up. And it’s just that I heard …’

Tom looked at him, eyebrows raised in question.

‘Well they reckon you got the Military Cross and that,’ Bluey blurted. ‘Told me it said on your discharge papers – for the Janus posting.’

Tom kept his eyes on the water. Bluey looked crestfallen, then embarrassed. ‘I mean, I’m real proud to be able to say I’ve shaken the hand of a hero.’

‘A bit of brass doesn’t make anyone a hero,’ Tom said. Most of the blokes who really deserve the medals aren’t around any more. Wouldn’t get too worked up about it if I were you, mate,’ he said, and turned to pore over the chart.

‘There she is!’ exclaimed Bluey, and handed the binoculars to Tom.

‘Home, sweet home, for the next six months,’ Ralph chuckled.

Tom looked through the lenses at the landmass which seemed to be emerging from the water like a sea monster. The cliff on one side marked the highest point, from which the island sloped down gently until it reached the opposite shore.

‘Old Neville’ll be glad to see us,’ Ralph said. ‘He didn’t take kindly to being dragged out of retirement for Trimble’s emergency, I can tell you. Still. Once a keeper … There’s not a man in the Service’d leave a light go unattended, however much he carried on about it. I warn you, though, he’s not the happiest corpse in the morgue. Not much of a talker, Neville Whittnish.’

The jetty stretched a good hundred feet out from the shoreline, where it had been built up tall, to withstand the highest of tides and fiercest of storms. The block and tackle was rigged, ready to hoist the supplies up the steep ascent to the outbuildings. A dour, craggy man of sixty-odd was waiting for them as they docked.

‘Ralph. Bluey,’ he said with a perfunctory nod. ‘You’re the replacement,’ was his greeting to Tom.

‘Tom Sherbourne. Pleased to meet you,’ Tom replied, putting out his hand.

The older man looked at it absently for a moment before remembering what the gesture meant, and gave it a peremptory tug, as if testing whether the arm might come off. ‘This way,’ he said, and without waiting for Tom to gather his things, started the trudge up to the light station. It was early afternoon, and after so many hours on the swell, it took Tom a moment to get the feel of land again as he grabbed his kitbag and staggered after the keeper, while Ralph and Bluey prepared to unload the supplies.

‘Keeper’s cottage,’ said Whittnish as they approached a low building with a corrugated-iron roof. A trio of large rainwater tanks ranged behind it, beside a string of outbuildings housing stores for the cottage and the light. ‘You can leave your kitbag in the hallway,’ he said, as he opened the front door. ‘Got a lot to get through.’ He turned on his heel and headed straight to the tower. He might be long in the tooth, but he could move like a whippet.

Later, when the old man spoke about the light, his voice changed, as though he were talking about a faithful dog or a favourite rose. ‘She’s a beauty, still, after all these years,’ he said. The white stone light tower rested against the slate sky like a stick of chalk. It stood a hundred and thirty feet high, near the cliff at the island’s apex, and Tom was struck not only by how much taller it was than the lights he had worked on, but also by its slender elegance.

Walking through its green door, it was more or less what he expected. The space could be crossed in a couple of strides, and the sound of their footsteps ricocheted like stray bullets off the green-gloss-painted floors and curved, whitewashed walls. The few pieces of furniture – two store cupboards, a small table – were curved at the back to fit the roundness of the structure, so that they huddled against the walls like hunchbacks. In the very centre stood the thick iron cylinder which ran all the way up to the lantern room, and housed the weights for the clockwork which had originally rotated the light.

A set of stairs no more than two feet wide began a spiral across one side of the wall and disappeared into the solid metal of the landing above. Tom followed the old man up to the next, narrower level, where the helix continued from the opposite wall up to the next floor, and on again until they arrived at the fifth one, just below the lantern room – the administrative heart of the lighthouse. Here in the watch room was the desk with the logbooks, the Morse equipment, the binoculars. Of course, it was forbidden to have a bed or any furniture in the light tower on which one could recline, but there was at least a straight-backed wooden chair, its arms worn smooth by generations of craggy palms.