The Light Between Oceans(92)

Tom looked him in the eye. ‘Do you believe them?’

‘Of course I don’t believe them. But I believe that sort of talk takes on a life of its own. And I believe that an innocent bloke can be accused of something he never did. It’s no use saying sorry when he’s dead.’ Bluey’s expression continued to implore Tom silently.

‘There are things that are hard to explain,’ Tom said. ‘There are reasons why I did what I did.’

‘But what did you do?’

‘I did some things that have ruined people’s lives, and now it’s time to pay.’

‘They’re saying how Old Man Potts reckons that if a bloke’s wife won’t stick up for him, then he must have done something pretty crook.’

‘Thanks, mate. You’re a real comfort.’

‘Don’t go down without a fight, Tom. Promise me!’

‘I’ll be right, Blue.’

But as Bluey’s footsteps echoed away, Tom wondered how true that was. Isabel had not responded to his letter, and he had to face the fact that it could be for the very worst of reasons. Still, he had to hold on to what he knew of her, of who he knew her to be.



On the outskirts of the town are the old timber workers’ cottages, meagre clapboard constructions ranging from the derelict to the respectable. They’re set on smaller blocks of land, near the pumping station that brings the town its water. One of them, Isabel knows, is where Hannah Roennfeldt lives, and where her treasured Lucy has been taken. Isabel has waited in vain for Gwen to appear. In desperation, she now seeks Lucy out. Just to see where she is. Just to know she is coping. It’s midday and there isn’t a soul in the broad street, braided with jacarandas.

One of the houses is particularly well kept. Its wood is newly painted, its grass cut, and, unlike the others, it’s bounded by a tall hedge, more effective than a fence in keeping prying eyes away.

Isabel goes to the laneway at the back of the houses, and from behind the hedge, hears the rhythmic squeak of iron. She peers through a tiny gap in the foliage, and her breath comes faster as she sees her little girl, riding a tricycle up and down the pathway. All alone, she has no expression of happiness or sadness, just fierce concentration as she pedals. She is so close: Isabel could almost touch her, hold her, comfort her. Suddenly, it’s absurd that she can’t be with the child – as if the whole town has gone mad, and she is the only sane one left.

She considers things. The train comes once a day from Perth down to Albany, and once a day from Albany to Perth. If she waited until the last minute to get on, there might be a chance that no one would notice her? That the child’s absence mightn’t be discovered? In Perth, it would be easier to melt into anonymity. Then she could get to Sydney by the boat. England, even. A new life. The fact that she has not a shilling to her name – has never held a bank account – doesn’t seem to stop her. She watches her daughter, and weighs up her next action.



Harry Garstone hammered on the Graysmarks’ door. Bill answered, after peering through the glass to see who it could be at this hour.

‘Mr Graysmark,’ the constable said, and gave a peremptory nod.

‘Evening, Harry. What brings you here?’

‘Official business.’

‘I see,’ said Bill, braced for more grim news.

‘I’m looking for the Roennfeldt girl.’

‘Hannah?’

‘No, her daughter. Grace.’

It took Bill a moment to realise he meant Lucy, and he gave the policeman a questioning look.

‘Have you got her here?’ Garstone asked.

‘Of course I haven’t got her. Why on earth …?’

‘Well, she’s not with Hannah Roennfeldt. She’s gone missing.’

‘Hannah lost her?’

‘Or she was taken. Is your daughter at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure?’ he asked, just faintly disappointed.

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Been here all day, has she?’

‘Not all day, no. What are you on about? Where’s Lucy?’

By now Violet was standing behind Bill. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘I need to see your daughter, Mrs Graysmark,’ said Garstone. ‘Could you get her, please?’

Reluctantly, Violet went to Isabel’s room, but it was empty. She hurried out to the back, where she found her sitting on the swinging seat, staring into space.

‘Isabel! It’s Harry Garstone!’

‘What does he want?’

‘I think you’d better come and see him,’ Violet said, and something in her tone made Isabel follow her mother through the house to the front door.

‘Evening, Mrs Sherbourne. I’m here about Grace Roennfeldt,’ Garstone began.

‘What about her?’ asked Isabel.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘She hasn’t been near her since she came back,’ her mother protested, before correcting herself. ‘Well, she did … come across her, by accident, at Mouchemore’s, but that’s the only time—’

‘That right, Mrs Sherbourne?’

Isabel didn’t speak, so her father said, ‘Of course it’s right. What do you think she—’