The Light Between Oceans (20 page)

‘Ah! The perfect dad!’ said a voice from behind. Tom turned to see his father-in-law approaching.

‘Thought I’d come and make sure you were managing. Vi always said I had the knack with our three.’ As the last word came out, a shadow flitted across his face. He recovered and stretched out his arms. ‘Come to Grandpa. Come and pull his whiskers. Ah, my little princess!’

Lucy tottered over and stretched out her arms. ‘Up you come,’ he said, sweeping her up. She reached for the fob watch in his waistcoat pocket, and tugged it out.

‘You want to know what time it is? Again?’ Bill laughed, and he went through the ritual of opening the gold case and showing her the hands. She immediately snapped it shut, and thrust it back at him to re-open. ‘It’s hard on Violet, you know,’ he said to Tom,

Tom brushed the grass off his trousers as he stood up. ‘What is, Bill?’

‘Being without Isabel, and now, missing out on this little one …’ He paused. ‘There must be jobs you could get around Partageuse way …? You’ve got a university degree, for goodness’ sake …’

Tom shifted his weight uneasily to his other foot.

‘Oh, I know what they say – once a lightkeeper, always a lightkeeper.’

‘That’s what they say,’ said Tom.

‘And is it true?’

‘More or less.’

‘But you could leave? If you really wanted to?’

Tom gave it thought before replying, ‘Bill, a man could leave his wife, if he really wanted to. Doesn’t make it the right thing to do.’

Bill gave him a look.

‘Hardly fair to let them train you up, get the experience, and then leave them in the lurch. And you get used to it.’ He glanced up at the sky as he considered. ‘It’s where I belong. And Isabel loves it.’

The child reached out her arms to Tom, who transferred her to his hip in a reflex movement.

‘Well, you mind you look after my girls. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘I’ll do my best. I promise you that.’

The most important Boxing Day tradition in Point Partageuse was the Church Fête. A gathering of residents from the town and far beyond, it had been established long ago, by someone with an eye for business who had seen the advantage of holding the fund-raising event on a day when no one had an excuse to say they were too busy with work to attend. And, it being still Christmas time, they had no excuse not to be generous either.

As well as the sale of cakes and toffees, and jars of jam that occasionally exploded in the fierce sun, the event was famous for its sports and novelty events: the egg and spoon race, three-legged race, sack race – all were staples of the day. The coconut shy still ran, though they’d given up on the shooting gallery after the war, because the newly honed skills of the local men meant it started to lose money.

The events were open to all, and participation was something of a three-line whip. Families made a day of it, and patties and sausages were barbecued over half a forty-four-gallon drum, and sold off at sixpence a go. Tom sat with Lucy and Isabel on a blanket in the shade, eating sausages in buns, while Lucy dismantled her lunch and redistributed it on the plate beside her.

‘The boys were great runners,’ Isabel said. ‘Even used to win the three-legged race. And I think Mum’s still got the cup I won for the sack race one year.’

Tom smiled. ‘Didn’t know I’d married a champion athlete.’

She gave him a playful slap on the arm. ‘I’m just telling you the Graysmark family legends.’

Tom was attending to the mess that threatened to spill over from Lucy’s plate when a boy with a marshal’s rosette appeared beside them. Clasping a pad and pencil, he said, ‘’Scuse me. That your baby?’

The question startled Tom. ‘Pardon?’

‘Just asking if that’s your baby.’

Though words came from Tom’s mouth, they were incoherent.

The boy turned to Isabel. ‘That your baby, Missus?’

Isabel frowned for a second, and then gave a slow nod as she understood. ‘You on the round-up for the dads’ race?’

‘That’s right.’ He lifted the pencil to the page and asked Tom, ‘How do you spell your name?’

Tom looked again at Isabel, but there was no trace of discomfort in her face. ‘I can spell it if you’ve forgotten how,’ she teased.

Tom waited for her to understand his alarm, but her smile didn’t waiver. Finally, he said, ‘Not really my strong point, running.’

‘But all the dads do it,’ said the boy, at what was clearly the first refusal he’d come across.

Tom chose his words carefully. ‘I wouldn’t make the qualifying round.’

As the boy wandered off to find his next conscript, Isabel said lightly, ‘Never mind, Lucy. I’ll go in the mums’ race instead. At least one of your parents is prepared to make a fool of themselves for you.’ But Tom didn’t return her smile.

Dr Sumpton washed his hands as, behind the curtain, Isabel dressed again. She had kept her promise to Tom to see the doctor while they were back in Partageuse.

‘Nothing wrong, mechanically speaking,’ he said.

‘So? What is it? Am I sick?’

‘Not at all. It’s just the change of life,’ the doctor said as he
wrote
up his notes. ‘You’re lucky enough to have a baby already, so it’s not as hard on you as it is on some women, when it comes unusually early like this. As for the other symptoms, well, I’m afraid you just have to grin and bear it. They’ll pass in a year or so. It’s just the way of things.’ He gave her a jolly smile. ‘And then, it’ll be a blessed relief: you’ll be past all the problems of menses. Some women would envy you.’

As she walked back to her parents’ house, Isabel tried not to cry. She had Lucy; she had Tom – at a time when many women had lost forever those they loved most. It would be greedy to want anything more.

A few days later, Tom signed the paperwork for another three-year term. The District Officer, who came down from Fremantle to see to the formalities, again paid close attention to his handwriting and signature, comparing them to his original documentation. Any sign of a tremor creeping into his hand and he wouldn’t be allowed back. Mercury poisoning was common enough: if they could catch it at the stage where it just caused shaky handwriting, they could avoid sending out a keeper who like as not would be mad as a meat axe by the end of his next stint.

CHAPTER 15

LUCY’S CHRISTENING, ORIGINALLY
arranged for the first week of their leave, had been postponed because of the lengthy ‘indisposition’ of Reverend Norkells. It finally took place the day before their return to Janus in early January. That scorching morning, Ralph and Hilda walked to the church with Tom and Isabel. The only shade to be had while they waited for the doors to open was under a cluster of mallee trees beside the gravestones.

‘Let’s hope Norkells isn’t on another bender,’ said Ralph.

‘Ralph! Really!’ said Hilda. To change the subject, she tutted at a fresh granite stone a few feet away. ‘Such a shame.’

‘What is, Hilda?’ asked Isabel.

‘Oh, the poor baby and her father, the ones that drowned. At least they’ve finally got a memorial.’

Isabel froze. For a moment, she feared she might faint, and the sounds around her became distant and then suddenly booming. She struggled to make sense of the bright gold letters on the stone: ‘
In loving memory of Franz Johannes Roennfeldt, dearly beloved husband of Hannah, and of their precious daughter Grace Ellen. Watched over by God
.’ Then under that, ‘
Selig sind die da Leid tragen
.’ Fresh flowers lay at the foot of the memorial. With this heat, they couldn’t have been left more than an hour before.

‘What happened?’ she asked, as a tingling spread to her hands and feet.

‘Ah, shocking,’ said Ralph with a shake of his head. ‘Hannah Potts as was.’ Isabel recognised the name immediately. ‘Septimus Potts, old Potts of Money, they call him. Richest fella for miles. He came here from London fifty-odd years back as an orphan with nothing. Made a fortune in timber. Wife died when his two girls were only small. What’s the other one’s name, Hilda?’

‘Gwen. Hannah’s the oldest. Both went to that fancy boarding school up in Perth.’

‘Then a few years back Hannah went and married a Hun … Well, old Potts wouldn’t speak to her after that. Cut off the money. They lived in that run-down cottage by the pumping station. Old man finally came around when the baby was born. Anyway, there was a bit of a barney on Anzac Day, year before last now—’

‘Not now, Ralph,’ Hilda cautioned with a look.

‘Just telling them …’

‘This is hardly the time or the place.’ She turned to Isabel. ‘Let’s just say there was a misunderstanding between Frank Roennfeldt and some of the locals, and he ended up jumping into a rowing boat with the baby. They … well, they took against him because he was German. Or as good as. No need to go into all of that here, at a christening and all. Better forgotten.’

Isabel had stopped taking breaths as she listened to the tale, and now gave an involuntary gasp as her body clamoured for air.

‘Yes, I know!’ Hilda said, to show her agreement. ‘And it gets worse …’

Tom glanced urgently at Isabel, his eyes wide, sweat beading on his lip. He wondered if it was possible for others to hear his heart beating, it was thundering so wildly.

‘Well, the bloke was no sailor,’ Ralph went on. ‘Had a dicky heart since he was a kid, by all accounts: he was no match for these currents. Storm blew up and no one saw hide nor hair of them again.
Must
have drowned. Old man Potts put up a reward for information: a thousand guineas!’ He gave a shake of the head. ‘That would’ve brought ’em out of the woodwork if anyone knew anything. Even had a mind to look for them myself! Mind you – I’m no Boche-lover. But the baby … Barely two months old. You can’t hold it against a baby now, can you? Little mite.’