The Light Between Oceans (40 page)

‘And she’s been wetting the bed, you say?’

‘Often. At her age, surely you’d normally expect—’

‘You hardly need me to remind you that these aren’t
normal
circumstances.’ He rang a bell on his desk and, after a discreet knock, a white-haired woman entered.

‘Mrs Fripp, take little Grace out to sit with you while I have a word with her mother, would you?’

The woman smiled. ‘Come on, dear, let’s see if we can find a biscuit for you somewhere,’ she said, and led the listless child away.

Hannah began. ‘I don’t know what to do, what to say. She still keeps asking for …’ she stumbled, ‘for Isabel Sherbourne.’

‘What have you said about her?’

‘Nothing. I’ve told her that I’m her mother and I love her and—’

‘Well, you have to say
something
about Mrs Sherbourne.’

‘But what?’

‘My suggestion is that you just tell her she and her husband had to go away.’

‘Go away where, why?’

‘It doesn’t really matter at that age. Just as long as she has an answer to her question. She’ll forget eventually – if there’s nothing around to remind her of the Sherbournes. She’ll get used to her new home. I’ve seen it often enough with adopted orphans and so forth.’

‘But she gets into such a state. I just want to do the right thing for her.’

‘You don’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, I’m afraid, Mrs Roennfeldt. Fate’s dealt this little girl a pretty tough set of cards, and there’s nothing you can do about that. Eventually those two will fade from her mind, as long as she doesn’t keep in contact with them. And in the meantime, give her a drop of the sleeping draught if she’s too anxious or unsettled. Won’t do her any harm.’

CHAPTER 28

‘YOU STAY AWAY
from that man, you hear me?’

‘I’ve got to go and see him, Ma. He’s been in the lock-up for ages! This is all my fault!’ lamented Bluey.

‘Don’t talk rubbish. You’ve reunited a baby with her mother, and you’re about to pocket three thousand guineas reward.’ Mrs Smart took the iron from the stove, and pressed the tablecloth harder with each sentence. ‘Use your loaf, boy. You’ve done your bit, now just keep out of it!’

‘He’s in more trouble than the early settlers, Ma. I don’t reckon this is gonna turn out good for him.’

‘That’s not your lookout, sonny. Now out the back and get on with weeding the rose bed.’

By reflex, Bluey took a step towards the back door, as his mother muttered, ‘Oh, to have been left with the halfwit son!’

He stopped, and to her astonishment, pulled himself up to his full height. ‘Yeah, well I may be a halfwit, but I’m not a dobber. And I’m not the sort of bloke that deserts his mates.’ He turned and headed for the front door.

‘Just where do you think you’re going, Jeremiah Smart?’

‘Out, Ma!’

‘Over my dead body!’ she snapped, blocking his way.

She was all of five feet tall. Bluey topped six foot. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he picked his mother up by the waist as easily as a piece of sandalwood, and put her down lightly to one side. He left her, jaw agape, eyes flaming, as he walked out of the door and down the front path.

Bluey took in the scene. The tiny space, the slop bucket in the corner, the tin mug on a table that was bolted to the floor. In all the years he had known Tom, he had never seen him unshaven; never seen his hair uncombed, his shirt creased. Now he had dark gulleys under his eyes, and his cheekbones rose like ridges above his square jaw.

‘Tom! Good to see you, mate,’ declared the visitor, in a phrase that brought them both back to days of jetty landings and long voyages, when they were, truly, glad to see one another.

Bluey tried to look at Tom’s face, but could not negotiate the space between the bars, so either the face or the bars were out of focus. He searched for a few moments before coming up with, ‘How are things?’

‘I’ve been better.’

Bluey fidgeted with the hat in his hands until he screwed up his courage. ‘I’m not going to take the reward, mate.’ The words tumbled out. ‘Wouldn’t be right.’

Tom looked off to his side for a moment. ‘Thought there must have been some reason you didn’t come out with the troopers.’ He sounded uninterested rather than angry.

‘I’m sorry! Ma made me do it. I never should have listened to her. I wouldn’t touch the money with a bargepole.’

‘Might as well be you gets it as some other bloke. Makes no difference to me now.’

Whatever Bluey was expecting from Tom, it was not this indifference. ‘What happens next?’

‘Buggered if I know, Blue.’

‘Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?’

‘A bit of sky and some ocean’d be nice.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I.’ Tom took a deep breath as he considered a thought. ‘There is something you could do. You could look in on Izzy for me. She’ll be at her parents’. Just … see she’s OK. She’ll be taking it hard. Lucy meant the world to her,’ and he stopped because a crack had found its way into his voice. ‘Tell her – I understand. That’s all. Tell her that I understand, Bluey.’

Though the young man felt utterly out of his depth, he took his commission like a sacred charge. He would convey the message as if his own life depended on it.

Once Bluey had gone, Tom lay down on the bunk, and wondered again how Lucy was; how Isabel was coping. He tried to think of any other way he could have done things, starting from that very first day. Then he remembered Ralph’s words – ‘no point in fighting your war over and over until you get it right’. Instead, he sought comfort in perspective: in his mind’s eye, he mapped out on the ceiling the exact position the stars would be in that night, starting with Sirius, always the brightest; the Southern Cross; then the planets – Venus and Uranus – all easily visible in the sky over the island. He traced the constellations as they slid their way across the roof of the world from dusk till dawn. The precision of it, the quiet orderliness of the stars, gave him a sense of freedom. There was nothing he was going through that the stars had not seen before, somewhere, some time on this earth. Given enough time, their memory would close over his life like healing a wound. All would be forgotten, all suffering erased. Then he remembered the star atlas and Lucy’s inscription: ‘for ever and ever and ever and ever’, and the pain of the present flooded back.

He said a prayer for Lucy. ‘Keep her safe. Let her have a happy
life.
Let her forget me.’ And for Isabel, lost in the darkness, ‘Bring her home, back to her self, before it’s too late.’

Bluey shuffled his feet and silently rehearsed his speech again as he stood at the Graysmarks’ front door. When it opened, Violet stood before him, her face wary.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, the formality a shield against any new unpleasantness.

‘Afternoon, Mrs Graysmark.’ When she made no acknowledgement, he said, ‘I’m Bl— Jeremiah Smart.’

‘I know who you are.’

‘I wonder if – do you think I could have a word with Mrs Sherbourne?’

‘She’s not up to visitors.’

‘I—’ He was about to give up, but remembered Tom’s face, and persisted, ‘I won’t hold her up. I just have to—’

Isabel’s voice drifted out from the darkened lounge room. ‘Let him in, Ma.’

Her mother scowled. ‘You’d better come through. Mind you wipe your feet,’ and she stared at his boots while he wiped, and wiped them again, on the brush doormat, before following her.

‘It’s all right, Ma. No need to stay,’ said Isabel from her chair.

Isabel looked as bad as Tom, Bluey thought: grey-skinned and empty. ‘Thanks for – for seeing me …’ He faltered. The rim of his hat was damp where he clutched it. ‘I’ve been to see Tom.’

Her face clouded and she turned away.

‘He’s in a real bad way, Mrs S. A real bad way.’

‘And he sent you to tell me that, did he?’

Bluey continued to fidget with his hat. ‘No. He asked me to give you a message.’

‘Oh?’

‘He said to tell you he understands.’

She could not keep the surprise from her face. ‘Understands what?’

‘Didn’t say. Just said to tell you.’

Her eyes remained fixed on Bluey, but she was not looking at him. After a long time, in which he blushed deeper at being stared at, she said, ‘Well then, you’ve told me.’ She rose slowly to her feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’

‘But – well?’ asked Bluey, shocked.

‘Well what?’

‘What should I tell him back? I mean – a message or something?’ She didn’t answer. ‘He’s always been good to me, Mrs S … You both have.’

‘It’s through here,’ she said, guiding him to the front door.

As she closed it behind him, she leaned her face against the wall, shaking.

‘Oh, Isabel, darling!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘Come and have a lie down, there’s a girl,’ she said, and led her to her room.

‘I’m going to be sick again,’ said Isabel, and Violet manoeuvred the old china basin onto her daughter’s lap just in time.

Bill Graysmark prided himself on being a good judge of people. As a headmaster, he got to observe human character in the process of formation. He was rarely wrong about which ones would do well for themselves in life, and which would come a cropper. Nothing in his gut told him Tom Sherbourne was a liar, or a violent man. Just to see him with Lucy was enough to show that the child hadn’t the least fear of him. And he couldn’t have asked for someone to cherish his daughter more.