М Стедман - The Light Between Oceans - A Novel

So by 1920, Partageuse had that mixture of tentative pride and hard-bitten experience that marked any West Australian town. In the middle of the handkerchief of grass near the main street stood the fresh granite obelisk listing the men and boys, some scarcely sixteen, who would not be coming back to plough the fields or fell the trees, would not be finishing their lessons, though many in the town held their breath, waiting for them anyway. Gradually, lives wove together once again into a practical sort of fabric in which every thread crossed and re-crossed the others through school and work and marriage, embroidering connections invisible to those not from the town.

And Janus Rock, linked only by the store boat four times a year, dangled off the edge of the cloth like a loose button that might easily plummet to Antarctica.

The long, thin jetty at Point Partageuse was made from the same jarrah that rattled along it in rail carriages to be hauled onto ships. The wide bay above which the town had grown up was clear turquoise, and on the day Tom’s boat docked it gleamed like polished glass.

Men beetled away, loading and unloading, heaving and wrestling cargo with the occasional shout or whistle. On shore, the bustle continued, as people went about with a purposeful air, on foot or by horse and buggy.

The exception to this display of efficiency was a young woman feeding bread to a flock of seagulls. She was laughing as she threw each crust in a different direction and watched the birds squabble and screech, eager for a prize. A gull in full flight caught a morsel in one gulp and still dived for the next one, sending the girl into new peals of laughter.

It seemed years since Tom had heard a laugh that wasn’t tinged with a roughness, a bitterness. It was a sunny winter’s afternoon, and there was nowhere he had to go right that minute; nothing he had to do. He would be shipped out to Janus in a couple of days, once he had met the people he needed to meet and signed the forms he needed to sign. But for now, there were no logbooks to write up, no prisms to buff, no tanks to refuel. And here was someone just having a bit of fun. It suddenly felt like solid proof that the war was really over. He sat on a bench near the jetty, letting the sun caress his face, watching the girl lark about, the curls of her dark hair swirling like a net cast on the wind. He followed her delicate fingers as they made silhouettes against the blue. Only gradually did he notice she was pretty. And more gradually still that she was probably beautiful.

‘What are you smiling at?’ the girl called, catching Tom off guard.

‘Sorry.’ He felt his face redden.

‘Never be sorry for smiling!’ she exclaimed, in a voice that somehow had a sad edge. Then her expression brightened. ‘You’re not from Partageuse.’

‘Nope.’

‘I am. Lived here all my life. Want some bread?’

‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

‘Not for you, silly! To feed the seagulls.’

She offered him a crust in her outstretched hand. A year before, perhaps even a day before, Tom would have declined and walked away. But suddenly, the warmth and the freedom and the smile, and something he couldn’t quite name, made him accept the offering.

‘Bet I can get more to come to me than you can,’ she said.

‘Righto, you’re on!’ said Tom.

‘Go!’ she declared, and the two of them began, throwing the pieces high in the air or at crafty angles, ducking as the gulls squawked and dive-bombed and flapped their wings at one another furiously.

Finally, when all the bread was gone, Tom asked, laughing, ‘Who won?’

‘Oh! I forgot to judge.’ The girl shrugged. ‘Let’s call it a draw.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, putting his hat back on and picking up his duffle bag. ‘Better be on my way. Thanks. I enjoyed that.’

She smiled. ‘It was just a silly game.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘thanks for reminding me that silly games are fun.’ He slung the bag over his broad shoulder, and turned toward town. ‘You have a good afternoon now, Miss,’ he added.

Tom rang the bell at the boarding house on the main street. It was the domain of Mrs Mewett, a woman of sixty-odd, as stout as a pepper pot, who set upon him. ‘Your letter said you’re a bachelor, and you’re Eastern States, so I’ll thank you for remembering you’re in Partageuse now. This is a Christian establishment, and there’s to be no taking of alcohol or tobacco on the premises.’

Tom was about to thank her for the key in her hand, but she clutched it fiercely as she continued, ‘None of your foreign habits here: I know what’s what. I change the sheets when you leave and I don’t expect to have to scrub them, if you know what I mean. The doors are locked at ten, breakfast is served at six a.m. and if you’re not there you go hungry. Tea’s at five thirty, and likewise applies. Lunch you can find somewhere else.’

‘Much obliged, Mrs Mewett,’ said Tom, deciding against a smile in case it broke some other rule.

‘Hot water’s an extra shilling a week. Up to you whether you want it. In my book, cold water never did a man your age any harm.’ She thrust the room key at him. As she limped off down the passageway, Tom wondered whether there was a Mr Mewett who had so endeared men to her.

In his small room at the back of the house, he unpacked his duffle bag, setting his soap and shaving things neatly on the one shelf provided. He folded his long johns and socks into the drawer, and hung his three shirts and two pairs of trousers, together with his good suit and tie, in the narrow wardrobe. He slipped a book into his pocket and set out to explore the town.

Tom Sherbourne’s final duty in Partageuse was dinner with the Harbourmaster and his wife. Captain Percy Hasluck was in charge of all the comings and goings at the port, and it was usual for any new Janus lightkeeper to be invited to dine with him before setting off for the island.

Tom washed and shaved again in the afternoon, put Brilliantine in his hair, buttoned on a collar and hauled on his suit. The sunshine of the previous days had been replaced by clouds and a vicious wind that blew straight from Antarctica, so he pulled on his greatcoat for good measure.

Still working on Sydney scales, he had left plenty of time to walk the unfamiliar route, and arrived at the house rather early. His host welcomed him with a broad smile, and when Tom apologised for his premature arrival, ‘Mrs Captain Hasluck’, as her husband referred to her, clapped her hands and said, ‘Gracious me, Mr Sherbourne! You hardly need to apologise for gracing us with your presence promptly, especially when you’ve brought such lovely flowers.’ She inhaled the scent of the late roses Tom had negotiated to pick, for a fee, from Mrs Mewett’s garden. She peered up at him from her considerably lower vantage point. ‘Goodness! You’re nearly as tall as the lighthouse yourself!’ she said, and chuckled at her own wit.

The Captain took Tom’s hat and coat and said, ‘Come into the parlour,’ after which his wife immediately chimed, ‘Said the spider to the fly!’

‘Ah, she’s a card, that one!’ exclaimed the Captain. Tom feared it could be a long evening.

‘Now, some sherry? Or there’s port?’ offered the woman.

‘Show some mercy and bring the poor devil a beer, Mrs Captain,’ her husband said with a laugh. He slapped Tom on the back. ‘You have a seat and tell me all about yourself, young man.’

Tom was rescued by the doorbell. ‘Excuse me,’ said Captain Hasluck. Down the hall Tom heard, ‘Cyril. Bertha. Glad you could come. Let me take your hats.’

As Mrs Captain returned to the parlour with a bottle of beer and glasses on a silver tray, she said, ‘We thought we’d invite a few people, just to introduce you to some locals. It’s a very friendly place, Partageuse.’