М Стедман - The Light Between Oceans - A Novel

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AFTER FOUR HARROWING YEARS ON THE WESTERN Front, Tom Sherbourne returns to Australia and takes a job as the lighthouse keeper on Janus Rock, nearly half a day’s journey from the coast. To this isolated island, where the supply boat comes once a season, Tom brings a young, bold, and loving wife, Isabel. Years later, after two miscarriages and one stillbirth, the grieving Isabel hears a baby’s cries on the wind. A boat has washed up onshore carrying a dead man and a living baby.
Tom, who keeps meticulous records and whose moral principles have withstood a horrific war, wants to report the man and infant immediately. But Isabel insists the baby is a “gift from God,” and against Tom’s judgment, they claim her as their own and name her Lucy. When she is two, Tom and Isabel return to the mainland and are reminded that there are other people in the world. Their choice has devastated one of them.
### Amazon.com Review
**Amazon Best Books of the Month, August 2012** : Tom Sherbourne is a lighthouse keeper on Janus Rock, a tiny island a half day’s boat journey from the coast of Western Australia. When a baby washes up in a rowboat, he and his young wife Isabel decide to raise the child as their own. The baby seems like a gift from God, and the couple’s reasoning for keeping her seduces the reader into entering the waters of treacherous morality even as Tom--whose moral code withstood the horrors of World War I--begins to waver. M. L. Stedman’s vivid characters and gorgeous descriptions of the solitude of Janus Rock and of the unpredictable Australian frontier create a perfect backdrop for the tale of longing, loss, and the overwhelming love for a child that is *The Light Between Oceans*. -- *Malissa Kent*
### Review
“An extraordinary and heart-rending book about good people, tragic decisions and the beauty found in each of them.” **—Markus Zusak, author of *The Book Thief** *
“M.L. Stedman’s *The Light Between Oceans* is a beautiful novel about isolation and courage in the face of enormous loss. It gets into your heart stealthily, until you stop hoping the characters will make different choices and find you can only watch, transfixed, as every conceivable choice becomes an impossible one. I couldn’t look away from the page and then I couldn’t see it, through tears. It’s a stunning debut.” **—Maile Meloy, author of *Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It** **
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*“M.L. Stedman, a spectacularly sure storyteller, swept me to a remote island nearly a century ago, where a lighthouse keeper and his wife make a choice that shatters many lives, including their own. This is a novel in which justice for one character means another’s tragic loss, and we care desperately for both. Reading *The Light Between Oceans* is a total-immersion experience, extraordinarily moving.” **—Monica Ali, author of *Brick Lane* and* Untold Story***
*
*"Irresistible...seductive...a high concept plot that keeps you riveted from the first page." **—Sara Nelson, *O* , the Oprah magazine**
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*“Haunting...Stedman draws the reader into her emotionally complex story right from the beginning, with lush descriptions of this savage **** and beautiful landscape, and vivid characters with whom we can readily empathize. Hers is a stunning and memorable debut.” **— *Booklist* , starred review** *
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* *“[Stedman sets] the stage beautifully to allow for a heart-wrenching moral dilemma to play out... Most impressive is the subtle yet profound maturation of Isabel and Tom as characters.” **— *Publishers Weekly* , starred review**
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* *“The miraculous arrival of a child in the life of a barren couple delivers profound love but also the seeds of destruction. Moral dilemmas don’t come more exquisite than the one around which Australian novelist Stedman constructs her debut.” **— *Kirkus Reviews* , starred review**
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* *“This heartbreaking debut from M L Stedman is a gem of a book that you'll have trouble putting down” **—*Good Housekeeping** *
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* *“This fine, suspenseful debut explores desperation, morality, and loss, and considers the damaging ways in which we store our private sorrows, and the consequences of such terrible secrets.” **—*Martha Stewart Whole Living** *
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* *“As time passes the harder the decision becomes to undo and the more towering is its impact. This is the story of its terrible consequences. But it is also a description of the extraordinary, sustaining power of a marriage to bind two people together in love, through the most emotionally harrowing circumstances.” **—Victoria Moore, *The Daily Mail** ***

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It made Tom smile. The absurdity of the picture. More than that, the innocence of it. Somehow his body felt lighter just to hold the letter in his hand.

‘Can you hang on a tick?’ he asked Ralph, who was gathering his things for the journey back.

Tom dashed to his desk for paper and pen. He sat down to write, before realising he had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to say anything: just send her a smile.

Dear Isabel

,

Not blown away or swept (any further) out to sea, fortunately. I have seen many whales, but none has tried to eat me so far: I’m probably not very tasty

.

I am bearing up pretty well, all things considered, and coping adequately with the absence of roads. I trust you are keeping the local birdlife well fed. I look forward to seeing you before I leave Partageuse for – who knows where? – in three months’ time

.

How should he sign it?

‘Nearly ready?’ called Ralph.

‘Nearly,’ he replied, and wrote, ‘ Tom .’ He sealed and addressed the envelope, and handed it to the skipper. ‘Any chance you could post that for me?’

Ralph looked at the address and winked. ‘I’ll deliver it in person. Got to go past that place anyway.’

CHAPTER 5

AT THE END of his six months, Tom savoured the delights of Mrs Mewett’s hospitality once again, for an unexpected reason: the Janus vacancy had become permanent. Far from finding his marbles, Trimble Docherty had lost the few he still had, and had thrown himself over the vast granite cliff-face at Albany known as the Gap, apparently convinced he was jumping onto a boat skippered by his beloved wife. So Tom had been summoned to shore to discuss the post, do the paperwork, and take some leave before he officially took up the job. By now he had proved himself so capable that Fremantle did not bother to look elsewhere to fill the position.

‘Never underestimate the importance of the right wife,’ Captain Hasluck had said when Tom was about to leave his office. ‘Old Moira Docherty could have worked the light herself, she’d been with Trimble for so long. Takes a special kind of woman to live on the Lights. When you find the right one, you want to snap her up, quick smart. Mind you, you’ll have to wait a bit now …’

As Tom wandered back to Mrs Mewett’s, he thought about the little relics at the lighthouse – Docherty’s knitting, his wife’s jar of humbugs that sat untouched in the pantry. Lives gone, traces left. And he wondered about the despair of the man, destroyed by grief. It didn’t take a war to push you over that edge.

Two days after his return to Partageuse, Tom sat stiff as a whalebone in the Graysmarks’ lounge room, where both parents watched over their only daughter like eagles with a chick. Struggling to come up with suitable topics of conversation, Tom stuck to the weather, the wind, of which there was an abundance, and Graysmark cousins in other parts of Western Australia. It was relatively easy to steer the conversation away from himself.

As Isabel walked him to the gate afterwards she asked, ‘How long till you go back?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘Then we’d better make the most of it,’ she said, as though concluding a long discussion.

‘Is that so?’ asked Tom, as amused as he was surprised. He had a sense of being waltzed backwards.

Isabel smiled. ‘Yes, that’s so.’ And the way the light caught her eyes, he imagined he could see into her: see a clarity, an openness, which drew him in. ‘Come and visit tomorrow. I’ll make a picnic. We can go down by the bay.’

‘I should ask your father first, shouldn’t I? Or your mother?’ He leaned his head to one side. ‘I mean, if it’s not a rude question, how old are you?’

‘Old enough to go on a picnic.’

‘And in ordinary numbers that would make you …?’

‘Nineteen. Just about. So you can leave my parents to me,’ she said, and gave him a wave as she headed back inside.

Tom set off back to Mrs Mewett’s with a lightness in his step. Why, he could not say. He didn’t know the first thing about this girl, except that she smiled a lot, and that something inside just felt – good .

The following day, Tom approached the Graysmarks’ house, not so much nervous as puzzled, not quite sure how it was that he was heading back there so soon.

Mrs Graysmark smiled as she opened the door. ‘Nice and punctual,’ she noted on some invisible checklist.

‘Army habits …’ said Tom.

Isabel appeared with a picnic basket, which she handed to him. ‘You’re in charge of getting it there in one piece,’ she said, and turned to kiss her mother on the cheek. ‘Bye, Ma. See you later.’

‘Mind you keep out of the sun, now. Don’t want you spoiling your skin with freckles,’ she said to her daughter. She gave Tom a look which conveyed something sterner than the words, ‘Enjoy your picnic. Don’t be too late back.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Graysmark. We won’t be.’

Isabel led the way as they walked beyond the few streets that marked out the town proper and approached the ocean.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Tom.

‘It’s a surprise.’

They wandered along the dirt road which led up to the headland, bordered with dense, scrubby trees on each side. These were not the giants from the forest a mile or so further in, but wiry, stocky things, which could cope with the salt and the blasting of the wind. ‘It’s a bit of a walk. You won’t get too tired, will you?’ she asked.

Tom laughed. ‘I’ll just about manage without a walking stick.’

‘Well I just thought, you don’t have very far to walk on Janus, do you?’

‘Believe me, getting up and down the stairs of the light all day keeps you in trim.’ He was still taking stock of this girl and her uncanny ability to tip him a fraction off balance.

The trees began to thin out the further they walked, and the sounds of the ocean grew louder. ‘I suppose Partageuse seems dead boring, coming from Sydney,’ ventured Isabel.

‘Haven’t spent long enough here to know, really.’

‘I suppose not. But Sydney – I imagine it as huge and busy and wonderful. The big smoke.’

‘It’s pretty small fry compared to London.’

Isabel blushed. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you’d been there. That must be a real city. Maybe I’ll visit it one day.’

‘You’re better off here, I’d say. London’s – well, it was pretty grim whenever I was there on furlough. Grey and gloomy and cold as a corpse. I’d take Partageuse any day.’

‘We’re getting near the prettiest bit. Or I think it’s the prettiest.’ Beyond the trees emerged an isthmus which jutted far out into the ocean. It was a long, bare strip of land a few hundred yards wide and licked by waves on all sides. ‘This is the Point of Point Partageuse,’ said Isabel. ‘My favourite place is down there, on the left, where all the big rocks are.’

They walked on until they were in the centre of the isthmus. ‘Dump the basket and follow me,’ she said, and without warning she whisked off her shoes and took off, running to the black granite boulders which tumbled down into the water.

Tom caught her up as she approached the edge. There was a circle of boulders, inside which the waves sloshed and swirled. Isabel lay flat on the ground and leaned her head over the edge. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Just listen to the sound the water makes, like it’s in a cave or a cathedral.’

Tom leaned forward to hear.

‘You’ve got to lie down,’ she said.

‘To hear better?’

‘No. So you don’t get washed away. Terrible blow hole, this. If a big wave comes without warning, you’ll be down inside the rocks before you know it.’

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