М Стедман - The Light Between Oceans - A Novel

About the Book

The crying persisted. The door of the lighthouse clanged in the distance, and Tom’s tall frame appeared on the gallery as he scanned the island with the binoculars. ‘Izzy!’ he yelled, ‘a boat!’ He vanished and re-emerged at ground level. ‘It’s a boat all right,’ Tom declared. ‘And – oh cripes! There’s a bloke, but –’ The figure was motionless, yet the cries still rang out. He hoisted out a woollen bundle: a woman’s soft lavender cardigan wrapped around a tiny, screaming infant.

Tom Sherbourne, released from the horrors of the First World War, is now a lighthouse keeper, cocooned on a remote Australian island with his young wife Izzy, who is content in everything but her failure to have a child.

One April morning, a boat washes ashore carrying a dead man – and a crying baby. Safe from the real world, Tom and Izzy break the rules and follow their hearts.

It is a decision with devastating consequences.

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Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

Map

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part 2

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part 3

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

In memory of my parents

PART I

27th April 1926

ON THE DAY of the miracle, Isabel was kneeling at the cliff’s edge, tending the small, newly made driftwood cross. A single fat cloud snailed across the late-April sky, which stretched above the island in a mirror of the ocean below. Isabel sprinkled more water and patted down the soil around the rosemary bush she had just planted.

‘… and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,’ she whispered.

For just a moment, her mind tricked her into hearing an infant’s cry. She dismissed the illusion, her eye drawn instead by a pod of whales weaving their way up the coast to calve in the warmer waters, emerging now and again with a fluke of their tails like needles through tapestry. She heard the cry again, louder this time on the early-morning breeze. Impossible.

From this side of the island, there was only vastness, all the way to Africa. Here, the Indian Ocean washed into the Great Southern Ocean and together they stretched like an edgeless carpet below the cliffs. On days like this it seemed so solid she had the impression she could walk to Madagascar in a journey of blue upon blue. The other side of the island looked back, fretful, towards the Australian mainland nearly a hundred miles away, not quite belonging to the land, yet not quite free of it, the highest of a string of under-sea mountains that rose from the ocean floor like teeth along a jagged jaw bone, waiting to devour any innocent ships in their final dash for harbour.

As if to make amends, the island – Janus Rock – offered a lighthouse, its beam providing a mantle of safety for thirty miles. Each night the air sang with the steady hum of the lantern as it turned, turned, turned; even-handed, not blaming the rocks, not fearing the waves: there for salvation if wanted.

The crying persisted. The door of the lighthouse clanged in the distance, and Tom’s tall frame appeared on the gallery as he scanned the island with binoculars. ‘Izzy,’ he yelled, ‘a boat!’ and pointed to the cove. ‘On the beach – a boat!’

He vanished, and re-emerged a moment later at ground level. ‘Looks like there’s someone in it,’ he shouted. Isabel hurried as best she could to meet him, and he held her arm as they navigated the steep, well-worn path to the little beach.

‘It’s a boat all right,’ Tom declared. ‘And – oh cripes! There’s a bloke, but—’ The figure was motionless, flopped over the seat, yet the cries still rang out. Tom rushed to the dinghy, and tried to rouse the man before searching the space in the bow from where the sound came. He hoisted out a woollen bundle: a woman’s soft lavender cardigan wrapped around a tiny, screaming infant.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell, Izzy. It’s—’

‘A baby! Oh my Lord above! Oh Tom! Tom! Here – give it to me!’

He handed her the bundle, and tried again to revive the stranger: no pulse. He turned to Isabel, who was examining the diminutive creature. ‘He’s gone, Izz. The baby?’

‘It’s all right, by the looks. No cuts or bruises. It’s so tiny!’ she said, then, turning to the child as she cuddled it, ‘There, there. You’re safe now, little one. You’re safe, you beautiful thing.’

Tom stood still, considering the man’s body, clenching his eyes tight shut and opening them again to check he wasn’t dreaming. The baby had stopped crying and was taking gulps of breath in Isabel’s arms.

‘Can’t see any marks on the fellow, and he doesn’t look diseased. He can’t have been adrift long … You wouldn’t credit it.’ He paused. ‘You take the baby up to the house, Izz, and I’ll get something to cover the body.’

‘But, Tom—’

‘It’ll be a hell of a job to get him up the path. Better leave him here until help comes. Don’t want the birds or the flies getting at him though – there’s some canvas up in the shed should do.’ He spoke calmly enough, but his hands and face felt cold, as old shadows blotted out the bright autumn sunshine.

Janus Rock was a square mile of green, with enough grass to feed the few sheep and goats and the handful of chickens, and enough top-soil to sustain the rudimentary vegetable patch. The only trees were two towering Norfolk pines planted by the crews from Point Partageuse who had built the light station over thirty years before, in 1889. A cluster of old graves remembered a shipwreck long before that, when the Pride of Birmingham foundered on the greedy rocks in daylight. In such a ship the light itself had later been brought from England, proudly bearing the name Chance Brothers, a guarantee of the most advanced technology of its day – capable of assembly anywhere, no matter how inhospitable or hard to reach.

The currents hauled in all manner of things: flotsam and jetsam swirled as if between twin propellers; bits of wreckage, tea chests, whalebones. Things turned up in their own time, in their own way. The light station sat solidly in the middle of the island, the keeper’s cottage and outbuildings hunkered down beside the lighthouse, cowed from decades of lashing winds.

In the kitchen, Isabel sat at the old table, the baby in her arms wrapped in a downy yellow blanket. Tom scraped his boots slowly on the mat as he entered, and rested a callused hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ve covered the poor soul. How’s the little one?’

‘It’s a girl,’ said Isabel with a smile. ‘I gave her a bath. She seems healthy enough.’

The baby turned to him with wide eyes, drinking in his glance. ‘What on earth must she make of it all?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Given her some milk too, haven’t I, sweet thing?’ Isabel cooed, turning it into a question for the baby. ‘Oh, she’s so, so perfect, Tom,’ she said, and kissed the child. ‘Lord knows what she’s been through.’

Tom took a bottle of brandy from the pine cupboard and poured himself a small measure, downing it in one. He sat beside his wife, watching the light play on her face as she contemplated the treasure in her arms. The baby followed every movement of her eyes, as though Isabel might escape if she did not hold her with her gaze.