The Light Between Oceans (10 page)

‘Oh, it’s heaven here!’ Isabel declared the next day as she looked out at the flat, turquoise ocean. Despite Tom’s grim warnings about the weather, the wind had declared a greeting truce and the sun was again gloriously warm.

He had brought her to the lagoon, a broad pool of placid ultramarine no more than six feet deep, in which they were now swimming.

‘Just as well you like it. It’s three years till we get shore leave.’

She put her arms around him. ‘I’m where I want to be and with the man I want to be with. Nothing else matters.’

Tom swirled her gently in a circle as he spoke. ‘Sometimes fish find their way in here through the gaps in the rocks. You can scoop them up with a net, or even just with your hands.’

‘What’s this pool called?’

‘Hasn’t got a name.’

‘Everything deserves a name, don’t you think?’

‘Well, you can give it one then.’

Isabel thought for a moment. ‘I hereby christen this “Paradise Pool”,’ she said, and splashed a handful of water onto a rock. ‘This will be my swimming spot.’

‘You’re usually pretty safe here. But keep your eyes open, just in case.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Isabel as she paddled, only half listening.

‘The sharks can’t usually make it through the rocks, unless there’s a really high tide or a storm or something, so you’re probably safe on that count …’

‘
Probably?
’

‘But you need to be careful about other things. Sea urchins, say. Watch out when you’re walking on submerged rocks, or the spines can snap off in your foot and get infected. And stingrays bury themselves in the sand near the edge of the water – if you tread on the barb in their tail you’re in trouble. If it flicks up and gets you near the heart, well …’ He noticed that Isabel had gone silent.

‘You all right, Izz?’

‘It feels different somehow, when you just reel it all off like that – when we’re this far from help.’

Tom took her in his arms and pulled her up to the shore. ‘I’ll look after you, sweetheart. Don’t you worry,’ he said with a smile. He kissed her shoulders, and laid her head back on the sand, to kiss her mouth.

In Isabel’s wardrobe, beside the piles of thick winter woollens, hang a few floral dresses – easy to wash, hard to hurt as she goes about her new work of feeding the chickens or milking the goats; picking the vegetables or cleaning the kitchen. When she hikes around the island with Tom she wears an old pair of his trousers, rolled up more than a foot and cinched with a cracked leather belt, over one of his collarless shirts. She likes to feel the ground under her feet, and goes without shoes whenever she can, but on the cliffs she endures plimsolls to protect her soles from the granite. She explores the boundaries of her new world.

One morning soon after she arrived, a little drunk with the freedom of it, she decided to experiment. ‘What do you think of the new look?’ she said to Tom as she brought him a sandwich in the watch room at noon, wearing nothing at all. ‘I don’t think I need clothes on a day as lovely as this.’

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a half smile. ‘Very nice. But you’ll get sick of it soon enough, Izz.’ As he took the sandwich he stroked her chin. ‘There’s some things you have to do to survive on the Offshore Lights, love – to stay normal: eat at proper times; turn the pages of the calendar …’ he laughed, ‘and keep your clobber on. Trust me, sweet.’

Blushing, she retreated to the cottage and dressed in several layers – camisole and petticoat, shift, cardigan, then heaved on Wellington boots and went to dig up potatoes with unnecessary vigour in the sharp sunshine.

Isabel asked Tom, ‘Have you got a map of the island?’

He smiled. ‘Afraid of getting lost? You’ve been here a few weeks now. As long as you go in the opposite direction to the water, you’ll get home sooner or later. And the light might give you a clue too.’

‘I just want a map. There must be one?’

‘Of course there is. There are charts of the whole area if you want them, but I’m not sure what good they are to you. There’s nowhere much you can go.’

‘Just humour me, husband of mine,’ she said, and kissed his cheek.

Later that morning, Tom appeared in the kitchen with a large scroll, and presented it with mock ceremony to Isabel. ‘Your wish is my command, Mrs Sherbourne.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied in the same tone. ‘That will be all, for now. You may go, sir.’

A smile played on Tom’s lips as he rubbed his chin. ‘What are you up to, missie?’

‘Never you mind!’

For the next few days, Isabel went off on expeditions each morning, and in the afternoon closed the door to the bedroom, even though Tom was safely occupied with his work.

One evening, after she had dried the dinner dishes, she fetched the scroll and handed it to Tom. ‘This is for you.’

‘Thanks, love,’ said Tom, who was reading a dog-eared volume on the tying of rope knots. He looked up briefly. ‘I’ll put it back tomorrow.’

‘But it’s for
you
.’

Tom looked at her. ‘It’s the map, isn’t it?’

She gave a mischievous grin. ‘You won’t know until you look, will you?’

Tom unrolled the paper, to find it transformed. Little annotations had appeared all over it, together with coloured sketches and arrows. His first thought was that the map was Commonwealth property and that there would be hell to pay next inspection. New names had sprung up everywhere.

‘Well?’ Isabel smiled. ‘It just seemed wrong that places weren’t called anything. So I’ve given them names, see?’

The coves and the cliffs and the rocks and the grassy fields all bore fine lettering, in which they were christened, as Paradise Pool had been: Stormy Corner; Treacherous Rock; Shipwreck Beach; Tranquil Cove; Tom’s Lookout; Izzy’s Cliff; and many more.

‘I suppose I’d never thought of it as being separate places. It’s all just Janus to me,’ Tom said, smiling.

‘It’s a world of differences. Each place deserves a name, like rooms in a house.’

Tom rarely thought of the house in terms of rooms either. It was just ‘home’. And something in him was saddened at the dissection of the island, the splitting off into the good and the bad, the safe and
the
dangerous. He preferred to think of it whole. Even more, he was uneasy about parts bearing his name. Janus did not belong to him: he belonged to it, like he’d heard the natives thought of land. His job was just to take care of it.

He looked at his wife, who was smiling proudly at her handiwork. If she wanted to give things names, maybe there was no harm in it. And maybe she would come to understand his way of looking at it, eventually.

When Tom gets invitations to his battalion reunions, he always writes back. Always sends good wishes, and a bit of money towards the mess. But he never attends. Well, being on the Lights, he couldn’t even if he wanted to. There are some, he knows, who will take comfort in seeing a familiar face, re-telling a story. But he doesn’t want to join in. There were friends he lost – men he’d trusted, fought with, drunk with, and shivered with. Men he understood without a word, knew as if they were an extension of his body. He thinks about the language that bound them together: words that cropped up to cover circumstances no one had ever encountered before. A ‘pineapple’, a ‘pip-squeak’, a ‘plum pudding’: all types of shell which might find their way into your trench. The lice were ‘chats’, the food was ‘scran’, and a ‘Blighty’ was a wound that’d see you shipped back to hospital in England. He wonders how many men can still speak this secret language.

Sometimes when he wakes up next to Isabel he’s still amazed, and relieved, that she isn’t dead. He watches closely for her breath, just to make sure. Then he puts his head against her back and absorbs the softness of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her body as she sleeps on. It is as great a miracle as he has ever seen.

CHAPTER 8

‘MAYBE ALL THE
times in my life I could have done without, maybe they were all a test to see if I deserved you, Izz.’

They were stretched on a blanket on the grass, three months after Isabel’s arrival on Janus. The April night was still almost warm, and tinselled with stars. Isabel lay with her eyes closed, resting in the crook of Tom’s arm as he stroked her neck.

‘You’re my other half of the sky,’ he said.

‘I never knew you were a poet!’

‘Oh, I didn’t invent it. I read it somewhere – a Latin poem? A Greek myth? Something like that, anyway.’

‘You and your fancy private-school education!’ she teased.

It was Isabel’s birthday, and Tom had cooked her breakfast and dinner, and watched her untie the bow on the wind-up gramophone which he had conspired with Ralph and Bluey to ship out to make up for the fact that the piano he had proudly shown her when she arrived was unplayable from years of neglect. All day she had listened to Chopin and Brahms, and now the strains of Handel’s
Messiah
were ringing from the lighthouse, where they had set it up to let it echo in the natural sound chamber.

‘I love the way you do that,’ said Tom, watching Isabel’s index
finger
coil a lock of her hair into a spring, then release it and start with another.

Suddenly self-conscious, she said, ‘Oh, Ma says it’s a bad habit. I’ve always done it, apparently. I don’t even notice it.’ Tom took a strand of her hair, and wound it around his finger, then let it unfurl like a streamer.