More Praise for The Light Between Oceans
A moving tale . . . Prepare to weep.
—Susannah Meadows, The New York Times
Lyrical . . . Stedman’s debut signals a career certain to deliver future treasures.
—People
A must-read.
—Ladies’ Home Journal
The stunning debut novel you need to know about.
—Oprah’s Book Club 2.0
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.
—Carmela Ciuraru, Martha Stewart Whole Living
An unexpected novel, both in the story it tells and the gentleness with which the author, M. L. Stedman, conveys emotional violence . . . the tension escalates in this intense and intimate drama.
—Sherryl Connelly, New York Daily News
Stedman is from Australia, and the voice she brings to the novel is lovely. She offers gorgeous descriptions of the land and its natural inhabitants.
—Barbara Ellis, The Denver Post
With incredibly visual prose evocative of the time and place, compelling characters, themes of forgiveness and redemption, and a riveting plot that won’t let you put the book down, this is a great debut novel.
—Judy Crosby, IndieBound
Remarkable . . . Stedman brings this couple and their lives nearly a hundred years ago to life so vividly that it’s as if you’re walking the stairs of the lighthouse with them. . . . You won’t be able to stop reading all the way to the heartbreaking, ultimately satisfying conclusion.
—Jennifer Hiller, San Antonio News-Express
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)
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)
[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)
A love story that is both persuasive and tender.
—Elizabeth Buchan, The Sunday Times (UK)
Stedman writes with a delicate and imaginative touch. . . . This is a novel that cleverly takes a populist concept and turns it into an accessible and beautifully written piece of literature. It will make you cry, its characters will stay with you for days after you have finished with it.
—Emma Cowing, The Scotsman (UK)
An extraordinary book . . .The tragedy is as inevitable as Hardy at his most doom-laden. And as unforgettable.
—Sue Arnold, The Guardian (UK)
M. L. Stedman proves herself to be an accomplished writer in this, her debut novel. . . . Like a lighthouse, it shines light on dark places, and its emotional resonance will stay with you for days.
—Lauren Turner, Irish Examiner
"The Light Between Oceans stays with you long after you have turned the last page. . . . What makes this wonderful novel stand out from the crowd is the cast of emotionally fragile characters, all of whom inspire tremendous sympathy in the reader. . . . Beautifully written, the novel poses an impossible dilemma and makes us question the judgments of all involved."
—Lianne Kolirin, Daily Express (UK)
Contents
Part One
27th April 1926
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Two
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 Three
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
Acknowledgments
In memory of my parents.
PART ONE
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, toward 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 harbor.
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 woolen 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 topsoil 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.
Oh, little one,
Isabel crooned, poor, poor little one,
as the baby nuzzled her face in toward her breast. Tom could hear tears in her voice, and the memory of an invisible presence hung in the air between them.
She likes you,
he said. Then, almost to himself, Makes me think of how things might have been.
He added quickly, I mean… I didn’t mean… You look like you were born to it, that’s all.
He stroked her cheek.
Isabel glanced up at him. I know, love. I know what you mean. I feel the same.
He put his arms around his wife and the child. Isabel could smell the brandy on his breath. She murmured, Oh Tom, thank God we found her in time.
Tom kissed her, then put his lips to the baby’s forehead. The three of them stayed like that for a long moment, until the child began to wriggle, thrusting a fist out from under the blanket.
Well
—Tom gave a stretch as he stood up—I’ll go and send a signal, report the dinghy; get them to send a boat for the body. And for Miss Muffet here.
Not yet!
Isabel said as she touched the baby’s fingers. I mean, there’s no rush to do it right this minute. The poor man’s not going to get any worse now. And this little chicken’s had quite enough of boats for the moment, I’d say. Leave it a while. Give her a chance to catch her breath.
It’ll take hours for them to get here. She’ll be all right. You’ve already quietened her down, little thing.
Let’s just wait. After all, it can’t make much difference.
It’s all got to go in the log, pet. You know I’ve got to report everything straightaway,
Tom said, for his duties included noting every significant event at or near the light station, from passing ships and weather, to problems with the apparatus.
Do it in the morning, eh?
But what if the boat’s from a ship?
It’s a dinghy, not a lifeboat,
she said.
Then the baby’s probably got a mother waiting for it somewhere onshore, tearing her hair out. How would you feel if it was yours?
You saw the cardigan. The mother must have fallen out of the boat and drowned.
Sweetheart, we don’t have any idea about the mother. Or about who the man was.
It’s the most likely explanation, isn’t it? Infants don’t just wander off from their parents.
Izzy, anything’s possible. We just don’t know.
When did you ever hear of a tiny baby setting off in a boat without its mother?
She held the child a fraction closer.
This is serious. The man’s dead, Izz.
And the baby’s alive. Have a heart, Tom.
Something in her tone struck him, and instead of simply contradicting her, he paused and considered her plea. Perhaps she needed a bit of time with a baby. Perhaps he owed her that. There was a silence, and Isabel turned to him in wordless appeal. I suppose, at a pinch…
he conceded, the words coming with great difficulty, I could—leave the signal until the morning. First thing, though. As soon as the light’s out.
Isabel kissed him, and squeezed his arm.
Better get back to the lantern room. I was in the middle of replacing the vapor tube,
he said.
As he walked down the path, he heard the sweet notes of Isabel’s voice as she sang, Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly, blow the wind south o’er the bonnie blue sea.
Though the music was tuneful, it failed to comfort him as he climbed the stairs of the light, fending off a strange uneasiness at the concession he had made.
CHAPTER 1
16th December 1918
Yes, I realize that," Tom Sherbourne said. He was sitting in a spartan room, barely cooler than the sultry day outside. The Sydney summer rain pelted the window, and sent the people on the pavement scurrying for shelter.
"I mean very tough. The man across the desk leaned forward for emphasis.
It’s no picnic. Not that Byron Bay’s the worst posting on the Lights, but I want to make sure you know what you’re in for." He tamped down the tobacco with his thumb and lit his pipe. Tom’s letter of application had told the same story as many a fellow’s around that time: born 28 September 1893; war spent in the Army; experience with the International Code and Morse; physically fit and well; honorable discharge. The rules stipulated that preference should be given to ex-servicemen.
It can’t—
Tom stopped, and began again. All due respect, Mr. Coughlan, it’s not likely to be tougher than the Western Front.
The man looked again at the details on the discharge papers, then at Tom, searching for something in his eyes, in his face. No, son. You’re probably right on that score.
He rattled off some rules: You pay your own passage to every posting. You’re relief, so you don’t get holidays. Permanent staff get a month’s leave at the end of each three-year contract.
He took up his fat pen and signed the form in front of him. As he rolled the stamp back and forth across the inkpad he said, Welcome
—he thumped it down in three places on the paper—to the Commonwealth Lighthouse Service.
On the form, 16th December 1918
glistened in wet ink.
The six months’ relief posting at Byron Bay, up on the New South Wales coast, with two other keepers and their families, taught Tom the basics of life on the Lights. He followed that with a stint down on Maatsuyker, the wild island south of Tasmania where it rained most days of the year and the chickens blew into the sea during storms.
On the Lights, Tom Sherbourne has plenty of time to think about the war. About the faces, the voices of the blokes who had stood beside him, who saved his life one way or another; the ones whose dying words he heard, and those whose muttered jumbles he couldn’t make out, but who he nodded to anyway.
Tom isn’t one of the men whose legs trailed by a hank of sinews, or whose guts cascaded from their casing like slithering eels. Nor were his lungs turned to glue or his brains to stodge by the gas. But he’s scarred all the same, having to live in the same skin as the man who did the things that needed to be done back then. He carries that other shadow, which is cast inward.
He tries not to dwell on it: he’s seen plenty of men turned worse than useless that way. So he gets on with life around the edges of this thing he’s got no name for. When he dreams about those years, the Tom who is experiencing them, the Tom who is there with blood on his hands, is a boy of eight or so. It’s this small boy who’s up against blokes with guns and bayonets, and he’s worried because his school socks have slipped down and he can’t hitch them up because he’ll have to drop his gun to do it, and he’s barely big enough even to hold that. And he can’t find his mother anywhere.
Then he wakes and he’s in a place where there’s just wind and waves and light, and the intricate machinery that keeps the flame burning and the lantern turning. Always turning, always looking over its shoulder.
If he can only get far enough away—from people, from memory—time will do its job.
Thousands of miles away on the west coast, Janus Rock was the furthest place on the continent from Tom’s childhood home in Sydney. But Janus Light was the last sign of Australia he had seen as his troopship steamed for Egypt in 1915. The smell of the eucalypts had wafted for miles offshore from Albany, and when the scent faded away he was suddenly sick at the loss of something he didn’t know he could miss. Then, hours later, true and steady, the light, with its five-second flash, came into view—his homeland’s furthest reach—and its memory stayed with him through the years of hell that followed, like a farewell kiss. When, in June 1920, he got news of an urgent vacancy going on Janus, it was as though the light there were calling to him.
Teetering on the edge of the continental shelf, Janus was not a popular posting. Though its Grade One hardship rating meant a slightly higher salary, the old hands said it wasn’t worth the money, which was meager all the same. The keeper Tom replaced on Janus was Trimble Docherty, who had caused a stir by reporting that his wife was signaling to passing ships by stringing up messages in the colored flags of the International Code. This was unsatisfactory to the authorities for two reasons: first, because the Deputy Director of Lighthouses had some years previously forbidden signaling by flags on Janus, as vessels put themselves at risk by sailing close enough to decipher them; and secondly, because the wife in question was recently deceased.
Considerable correspondence on the subject was generated in triplicate between Fremantle and Melbourne, with the Deputy Director in Fremantle putting the case for Docherty and his years of excellent service, to a Head Office concerned strictly with efficiency and cost and obeying the rules. A compromise was reached by which a temporary keeper would be engaged while Docherty was given six months’ medical leave.
We wouldn’t normally send a single man to Janus—it’s pretty remote and a wife and family can be a great practical help, not just a comfort,
the District Officer had said to Tom. But seeing it’s only temporary… You’ll leave for Partageuse in two days,
he said, and signed him up for six months.
There wasn’t much to organize. No one to farewell. Two days later, Tom walked up the gangplank of the boat, armed with a kit bag and not much else. The SS Prometheus worked its way along the southern shores of Australia, stopping at various ports on its run between Sydney and Perth. The few cabins reserved for first-class passengers were on the upper deck, toward the bow. In third class, Tom shared a cabin with an elderly sailor. Been making this trip for fifty years—they wouldn’t have the cheek to ask me to pay. Bad luck, you know,
the man had said cheerfully, then returned his attention to the large bottle of over-proof rum that kept him occupied. To escape the alcohol fumes, Tom took to walking the deck during the day. Of an evening there’d usually be a card game belowdecks.
You could still tell at a glance who’d been over there and who’d sat the war out at home. You could smell it on a man. Each tended to keep to his own kind. Being in the bowels of the vessel brought back memories of the troopships that took them first to the Middle East, and later to France. Within moments of arriving on board, they’d deduced, almost by an animal sense, who was an officer, who was lower ranks; where they’d been.
Just like on the troopships, the focus was on finding a bit of sport to liven up the journey. The game settled on was familiar enough: first one to score a souvenir off a first-class passenger was the winner. Not just any souvenir, though. The designated article was a pair of ladies’ drawers. Prize money’s doubled if she’s wearing them at the time.
The ringleader, a man by the name of McGowan, with a mustache, and fingers yellowed from his Woodbines, said he’d been chatting to one of the stewards about the passenger list: the choice was limited. There were ten cabins in all. A lawyer and his wife—best give them a wide berth; some elderly couples, a pair of old spinsters (promising), but best of all, some toff’s daughter traveling on her own.
I reckon we can climb up the side and in through her window,
he announced. Who’s with me?
The danger of the enterprise didn’t surprise Tom. He’d heard dozens of such tales since he got back. Men who’d taken to risking their lives on a whim—treating the boom gates at level crossings as a gallop jump; swimming into rips to see if they could get out. So many men who had dodged death over there now seemed addicted to its lure. Still, this lot were free agents now. Probably just full of talk.
The following night, when the nightmares were worse than usual, Tom decided to escape them by walking the decks. It was two a.m. He was free to wander wherever he wanted at that hour, so he paced methodically, watching the moonlight leave its wake on the water. He climbed to the upper deck, gripping the stair rail to counter the gentle rolling, and stood a moment at the top, taking in the freshness of the breeze and the steadiness of the stars that showered the night.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a glimmer come on in one of the cabins. Even first-class passengers had trouble sleeping sometimes, he mused. Then, some sixth sense awoke in him—that familiar, indefinable instinct for trouble. He moved silently toward the cabin, and looked in through the window.
In the dim light, he saw a woman flat against the wall, pinned there even though the man before her wasn’t touching her. He was an inch away from her face, with a leer Tom had seen too often. He recognized the man from belowdecks, and remembered the prize. Bloody idiots. He tried the door, and it opened.
Leave her alone,
he said as he stepped into the cabin. He spoke calmly, but left no room for debate.
The man spun around to see who it was, and grinned when he recognized Tom. Christ! Thought you were a steward! You can give me a hand, I was just—
I said leave her alone! Clear out. Now.
But I haven’t finished. I was just going to make her day.
He reeked of drink and stale tobacco.
Tom put a hand on his shoulder, with a grip so hard that the man cried out. He was a good six inches shorter than Tom, but tried to take a swing at him all the same. Tom seized his wrist and twisted it. Name and rank!
McKenzie. Private. 3277.
The unrequested serial number followed like a reflex.
Private, you’ll apologize to this young lady and you’ll get back to your bunk and you won’t show your face on deck until we berth, you understand me?
Yes, sir!
He turned to the woman. Beg your pardon, Miss. Didn’t mean any harm.
Still terrified, the woman gave the slightest nod.
Now, out!
Tom said, and the man, deflated by sudden sobriety, shuffled from the cabin.
You all right?
Tom asked the woman.
I—I think so.
Did he hurt you?
He didn’t…
—she was saying it to herself as much as to him—he didn’t actually touch me.
He took in the woman’s face—her gray eyes seemed calmer now. Her dark hair was loose, in waves down to her arms, and her fists still gathered her nightgown to her neck. Tom reached for her dressing gown from a hook on the wall and draped it over her shoulders.
Thank you,
she said.
Must have got an awful fright. I’m afraid some of us aren’t used to civilized company these days.
She didn’t speak.
You won’t get any more trouble from him.
He righted a chair that had been overturned in the encounter. Up to you whether you report him, Miss. I’d say he’s not the full quid now.
Her eyes asked a question.
Being over there changes a man. Right and wrong don’t look so different any more to some.
He turned to go, but put his head back through the doorway. You’ve got every right to have him up on charges if you want. But I reckon he’s probably got enough troubles. Like I said—up to you,
and he disappeared through the door.
CHAPTER 2
Point Partageuse got its name from French explorers who mapped the cape that jutted from the south-western corner of the Australian continent well before the British dash to colonize the west began in 1826. Since then, settlers had trickled north from Albany and south from the Swan River Colony, laying claim to the virgin forests in the hundreds of miles between. Cathedral-high trees were felled with handsaws to create grazing pasture; scrawny roads were hewn inch by stubborn inch by pale-skinned fellows with teams of shire horses, as this land, which had never before been scarred by man, was excoriated and burned, mapped and measured and meted out to those willing to try their luck in a hemisphere which might bring them desperation, death, or fortune beyond their dreams.
The community of Partageuse had drifted together like so much dust in a breeze, settling in this spot where two oceans met, because there was fresh water and a natural harbor and good soil. Its port was no rival to Albany, but convenient for locals shipping timber or sandalwood or beef. Little businesses had sprung up and clung on like lichen on a rock face, and the town had accumulated a school, a variety of churches with different hymns and architectures, a good few brick and stone houses and a lot more built of weatherboard and tin. It gradually produced various shops, a town hall, even a Dalgety’s stock and station agency. And pubs. Many pubs.
Throughout its infancy, the unspoken belief in Partageuse was that real things happened elsewhere. News of the outside world trickled in like rain dripped off the trees, a snippet here, a rumor there. The telegraph had speeded things up a bit when the line arrived in 1890, and since then a few folks had got telephones. The town had even sent troops off to the Transvaal in 1899 and lost a handful, but by and large, life in Partageuse was more of a sideshow, in which nothing too evil or too wonderful could ever happen.
Other towns in the West had known things different, of course: Kalgoorlie, for example, hundreds of miles inland, had underground rivers of gold crusted by desert. There, men wandered in with a wheel-barrow and a gold-pan and drove out in a motorcar paid for by a nugget as big as a cat, in a town that only half ironically had streets with names like Croesus. The world wanted what Kalgoorlie had. The offerings of Partageuse, its timber and sandalwood, were small beer: it wasn’t flashy boom-time like Kal.
Then in 1914 things changed. Partageuse found that it too had something the world wanted. Men. Young men. Fit men. Men who had spent their lives swinging an ax or holding a plow and living it hard. Men who were the prime cut to be sacrificed on tactical altars a hemisphere away.
Nineteen fourteen was just flags and new-smelling leather on uniforms. It wasn’t until a year later that life started to feel different—started to feel as if maybe this wasn’t a sideshow after all—when, instead of getting back their precious, strapping husbands and sons, the women began to get telegrams. These bits of paper which could fall from stunned hands and blow about in the knife-sharp wind, which told you that the boy you’d suckled, bathed, scolded and cried over, was—well—wasn’t. Partageuse joined the world late and in a painful labor.
Of course, the losing of children had always been a thing that had to be gone through. There had never been guarantee that conception would lead to a live birth, or that birth would lead to a life of any great length. Nature allowed only the fit and the lucky to share this paradise-in-the-making. Look inside the cover of any family Bible and you’d see the facts. The graveyards, too, told the story of the babies whose voices, because of a snakebite or a fever or a fall from a wagon, had finally succumbed to their mothers’ beseeching to hush, hush, little one.
The surviving children got used to the new way of setting the table with one place fewer, just as they grew accustomed to squishing along the bench when another sibling arrived. Like the wheat fields where more grain is sown than can ripen, God seemed to sprinkle extra children about, and harvest them
