The Light Between Oceans Paperback - 2013

Summary

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

16th December 1918

Yes, I realize that,âÈë 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.

âÈêI mean very tough.âÈë The man across the desk leaned forward for emphasis. âÈêItâÈçs no picnic. Not that Byron BayâÈçs the worst posting on the Lights, but I want to make sure you know what youâÈçre in for.âÈë He tamped down the tobacco with his thumb and lit his pipe. TomâÈçs letter of application had told the same story as many a fellowâÈçs 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.

âÈêIt canâÈçtâÈ'âÈë Tom stopped, and began again. âÈêAll due respect, Mr. Coughlan, itâÈçs not likely to be tougher than the Western Front.âÈë

The man looked again at the details on the discharge papers, then at Tom, searching for something in his eyes, in his face. âÈêNo, son. YouâÈçre probably right on that score.âÈë He rattled off some rules: âÈêYou pay your own passage to every posting. YouâÈçre relief, so you donâÈçt get holidays. Permanent staff get a monthâÈçs leave at the end of each three-year contract.âÈë 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, âÈêWelcomeâÈëâÈ'he thumped it down in three places on the paperâÈ'âÈêto the Commonwealth Lighthouse Service.âÈë On the form, âÈê16th December 1918âÈë glistened in wet ink.



The six monthsâÈç 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 couldnâÈçt make out, but who he nodded to anyway.

Tom isnâÈçt 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 heâÈçs 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: heâÈçs seen plenty of men turned worse than useless that way. So he gets on with life around the edges of this thing heâÈçs 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. ItâÈçs this small boy whoâÈçs up against blokes with guns and bayonets, and heâÈçs worried because his school socks have slipped down and he canâÈçt hitch them up because heâÈçll have to drop his gun to do it, and heâÈçs barely big enough even to hold that. And he canâÈçt find his mother anywhere.

Then he wakes and heâÈçs in a place where thereâÈçs 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 awayâÈ'from people, from memoryâÈ'time will do its job.



Thousands of miles away on the west coast, Janus Rock was the furthest place on the continent from TomâÈçs 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 didnâÈçt know he could miss. Then, hours later, true and steady, the light, with its five-second flash, came into viewâÈ'his homelandâÈçs furthest reachâÈ'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 wasnâÈçt 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 monthsâÈç medical leave.

âÈêWe wouldnâÈçt normally send a single man to JanusâÈ'itâÈçs pretty remote and a wife and family can be a great practical help, not just a comfort,âÈë the District Officer had said to Tom. âÈêBut seeing itâÈçs only temporaryâÈö YouâÈçll leave for Partageuse in two days,âÈë he said, and signed him up for six months.



There wasnâÈçt 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. âÈêBeen making this trip for fifty yearsâÈ'they wouldnâÈçt have the cheek to ask me to pay. Bad luck, you know,âÈë 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 thereâÈçd usually be a card game belowdecks.



You could still tell at a glance whoâÈçd been over there and whoâÈçd 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, theyâÈçd deduced, almost by an animal sense, who was an officer, who was lower ranks; where theyâÈçd 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 ladiesâÈç drawers. âÈêPrize moneyâÈçs doubled if sheâÈçs wearing them at the time.âÈë

The ringleader, a man by the name of McGowan, with a mustache, and fingers yellowed from his Woodbines, said heâÈçd 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 wifeâÈ'best give them a wide berth; some elderly couples, a pair of old spinsters (promising), but best of all, some toffâÈçs daughter traveling on her own.

âÈêI reckon we can climb up the side and in through her window,âÈë he announced. âÈêWhoâÈçs with me?âÈë

The danger of the enterprise didnâÈçt surprise Tom. HeâÈçd heard dozens of such tales since he got back. Men whoâÈçd taken to risking their lives on a whimâÈ'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 himâÈ'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 wasnâÈçt 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.

âÈêLeave her alone,âÈë 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. âÈêChrist! Thought you were a steward! You can give me a hand, I was justâÈ'âÈë

âÈêI said leave her alone! Clear out. Now.âÈë

âÈêBut I havenâÈçt finished. I was just going to make her day.âÈë 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. âÈêName and rank!âÈë

âÈêMcKenzie. Private. 3277.âÈë The unrequested serial number followed like a reflex.

âÈêPrivate, youâÈçll apologize to this young lady and youâÈçll get back to your bunk and you wonâÈçt show your face on deck until we berth, you understand me?âÈë

âÈêYes, sir!âÈë He turned to the woman. âÈêBeg your pardon, Miss. DidnâÈçt mean any harm.âÈë

Still terrified, the woman gave the slightest nod.

âÈêNow, out!âÈë Tom said, and the man, deflated by sudden sobriety, shuffled from the cabin.

âÈêYou all right?âÈë Tom asked the woman.

âÈêIâÈ'I think so.âÈë

âÈêDid he hurt you?âÈë

âÈêHe didnâÈçtâÈöâÈëâÈ'she was saying it to herself as much as to himâÈ'âÈêhe didnâÈçt actually touch me.âÈë

He took in the womanâÈçs faceâÈ'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.

âÈêThank you,âÈë she said.

âÈêMust have got an awful fright. IâÈçm afraid some of us arenâÈçt used to civilized company these days.âÈë

She didnâÈçt speak.

âÈêYou wonâÈçt get any more trouble from him.âÈë He righted a chair that had been overturned in the encounter. âÈêUp to you whether you report him, Miss. IâÈçd say heâÈçs not the full quid now.âÈë

Her eyes asked a question.

âÈêBeing over there changes a man. Right and wrong donâÈçt look so different any more to some.âÈë He turned to go, but put his head back through the doorway. âÈêYouâÈçve got every right to have him up on charges if you want. But I reckon heâÈçs probably got enough troubles. Like I saidâÈ'up to you,âÈë and he disappeared through the door.

Media reviews

Citations

• New York Times Book Review, 05/26/2013, Page 24
• People Weekly, 07/22/2013, Page 57