The Light Between Oceans (5 page)

THE
WINDWARD SPIRIT
,
the store boat for all the light stations along that part of the coast, was an old tub, but trusty as a cattle dog, Ralph Addicott said. Old Ralph had skippered the vessel for donkey’s years, and always boasted he had the best job in the world.

‘Ah, you’ll be Tom Sherbourne. Welcome to my pleasure launch!’ he said, gesturing to the bare wooden decks and the salt-blistered paint as Tom came aboard before dawn for his first journey out to Janus Rock.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Tom as he shook his hand. The engine was idling and the diesel fumes filled his lungs. It wasn’t much warmer in the cabin than in the biting air outside, but at least it blunted the snarl of the wind.

A mess of red corkscrew curls emerged through the hatch at the back of the cabin. ‘Reckon we’re ready, Ralph. She’s all fixed now,’ said the young man they belonged to.

‘Bluey, this is Tom Sherbourne,’ said Ralph.

‘Gedday,’ replied Bluey, hauling himself through the hatch.

‘Morning.’

‘Talk about brass-monkey weather! Hope you’ve packed your woollen underduds. If it’s like this here, it’ll be a bloody sight worse on Janus,’ said Bluey, breathing on his hands.

While Bluey showed Tom over the boat, the skipper ran through his final checks. He gave the brine-smeared glass in front of him a wipe with a scrap of old flag, then called, ‘Ropes at the ready now, lad. Prepare to cast off.’ He opened the throttle. ‘Come on, old girl, off we go,’ he muttered, to coax the boat out of its berth.

Tom studied the map on the chart table. Even magnified on this scale, Janus was barely a dot in the shoals far off the coast. He fixed his eyes on the expanse of sea ahead and breathed in the thick salt air, not looking back at the shore in case it made him change his mind.

As the hours passed, the water deepened below them, its colour taking on the quality of a solid. From time to time Ralph would point out something of interest – a sea eagle, or a school of dolphins playing at the bow of the boat. Once, they saw the funnel of a steamer, just skirting the horizon. Periodically, Bluey emerged from the galley to hand out tea in chipped enamel mugs. Ralph told Tom stories of evil storms and great dramas of the Lights on that part of the coast. Tom talked a little of life at Byron Bay and on Maatsuyker Island, thousands of miles to the east.

‘Well, if you’ve lived through Maatsuyker, there’s a chance you’ll survive Janus. Probably,’ Ralph said. He looked at his watch. ‘Why not grab forty winks while you can? We’ve got a way to go yet, boy.’

When Tom re-emerged from the bunk below, Bluey was speaking in a low voice to Ralph, who was shaking his head.

‘I just want to know if it’s true. No harm in asking him, is there?’ Bluey was saying.

‘Asking me what?’ said Tom.

‘If …’ Bluey looked at Ralph. Torn between his own eagerness and Ralph’s bulldog scowl, he blushed and fell silent.

‘Fair enough. None of my business,’ said Tom, and looked out at the water, which had now turned seal-grey, as the swell rose around them.

‘I was too young. Ma wouldn’t let me bump up me age to join up. And it’s just that I heard …’

Tom looked at him, eyebrows raised in question.

‘Well they reckon you got the Military Cross and that,’ Bluey blurted. ‘Told me it said on your discharge papers – for the Janus posting.’

Tom kept his eyes on the water. Bluey looked crestfallen, then embarrassed. ‘I mean, I’m real proud to be able to say I’ve shaken the hand of a hero.’

‘A bit of brass doesn’t make anyone a hero,’ Tom said. Most of the blokes who really deserve the medals aren’t around any more. Wouldn’t get too worked up about it if I were you, mate,’ he said, and turned to pore over the chart.

‘There she is!’ exclaimed Bluey, and handed the binoculars to Tom.

‘Home, sweet home, for the next six months,’ Ralph chuckled.

Tom looked through the lenses at the landmass which seemed to be emerging from the water like a sea monster. The cliff on one side marked the highest point, from which the island sloped down gently until it reached the opposite shore.

‘Old Neville’ll be glad to see us,’ Ralph said. ‘He didn’t take kindly to being dragged out of retirement for Trimble’s emergency, I can tell you. Still. Once a keeper … There’s not a man in the Service’d leave a light go unattended, however much he carried on about it. I warn you, though, he’s not the happiest corpse in the morgue. Not much of a talker, Neville Whittnish.’

The jetty stretched a good hundred feet out from the shoreline, where it had been built up tall, to withstand the highest of tides and fiercest of storms. The block and tackle was rigged, ready to hoist the supplies up the steep ascent to the outbuildings. A dour, craggy man of sixty-odd was waiting for them as they docked.

‘Ralph. Bluey,’ he said with a perfunctory nod. ‘You’re the replacement,’ was his greeting to Tom.

‘Tom Sherbourne. Pleased to meet you,’ Tom replied, putting out his hand.

The older man looked at it absently for a moment before remembering what the gesture meant, and gave it a peremptory tug, as if testing whether the arm might come off. ‘This way,’ he said, and without waiting for Tom to gather his things, started the trudge up to the light station. It was early afternoon, and after so many hours on the swell, it took Tom a moment to get the feel of land again as he grabbed his kitbag and staggered after the keeper, while Ralph and Bluey prepared to unload the supplies.

‘Keeper’s cottage,’ said Whittnish as they approached a low building with a corrugated-iron roof. A trio of large rainwater tanks ranged behind it, beside a string of outbuildings housing stores for the cottage and the light. ‘You can leave your kitbag in the hallway,’ he said, as he opened the front door. ‘Got a lot to get through.’ He turned on his heel and headed straight to the tower. He might be long in the tooth, but he could move like a whippet.

Later, when the old man spoke about the light, his voice changed, as though he were talking about a faithful dog or a favourite rose. ‘She’s a beauty, still, after all these years,’ he said. The white stone light tower rested against the slate sky like a stick of chalk. It stood a hundred and thirty feet high, near the cliff at the island’s apex, and Tom was struck not only by how much taller it was than the lights he had worked on, but also by its slender elegance.

Walking through its green door, it was more or less what he expected. The space could be crossed in a couple of strides, and the sound of their footsteps ricocheted like stray bullets off the green-gloss-painted floors and curved, whitewashed walls. The few pieces of furniture – two store cupboards, a small table – were curved at the back to fit the roundness of the structure, so that they huddled against the walls like hunchbacks. In the very centre stood the thick iron cylinder which ran all the way up to the lantern room, and
housed
the weights for the clockwork which had originally rotated the light.

A set of stairs no more than two feet wide began a spiral across one side of the wall and disappeared into the solid metal of the landing above. Tom followed the old man up to the next, narrower level, where the helix continued from the opposite wall up to the next floor, and on again until they arrived at the fifth one, just below the lantern room – the administrative heart of the lighthouse. Here in the watch room was the desk with the logbooks, the Morse equipment, the binoculars. Of course, it was forbidden to have a bed or any furniture in the light tower on which one could recline, but there was at least a straight-backed wooden chair, its arms worn smooth by generations of craggy palms.

The barometer could do with a polish, Tom noted, before his eye was caught by something sitting beside the marine charts. It was a ball of wool with knitting needles stuck through it, and what looked like the beginnings of a scarf.

‘Old Docherty’s,’ said Whittnish with a nod.

Tom knew the variety of activities the keepers used to while away any quiet moments on duty: carving scrimshaw or shells; making chess pieces. Knitting was common enough.

Whittnish ran through the logbook and the weather observations, then led Tom to the light itself, on the next level up. The glazing of the light room was interrupted only by the criss-crossing of astragals that kept the panes in place. Outside, the metal gallery circled the tower, and a perilous ladder arched against the dome, up to the thin catwalk just below the weather vane that swung in the wind.

‘She’s a beauty all right,’ said Tom, taking in the giant lens, far taller than himself, atop the rotating pedestal: a palace of prisms like a beehive made from glass. It was the very heart of Janus, all light and clarity and silence.

A barely perceptible smile passed over the old keeper’s lips as he said, ‘I’ve known her since I was barely a boy. Ah yes, a beauty.’

The following morning, Ralph stood on the jetty. ‘Nearly ready for the off, then. Want us to bring out all the newspapers you’ve missed next trip?’

‘It’s hardly news if it’s months old. I’d rather save my money and buy a good book,’ replied Tom.

Ralph looked about him, checking everything was in order. ‘Well, that’s that then. No changing your mind now, son.’

Tom gave a rueful laugh. ‘Reckon you’re right on that score, Ralph.’

‘We’ll be back before you know it. Three months is nothing as long as you’re not trying to hold your breath!’

‘You treat the light right and she won’t give you any trouble,’ said Whittnish. ‘All you need is patience and a bit of nous.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Tom. Then he turned to Bluey, who was getting ready to cast off. ‘See you in three months then, Blue?’

‘You bet.’

The boat pulled away, churning the water behind it and battling the wind with a smoky roar. The distance pressed it further and further into the grey horizon like a thumb pushing it into putty, until it was subsumed completely.

Then, a moment’s stillness. Not silence: the waves still shattered on the rocks, the wind screeched around his ears, and a loose door on one of the storage sheds banged a disgruntled drumbeat. But something inside Tom was still for the first time in years.

He walked up to the cliff top and stood. A goat’s bell clanged; two chickens squabbled. Suddenly these pinpricks of sound took on a new importance: sounds from living things. Tom climbed the 184 stairs to the lantern room and opened the door to the gallery. The wind pounced on him like a predator, slamming him back into
the
doorway until he gathered the strength to launch himself outward and grip the iron handrail.

For the first time he took in the scale of the view. Hundreds of feet above sea level, he was mesmerised by the drop to the ocean crashing against the cliffs directly below. The water sloshed like white paint, milky-thick, the foam occasionally scraped off long enough to reveal a deep blue undercoat. At the other end of the island, a row of immense boulders created a break against the surf and left the water inside it as calm as a bath. He had the impression he was hanging from the sky, not rising from the earth. Very slowly, he turned a full circle, taking in the nothingness of it all. It seemed his lungs could never be large enough to breathe in this much air, his eyes could never see this much space, nor could he hear the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefest moment, he had no edges.

He blinked, and shook his head quickly. He was nearing a vortex, and to pull himself back he paid attention to his heartbeat, felt his feet on the ground and his heels in his boots. He drew himself up to his full height. He picked a point on the door of the light tower – a hinge that had worked itself loose – and resolved to start with that. Something solid. He must turn to something solid, because if he didn’t, who knew where his mind or his soul could blow away to, like a balloon without ballast. That was the only thing that had got him through four years of blood and madness: know exactly where your gun is when you doze for ten minutes in your dugout; always check your gas mask; see that your men have understood their orders to the letter. You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.

He raised the binoculars and scoured the island for more signs of life: he needed to see the goats, the sheep; to count them. Stick to the solid. To the brass fittings which had to be polished, the glass which had to be cleaned – first the outer glass of the lantern, then
the
prisms themselves. Getting the oil in, keeping the cogs moving smoothly, topping up the mercury to let the light glide. He gripped each thought like the rung of a ladder by which to haul himself back to the knowable; back to this life.