“Hardly fair to let them train you up, get the experience, and then leave them in the lurch. And you get used to it.” He glanced up at the sky as he considered. “It’s where I belong. And Isabel loves it.”
The child reached out her arms to Tom, who transferred her to his hip in a reflex movement.
“Well, you mind you look after my girls. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’ll do my best. I promise you that.”
The most important Boxing Day tradition in Point Partageuse was the Church Fête. A gathering of residents from the town and far beyond, it had been established long ago, by someone with an eye for business who had seen the advantage of holding the fund-raising event on a day when no one had an excuse to say they were too busy with work to attend. And, it being still Christmastime, they had no excuse not to be generous either.
As well as the sale of cakes and toffees, and jars of jam that occasionally exploded in the fierce sun, the event was famous for its sports and novelty events: the egg and spoon race, three-legged race, sack race—all were staples of the day. The coconut shy still ran, though they’d given up on the shooting gallery after the war, because the newly honed skills of the local men meant it started to lose money.
The events were open to all, and participation was something of a three-line whip. Families made a day of it, and patties and sausages were barbecued over half a forty-four-gallon drum, and sold off at sixpence a go. Tom sat with Lucy and Isabel on a blanket in the shade, eating sausages in buns, while Lucy dismantled her lunch and redistributed it on the plate beside her.
“The boys were great runners,” Isabel said. “Even used to win the three-legged race. And I think Mum’s still got the cup I won for the sack race one year.”
Tom smiled. “Didn’t know I’d married a champion athlete.”
She gave him a playful slap on the arm. “I’m just telling you the Graysmark family legends.”
Tom was attending to the mess that threatened to spill over from Lucy’s plate when a boy with a marshal’s rosette appeared beside them. Clasping a pad and pencil, he said, “’Scuse me. That your baby?”
The question startled Tom. “Pardon?”
“Just asking if that’s your baby.”
Though words came from Tom’s mouth, they were incoherent.
The boy turned to Isabel. “That your baby, Missus?”
Isabel frowned for a second, and then gave a slow nod as she understood. “You on the round-up for the dads’ race?”
“That’s right.” He lifted the pencil to the page and asked Tom, “How do you spell your name?”
Tom looked again at Isabel, but there was no trace of discomfort in her face. “I can spell it if you’ve forgotten how,” she teased.
Tom waited for her to understand his alarm, but her smile didn’t waver. Finally, he said, “Not really my strong point, running.”
“But all the dads do it,” said the boy, at what was clearly the first refusal he’d come across.
Tom chose his words carefully. “I wouldn’t make the qualifying round.”
As the boy wandered off to find his next conscript, Isabel said lightly, “Never mind, Lucy. I’ll go in the mums’ race instead. At least one of your parents is prepared to make a fool of themselves for you.” But Tom didn’t return her smile.
Dr. Sumpton washed his hands as, behind the curtain, Isabel dressed again. She had kept her promise to Tom to see the doctor while they were back in Partageuse.
“Nothing wrong, mechanically speaking,” he said.
“So? What is it? Am I sick?”
“Not at all. It’s just the change of life,” the doctor said as he wrote up his notes. “You’re lucky enough to have a baby already, so it’s not as hard on you as it is on some women, when it comes unusually early like this. As for the other symptoms, well, I’m afraid you just have to grin and bear it. They’ll pass in a year or so. It’s just the way of things.” He gave her a jolly smile. “And then, it’ll be a blessed relief: you’ll be past all the problems of menses. Some women would envy you.”
As she walked back to her parents’ house, Isabel tried not to cry. She had Lucy; she had Tom—at a time when many women had lost forever those they loved most. It would be greedy to want anything more.
A few days later, Tom signed the paperwork for another three-year term. The District Officer, who came down from Fremantle to see to the formalities, again paid close attention to his handwriting and signature, comparing them to his original documentation. Any sign of a tremor creeping into his hand and he wouldn’t be allowed back. Mercury poisoning was common enough: if they could catch it at the stage where it just caused shaky handwriting, they could avoid sending out a keeper who like as not would be mad as a meat ax by the end of his next stint.
CHAPTER 15
Lucy’s christening, originally arranged for the first week of their leave, had been postponed because of the lengthy “indisposition” of Reverend Norkells. It finally took place the day before their return to Janus in early January. That scorching morning, Ralph and Hilda walked to the church with Tom and Isabel. The only shade to be had while they waited for the doors to open was under a cluster of mallee trees beside the gravestones.
“Let’s hope Norkells isn’t on another bender,” said Ralph.
“Ralph! Really!” said Hilda. To change the subject, she tutted at a fresh granite stone a few feet away. “Such a shame.”
“What is, Hilda?” asked Isabel.
“Oh, the poor baby and her father, the ones that drowned. At least they’ve finally got a memorial.”
Isabel froze. For a moment, she feared she might faint, and the sounds around her became distant and then suddenly booming. She struggled to make sense of the bright gold letters on the stone: “In loving memory of Franz Johannes Roennfeldt, dearly beloved husband of Hannah, and of their precious daughter Grace Ellen. Watched over by God.” Then under that, “Selig Sind die da Leid tragen.” Fresh flowers lay at the foot of the memorial. With this heat, they couldn’t have been left more than an hour before.
“What happened?” she asked, as a tingling spread to her hands and feet.
“Ah, shocking,” said Ralph with a shake of his head. “Hannah Potts as was.” Isabel recognized the name immediately. “Septimus Potts, old Potts of Money, they call him. Richest fella for miles. He came here from London fifty-odd years back as an orphan with nothing. Made a fortune in timber. Wife died when his two girls were only small. What’s the other one’s name, Hilda?”
“Gwen. Hannah’s the oldest. Both went to that fancy boarding school up in Perth.”
“Then a few years back Hannah went and married a Hun… Well, old Potts wouldn’t speak to her after that. Cut off the money. They lived in that run-down cottage by the pumping station. Old man finally came around when the baby was born. Anyway, there was a bit of a barney on Anzac Day, year before last now—”
“Not now, Ralph.” Hilda cautioned with a look.
“Just telling them…”
“This is hardly the time or the place.” She turned to Isabel. “Let’s just say there was a misunderstanding between Frank Roennfeldt and some of the locals, and he ended up jumping into a rowing boat with the baby. They… well, they took against him because he was German. Or as good as. No need to go into all of that here, at a christening and all. Better forgotten.”
Isabel had stopped taking breaths as she listened to the tale, and now gave an involuntary gasp as her body clamored for air.
“Yes, I know!” Hilda said, to show her agreement. “And it gets worse…”
Tom glanced urgently at Isabel, his eyes wide, sweat beading on his lip. He wondered if it was possible for others to hear his heart beating, it was thundering so wildly.
“Well, the bloke was no sailor,” Ralph went on. “Had a dicky heart since he was a kid, by all accounts: he was no match for these currents. Storm blew up and no one saw hide nor hair of them again. Must have drowned. Old man Potts put up a reward
for information: a thousand guineas!” He gave a shake of the head. “That would’ve brought ’em out of the woodwork if anyone knew anything. Even had a mind to look for them myself! Mind you—I’m no Boche-lover. But the baby… Barely two months old. You can’t hold it against a baby now, can you? Little mite.”
“Poor Hannah never recovered,” sighed Hilda. “Her father only persuaded her to put up the memorial a few months ago.” She paused as she pulled her gloves up. “Funny how lives turn out, isn’t it? Born to more money than you can shake a stick at; went all the way to Sydney University to get a degree in something or other; married the love of her life—and you see her now sometimes, wandering about, like she’s got no home to go to.”
Now, Isabel felt plunged into ice, as the flowers on the memorial taunted her, threatened her with the closeness of the mother’s presence. She leaned against a tree, dizzy.
“Are you all right, dear?” asked Hilda, concerned at the sudden change in her color.
“Yes. It’s just the heat. I’ll be all right in a minute.”
The heavy jarrah doors swung open and the vicar stepped out of the church. “All ready for the big day, then?” he asked, wincing at the light.
“We’ve got to say something! Now! Call off the christening…” Tom’s voice was low and urgent as he faced Isabel in the vestry while Bill and Violet showed off their granddaughter to the guests in the church.
“Tom, we can’t.” Her breath was shallow and her face was pale. “It’s too late!” she said.
“We have to put this right! We have to tell people, now.”
“We can’t!” Still reeling, she cast about for any words that made sense. “We can’t do that to Lucy! We’re the only parents she’s ever known. Besides, what would we say? That we suddenly remembered I didn’t actually have a baby?” Her face turned gray. “What about the man’s body? It’s all gone too far.” Every instinct told her to buy time. She was too confused, too terrified to do anything else. She tried to sound calm. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now we have to go through with the christening.” A shaft of light caught the sea-green irises of her eyes, and Tom could see the fear in them. She took a step toward him and he sprang back, as if they were opposing magnets.
The vicar’s footsteps rose above the murmur of the guests in the church as he approached. Tom’s head spun. “In sickness and in health. For better, for worse.” The words, uttered by him in this church years earlier, thudded in his skull.
“All ready for you,” beamed the vicar.
“Hath this child already been baptized or no?” began Reverend Norkells. Those gathered at the font replied, “No.” Alongside Tom and Isabel, Ralph stood as godfather, Isabel’s cousin Freda as godmother.
The godparents held candles and intoned the answers to the vicar’s questions: “Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works… ?”
“I renounce them all,” the godparents replied in unison.
As the words echoed off the sandstone walls, Tom looked sternly at his shiny new boots and concentrated on a burning blister on his heel.
“Wilt thou then obediently keep God’s holy will and commandments… ?”
“I will.”
With each promise, Tom flexed his foot against the stiff leather, immersing himself in the pain.
Lucy seemed mesmerized by the fireworks of the stained-glass windows, and it occurred to Isabel, even in her turmoil, that the child had never seen such brilliant colors.
“Oh merciful God, grant that the old Adam in this child may be so buried, that the new man may be raised up in her…”
Tom thought of the unmarked grave on Janus. He saw the face of Frank Roennfeldt as he had covered it with canvas—detached, expressionless—leaving Tom to be his own accuser.
Outside, the noise of children playing French cricket in the church playground peppered the air with thwacks and cries of “Owzat?” In the second row of pews, Hilda Addicott whispered to her neighbor, “Look, Tom’s got a tear in his eye. Now, that’s a soft heart for you. He may look a great rock of a man, but it’s a real soft heart he’s got.”
Norkells took the child into his arms and said to Ralph and Freda, “Name this child.”
“Lucy Violet,” they said.
“Lucy Violet, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” said the priest, pouring water on the head of the little girl, who let out a shriek of protest, soon accompanied by Mrs. Rafferty coaxing “Crimond” out of the decrepit wooden organ.
Before the service had finished, Isabel excused herself and hurried to the outhouse at the end of the path. The small brick space was as hot as an oven, and she shooed away flies before leaning over to retch violently. A gecko clung to the wall, watching her in silence. When she pulled the chain it scampered up to the tin roof, to safety. As she rejoined her parents, she said weakly, “Upset tummy,” to head off her mother’s inquiries. Holding out her arms for Lucy, she hugged her so tight that the child put her hands to Isabel’s chest and levered herself away a little.
At the christening lunch at the Palace Hotel, Isabel’s father sat at the table with Violet, who was wearing her blue cotton shift with the white lace collar. Her corset was pinching, and the bun into which she had tidied her hair was giving her a headache. She was determined, however, that nothing would spoil this day—the christening of her first and, she now understood from Isabel, her only grandchild.
“Tom doesn’t seem his usual self, does he, Vi? Not usually much of a drinker, but he’s on the whisky today.” Bill shrugged, as if to convince himself. “Just wetting the baby’s head, I suppose.”
“I think it’s just nerves—such a big day. Isabel’s come over all touchy too. Probably that tummy trouble.”
Over at the bar with Tom, Ralph said, “That little girl’s made all the difference to your missus, hasn’t she? She’s like a new woman.”
Tom turned his empty glass round and round in his hands. “It’s brought out a different side of her, all right.”
“When I think back to how she lost the baby…”
Tom gave an imperceptible start, but Ralph went on, “… that first time. It was like seeing a ghost when I came out to Janus. And the second was worse.”
“Yeah. They were hard times for her.”
“Oh well, God comes good in the end, doesn’t he?” Ralph smiled.
“Does he, Ralph? He can’t come good for everyone, can he? Couldn’t come good for Fritz as well as us, say…”
“That’s no way to be talking, boy. He’s come good for you!”
Tom loosened his tie and collar—suddenly the bar felt stifling.
“You all right, mate?” asked Ralph.
“Stuffy in here. Think I’ll go for a bit of a wander.” But outside was no better. The air seemed solid, like molten glass that suffocated him rather than letting him breathe.
If he could talk to Isabel alone, calmly… Things would be all right. It could be all right, somehow. He drew himself up, taking a deep breath, and walked slowly back into the hotel.
“She’s fast asleep,” said Isabel as she closed the door to the bedroom, where the child lay surrounded by pillows to keep her from rolling off the edge of the bed. “She was so good today. Got through the whole christening, with all those people. Only cried when she got wet.” As the day went on, her voice had lost the tremor it had acquired with Hilda’s revelation.
“Oh, she’s an angel,” said Violet, smiling. “I don’t know what we’ll do with ourselves when she goes back tomorrow.”
“I know. But I promise I’ll write, and tell you all her news,” Isabel said, and gave a sigh. “We’d better turn in, I suppose. Got to be up at the crack of dawn for the boat. Coming, Tom?”
Tom gave a nod. “Night, Violet. Night, Bill,” he said, and left them to their jigsaw puzzle as he followed Isabel into the bedroom.
It was the first time they had been alone together all day, and as soon as the door
was closed, he demanded, “When are we going to tell them?” His face was tight, his shoulders stiff.
“We’re not,” replied Isabel, in an urgent whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“We need to think, Tom. We need time. We have to leave tomorrow. All hell will break loose if we say anything, and you’re supposed to be back on duty tomorrow night. We’ll work out what to do once we get back to Janus. We mustn’t rush into something we’ll regret.”
“Izz, there’s a woman here in town who thinks her daughter’s dead when she’s alive; who doesn’t know what happened to her husband. God knows what she’s been through. The sooner we put her out of her misery—”
“It’s all such a shock. We have to do the right thing, not just by Hannah Potts, but by Lucy as well. Please, Tom. Neither of us can think straight at the moment. Let’s take this slowly. Right now, let’s just try to get a bit of sleep before the morning.”
“I’ll turn in later,” he said, “I need some fresh air,” and he slipped quietly out on to the back veranda, ignoring Isabel’s plea to stay.
Outside it was cooler, and Tom sat in the darkness in a cane chair, his head in his hands. Through the kitchen window, he could hear the clack-clack as Bill put the last pieces of the jigsaw back into its wooden box. “Isabel seems so keen to get back to Janus. Says she’s not good with crowds any more,” Bill said as he put the lid on. “You’d be hard-pressed to muster a real crowd this side of Perth.”
Violet was trimming the wick of the kerosene lamp. “Well, she always was highly strung,” she mused. “Between you and me, I think she just wants to have Lucy all to herself.” She sighed. “It’ll be quiet without the little one around.”
Bill put his arm around Violet’s shoulders. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it? Remember Hugh and Alfie when they were tots? Grand little fellas, they were.” He chuckled. “Remember that time they shut the cat in the cupboard for days?” He paused. “It’s not the same, I know, but being a grandfather’s the next best thing, isn’t it? The next best thing to having the boys back.”
Violet lit the lamp. “There were times I didn’t think we’d get through it all, Bill. Didn’t think we could ever have another day’s happiness.” She blew out the match. “Such a blessing, at last.” Replacing the glass shade, she guided the way to bed.
The words reverberated in Tom’s mind as he breathed in the night jasmine, its sweetness oblivious to his desperation.
CHAPTER 16
The first night back on Janus, the wind howled around the lantern room, pushing at the thick panes of glass in the tower, testing for some weak spot. As Tom lit up, his mind went over and over the argument he had had with Isabel as soon as the store boat had left.
She had been unmovable: “We can’t undo what’s happened, Tom. Don’t you think I’ve been trying to find an answer?” She was clasping the doll she had just picked up from the floor, hugging it to her chest. “Lucy’s a happy, healthy little girl. Ripping her away now would be—oh Tom, it’d be horrible!” She had been folding sheets into the linen press, pacing to and fro between the basket and the cupboard. “For better or worse, Tom, we did what we did. Lucy adores you and you adore her and you don’t have the right to deprive her of a loving father.”
“What about her loving mother? Her living bloody mother! How can this be fair, Izz?”
Her face flushed. “Do you think it’s fair that we lost three babies? Do you think it’s fair that Alfie and Hugh are buried thousands of miles away and you’re walking around without a scratch? Of course it’s not fair, Tom, not fair at all! We just have to take what life dishes up!”
She had landed a shot where Tom was most vulnerable. All these years later, he could not shed that sickening sensation of having cheated—not cheated death, but cheated his comrades, having come through unscathed at their expense, even though logic told him it was nothing but luck one way or another. Isabel could see that she had winded him, and softened. “Tom, we have to do what’s right—for Lucy.”
“Izzy, please.”
She cut across him. “Not another word, Tom! The only thing we can do is love that little girl as much as she deserves. And never, never hurt her!” Clutching the doll, she hurried from the room.
Now, as he looked out over the ocean, blustery and whipped white with foam, the darkness was closing in on all sides. The line between the ocean and the sky became harder to judge, as the light faltered second by second. The barometer was falling. There would be a storm before morning. Tom checked the brass handle on