A Light Between Oceans Episode 10


The characters from A Light Between Oceans at the lighthouse.

Belmouth, 1941.

“Daddy’s big light!”

Two-and-a-half-year-old Sandy squirmed in Hattie’s arms and pointed a chubby finger into the distance as a shaft of sunlight bounced off the lens.

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

Hattie negotiated a rocky stretch of ground, then set the girl down on the grass that led to the cottage.

Donald had said that the lighthouse would soon be covered in splashes of dazzle paint.

She hoped Sandy would remember the red bands before they disappeared, but it was impossible to know for certain how much might be tucked into the memory of a two-year-old.

The crucial question that niggled at the back of Hattie’s mind was how much Sandy remembered of her mother.

The child’s father refused to speak of her.

He’d locked up his memories and photographs along with his grief, and Hattie knew it was left to her to decide what to tell Sandy.

Sometimes the little girl seemed intrigued by the two photos that Hattie had.

Poking her thumb into her mouth, she seemed happy enough to hear the stories Hattie chose to tell her about her mother.

Other times she’d wriggle off Hattie’s lap, sometimes pushing her away, then run off to play.

It was hard to judge how much to say and when. And was it the right thing to do in any case?

With Donald having retreated into himself, was there a danger of the memory of Helen slipping away into non-existence?

Hattie imagined an older Sandy bitterly resenting this, and blaming Hattie, along with her father.

Sandy bounded along the path, the sharp spring wind whipping at the front of her little coat.

“Daddy!”

She shrieked with delight as her father appeared from round the side of the cottage, spade in hand.

Setting it aside, he lifted her into his arms, kissing her forehead and looking intently into her face, then holding her close.

If only he could manage to smile more often, Hattie thought.

She remembered the pensive young man she’d gone to school with, usually holed up in the art room, where he seemed to invest as much intensity in cleaning brushes as he did in one of his paintings.

On those rare occasions when his face split into a wide grin, the effect was unforgettable.

Sandy didn’t seem to mind her father’s seriousness. She adored being with him, no matter what.

“No button, Daddy,” Sandy announced, pointing to the front of her coat. “It’s lost.”

“I see,” he replied. “Where could it be?”

“We looked everywhere, didn’t we, poppet?” Hattie said. “Never mind – I’ll find one in my sewing box.

“You have something else to show Daddy, don’t you?” Hattie prodded.

Sandy had buried her head in her father’s collar, but now she looked up, her eyes shining.

“Yes! Hattie show it!”

Hattie took a rolled-up piece of paper from her shopping bag and handed it to Sandy, but the child shook her head shyly.

“She did it all herself,” Hattie said proudly, unrolling one of the pieces of used paper that she had been keeping for Sandy.

There was only a bit of writing on one side, and on the other was Sandy’s creation.

“Tell Daddy about it, darling,” she said, hoping to catch Donald’s eye in order to give him some sort of hint as to what the bold lines depicted.

She needn’t have worried.

“Well, look at that. It’s the lighthouse,” he said, duly admiring the crayoned image. “Thank you, Sandy. It’s very good.”

He set Sandy down, and they made their way to the cottage.

“She loves drawing,” Hattie began tentatively. “I wish I had more paper.

“I’ve brought crayons along, and I’m sure she’d love it if you did some with her.”

He said nothing, but she knew at once it had been a mistake.

“I’m dreadful at drawing.” She laughed lightly, trying desperately to salvage the moment.

But Donald was silent, ignoring her chatter as he opened the door of the cottage and moved briskly to the range.

Hattie sighed, disappointment and exasperation coursing through her in equal measures.

He was engulfed in grief and, worrying as it was, she could understand his not being able to speak of Helen.

It was somehow more alarming that he’d put away the photographs of her, but Hattie had convinced herself that this was only temporary.

But for Donald to have stopped painting seemed inconceivable.

As much as he had loved Helen, his love of painting had been at the deepest part of his soul.

Wouldn’t delving into his art be the best way for him to heal?

As for the disappearance of his paintings, that was as tragic as it was mysterious and distressing.

Had he destroyed them? Thrown them into the sea?

She could hardly bear to think of it, and when she did she found she was more angry than anything else.

But what was done was done.

To be continued…