Ship of Brides

by Jojo Moyes

  ‘Do you fancy going to one of these lectures?’ Jean shouted, chewing gum as they made their way past the projection room. ‘There’s one on the strains of marrying a foreigner next week.’ Her voice, as it had all morning, carried over the noisy vibrations of the engines and the repeated piped calls, summoning Petty Officer Gardner or special sea dutymen to the commander’s office.

  Avice pretended not to hear her.

  ‘I quite fancy the one on common difficulties in the first year,’ Jean went on. ‘Except our first year has been dead easy so far. He wasn’t even there.’

  ‘The ship’s company of HMS Victoria will do their best to make your passage to the United Kingdom an enjoyable one . . . At the same time you must remember you are not in a liner, but are privileged to be a passenger in one of His Majesty’s ships. Life on board must be governed by service rules and customs.’

  Margaret stood on the flight deck, three deep in the rows of brides, some of whom were giggling with nerves as they listened to the captain. He moved, she thought, as if someone had sewn his sleeves to the body of his jacket.

  The sea, sparkling blue, was benign and calm, and the deck – the size of a two-acre field, hardly moved. Margaret cast surreptitious glances along its shining length, sniffing the salted air, feeling the breeze-blown sea mist on her skin, enjoying her first sense of space and freedom since they had slipped anchor the previous day. She had thought she might be a little frightened once they could no longer see land but instead she relished the sheer size of the ocean and wondered – with curiosity, not terror – what lay beneath the surface.

  At each end of the deck, reflected in shallow, prismed puddles of seawater and aircraft fuel, the aeroplanes stood tethered, their gleaming noses pointing upwards as if hankering for flight. Between them, at the base of the tower known as the ‘island’, groups of men in overalls stood watching.

  ‘Every person aboard one of His Majesty’s ships is subject to the Naval Discipline Act, which means no spirits, wine or beer, and that gambling in any form is forbidden. There is to be no smoking near the aircraft at any time. Most importantly, do not get in the way of or distract men who are on duty. You are allowed nearly everywhere on the ship except the men’s living spaces, but work must not be interrupted.’

  At this some of the girls glanced around and one of the ratings winked. A giggle rippled through the female ranks. Margaret shifted her weight to her other foot and sighed.

  Jean, one of the girls allocated to share her cabin, had nipped into the space in front of her two minutes after the captain had started talking, and stood, one leg bent under her, biting her nails. She had been buoyant that morning, chattering away from daybreak about her excitement, about the ship, her new shoes. Anything that came to mind had spewed out, unfiltered, to the ears of her new companions. Now, faced with the captain’s stern manner and his litany of possible misdemeanours, she was looking temporarily wobbly, her excitement giving way to trepidation.

  ‘You may have heard from other brides that they had the chance to disembark at various ports on their journey. It must be remembered that in a troopship you will probably get no leave. There may be a chance to land at Colombo and possibly at Bombay, if the international situation allows, but this cannot be looked upon as certain. I would add that persons failing to return to the ship by the stated time are liable to be left behind.’

  The captain’s gaze travelled along them. There was nothing speculative in it.

  ‘If there is a general complaint about some matter, the duty women’s service officer should be informed, and she will bring the matter to the notice of one of the lieutenant commanders. Meanwhile, the following spaces are out of bounds to women: ratings’ living spaces and messes, officers’ cabins and messes, below the level of the hangar deck, one deck above the flight deck, gun positions and galleries, and inside boats.

  ‘A more comprehensive guide, in booklet form, will be distributed to each of you later this afternoon. I’d like you all to read it and ensure you follow its regulations to the letter. I cannot emphasise strongly enough how grave the consequences will be for those who choose to disobey them.’

  A silence descended on the deck, as he allowed the weight of his words to resonate. Margaret felt her cheeks flush as she thought of her cabin on the hangar deck below. A little way along, a woman was crying.

  ‘Eight women’s service officers are on board to advise, help and assist you on the journey.’ Here, he indicated the women standing by the Corsairs, each looking almost as grim and self-important as the captain himself. ‘Each WSO has a group of cabins under her special care and will always be available to help you.’ He fixed the women in front of him with a stern gaze. ‘The WSOs will also go rounds during the night.’

  ‘That’s my evening’s entertainment buggered,’ whispered the girl beside Margaret, and was met by a muffled snort of laughter.

  ‘Just as women are not allowed in naval personnel’s quarters, the ship’s company is not allowed in the women’s quarters and living spaces, except as required for duty. I would remind you of my previous statement, that the duty women’s service officers will go rounds during the night.’

  ‘And naughty girls will have to walk the plank.’ There was another surreptitious but clear outbreak of giggling, a pressure valve loosening.

  ‘Lord knows what he takes us for,’ said the girl beside Margaret, fiddling with a brooch.

  The captain appeared to be at the end of his interminable speech. He looked down at a note attached to his booklets, apparently determining whether or not to continue. After a moment or two, he raised his head. ‘I have also been asked to tell you that . . . a small hairdressing salon . . .’ here the captain’s jaw tightened ‘. . . has been created in the after end of the lounge adjacent to B Cabin. It will be staffed by volunteers from among the passengers, if anyone would . . . like to offer their services.’

  He stared at his papers, then fixed them all with a look that might have been cold or simply weary resignation.

  ‘Friendly soul,’ said Margaret, under her breath, as the group dispersed.

  ‘I feel like I’m back at school,’ murmured Jean, in front of her, ‘but with fewer places to smoke.’

  Highfield looked at the women in front of him, nudging, whispering, fidgeting, not even capable of standing still for long enough to hear him list the rules and regulations that would govern their lives for the next six weeks. Even in this last twenty-four hours, he had watched every new outrage, every new example of why this had been a catastrophic idea, and wanted to telegraph McManus to say, ‘See? Didn’t I tell you this would happen?’ Half of them were hysterical, and didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry. The other half were already clogging up the place, getting lost below decks, forgetting to duck and injuring their heads, getting in the way of his men, or even stopping him to demand, as one had this morning, where she might find the canteen with the ice-cream. To top it all, he had walked along the upper gallery earlier this morning and found himself in a fine mist, not of aircraft fuel but of perfume. Perfume! They might as well tie their undergarments in place of the ship’s pennant and be done with it.

  Admittedly there was no dramatic difference in the men’s behaviour, but he knew it was only a matter of time: at this very minute the women would be the main topic of conversation in the seamen’s and stokers’ mess, in the officers’ mess and even the marines’. He could feel a subtle sense of disquiet in the air, as when dogs scent an approaching storm.

  Or perhaps it was simply that nothing had felt settled since Hart’s death. The company had lost the cheerful sense of purpose that had characterised its last nine months in the Pacific. The men – those who remained – had been withdrawn, more prone to argument and insubordination. Several times since they had slipped anchor, he had caught them muttering among themselves and wondered to what extent they blamed him. He concluded his speech, and forced the thoughts, as he often did, from his mind. The women looked wrong. The colo
urs were too bright; the hair was too long; scarves dangled all over the place. His ship had been an ordered thing of greys and whites, of monochrome. The mere introduction of colour was unbalancing, as if someone had unleashed a flock of exotic birds around him and left them, flapping and unpredictable, to create havoc. Some women were wearing high-heeled shoes, for goodness’ sake.

  It’s not that I don’t like women, he thought, as he did several times an hour. It’s just that everything has its place. People have their place. He was a reasonable man. He didn’t think this was an unreasonable point of view.

  He folded the booklet under his arm and caught sight of some ratings loitering by the lashings – the chains that secured the aircraft to the deck. ‘Haven’t you got anything bloody better to do?’ he barked, then turned on his heel and strode into the lobby.

  Dear Joe,

  Well, here I am on the Victoria with the other brides, and I can tell you this: I’m definitely a land girl. It’s awful cramped, even in a ship this size, and wherever you go you’re bumping into people, like being in the city but worse. I suppose you’re used to it, but I’m already dreaming of fields and empty spaces. Last night I even dreamt of Dad’s cows . . .

  Our four-berth cabin is one of many in what was apparently a giant liftwell, and I am sharing with three girls, who seem to be all right. One girl, Jean, is only sixteen – and guess what? She’s not the youngest. There are evidently two girls of fifteen on board – both married to Brits and travelling alone. I can’t say what Dad would have done if I’d come home at fifteen and announced I was getting married – even to you, dear. I’m also sharing with a girl who has been working for the Australian General Hospital out in the Pacific, and says almost nothing, and another who I think is a bit of a society type. I can’t say any of us has much in common, other than that we are all wanting the same thing.

  One bride apparently missed the boat at Sydney and they’re flying her to Fremantle, where we will pick her up. So I guess you can’t say the Navy aren’t doing all they can to get us to you.

  The men are all pretty friendly, although we’re not meant to talk to them much. Some girls go silly whenever they walk past one. Honestly, you’d think they’d never seen a man before, let alone married one. The captain has read us the Riot Act already, and everyone keeps going on about water and how we’re not meant to use any. I only had a flannel wash this morning – I can’t see how I’m going to run the ship dry on that. I think of you often, and it is a comfort to me to think that we are probably even at this minute, sailing on the same ocean.

  Joe Junior, I’m sure, sends his love (kicks like a mule when I’m trying to sleep!).

  Your Maggie

  These were the other things that she hadn’t told Joe: that she had lain awake for most of the first night, listening to the clanking of chains, doors slamming above and below, the hysterical giggling and shrieking of other women behind thinly constructed walls, and feeling the vibrations of the great ship moving under her, like some groaning prehistoric beast. That among the incomprehensible pipes that sounded every fifteen minutes or so (‘Hands to action stations’, ‘Stand by to receive gash barge alongside’, ‘Special Sea Dutymen, close up’) their wake-up call had been a rendition over the Tannoy of ‘Wakey, wakey, show a leg’ (and that at five thirty, she had overheard the less savoury men’s version: ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, hands off cocks, pull on socks’). That the ship was a bewildering mass of ranks and roles, from marines to stokers to airmen. That the canteen was big enough to seat three hundred girls at once, that together they made a noise like a huge flock of starlings descending, and that she had eaten better food at last night’s supper than she had for the last two years. That almost the first naval custom they had been taught – with great emphasis on its importance – was the ‘submariner’s dhobi’: a shower of several seconds to soak oneself, a soaping with the water turned off, then a brief rinse under running water. It was vital, the Red Cross officer had impressed upon them, that they conserve water so that the pumps could desalinate at a rate fast enough to replace it, and they could make the crossing hygienically. From what she had heard in the shower rooms, she was pretty well the only bride to have followed those instructions.

  Behind her, hidden by her size and a carefully folded blanket, Maude Gonne lay sleeping. After the captain’s address, Margaret had raced back to their cabin (Daniel would have said ‘lumbered’) and subdued the little dog’s yelps with stolen biscuits, then smuggled her along to the bathroom to make sure she didn’t disgrace herself. She had only just got back to the bunk when Frances came in, and she had thrust herself on to her bed, a warning hand on the dog’s hidden head, willing her to stay quiet.

  It was a problem. She had thought she would be allocated a single cabin – most of the pregnant brides had been. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might have to share.

  She wondered whether Frances, on the bunk opposite, could be trusted. She seemed all right, but she had said little that suggested anything at all. And she was a nurse – some of whom got awfully tied up in rules and regulations.

  Margaret shifted on her bunk, trying to get comfortable, feeling the engines rumbling beneath her. There was so much she wanted to tell Joe, so much she wanted to convey about the strangeness of it all – of being thrust from her home into a world where girls became hysterical not just about their future but over brands of shampoo or stockings (‘Where did you get those? I’ve been looking everywhere for them!’) and exchanged the kind of intimate confidences that suggested they’d known each other for years, not twenty-four hours.

  Mum would have been able to explain it, thought Margaret. She would have been able to speak their language, translate it, and afterwards would have defused its power with a few pithy remarks. If I’d known she was going, she thought, I would have listened harder. I would have treated it all with a little more respect, rather than spending my life trying to live up to the boys. They never told you it wasn’t just a gaping hole of grief but that it went on and on, myriad questions that wouldn’t be answered.

  She glanced at her watch. They would be out now, perhaps on the tractor, clearing the saplings at the bottom of the steers’ field, as they had been meaning to do all summer. Colm had joked that spending all these weeks surrounded by women would drive her mad. Dad had said it might teach her a few things. Margaret gazed surreptitiously at the feminine trappings around her, of silk, nylon and floral patterns, of face creams and manicure sets. She hadn’t anticipated that it might leave her feeling alien.

  ‘You want my pillow?’ Frances had emerged from her novel. She was gesturing towards Margaret’s stomach.

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘Go on – you can’t be comfortable.’

  It had been the longest sentence she had uttered since introducing herself. Margaret hesitated, then accepted the pillow with thanks and wedged it under her thigh. It was true: the bunks offered all the width and comfort of an ironing-board.

  ‘When’s it due?’

  ‘Not for a couple of months or so.’ Margaret sniffed, pushed tentatively at her mattress. ‘It could have been worse, I suppose. They might have given us hammocks.’

  The other girl’s smile faltered, as if, having opened the conversation, she was now unsure what else to say. She returned to her book.

  Maude Gonne shifted and whined in sleep, her paws scrabbling against Margaret’s back. The noise was disguised by the thrum of the engines and the chatter of girls passing outside the half-open door. But she would have to do something. Maude Gonne couldn’t stay in here for the whole six weeks. Even if she only left to go to the bathroom there were bound to be occasions when the other girls were here. How would she keep her quiet then?

  Bugger it, she thought, shifting her belly again. What with the baby moving constantly, and all these women around, night, day and every single minute in between, it was impossible to think straight.

  The cabin door was open and Avice stepped in, remembering to duc
k – she had no intention of meeting Ian with a bruised forehead – and raised a smile for the two girls lying on the bottom bunks. Made of a naval-issue bedroll lying in a raised platform of webbing, they were less than five feet apart, and the women’s small cases, containing the minimum of their belongings, were stacked securely against the temporary sheet-metal wall that divided them from the next cabin.

  The entire space was rather smaller than her bathroom at home. There was no concession to the femininity of the passengers: the fabrics were utilitarian at best, the floor uncarpeted, the colour a uniform battleship grey. The only mirrors were in the steamy confines of the shower rooms. Their larger cases, with the main part of their clothes and belongings, were stored in the quarterdeck lockers, which smelt of aircraft fuel and to which they had to beg access from a spectacularly sour WSO, who had already reminded Avice twice – with what Avice felt was obvious envy – that life on board was not a fashion parade.

  Avice was desperately disappointed in her travelling companions. Almost everywhere she had been this morning she had seen girls in smarter clothes, with the right sort of look, the kind that spoke to Avice of a social standing not dissimilar to her own. She might have found consolation in their company for the awfulness of the ship. But instead she had been landed with a pregnant farm girl and a surly nurse. (She did so hope she wasn’t going to be one of those superior types, as if the terrible things she had supposedly witnessed made the rest of them shallow for trying to enjoy themselves.) And, of course, there was Jean.

  ‘Hey there, shipmates.’ Jean scrambled on to the bunk above Margaret, her thin bare limbs like a monkey’s, and lit a cigarette. ‘Avice and me have been checking out the action on board. There’s a cinema up near the bow, on the lower gallery. Anyone fancy coming to the pictures later?’

  ‘No. Thanks anyway,’ said Frances.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll stay here and write some letters.’ Avice had made her way on to her top bunk, holding her skirt down over her thighs with one hand. It took some effort. ‘I’m feeling a little weary.’