by Jojo Moyes
‘Poor old girl,’ he muttered, glancing at the hole ripped in the aircraft-carrier’s side. She looked so much like Indomitable, his old ship.
The surgeon had said he should use a stick. Highfield suspected that the man had told others he shouldn’t be allowed back to sea at all. ‘These things take longer to heal at your age,’ he had observed, of the livid scar tissue where the metal had sliced through to the bone, the ridged skin of the burns around it. ‘I’m not convinced you should be up and about on that just yet, Captain.’
Highfield had discharged himself from the hospital that morning. ‘I have a ship to take home,’ he had said, closing the conversation. As if he would allow himself to be invalided out at this stage.
Like everyone else, the surgeon had said nothing. Sometimes it seemed to Highfield that no one knew what to say to him now. He hardly blamed them: in their shoes he would probably have felt the same.
‘Ah, Highfield. They told me you were out here.’
‘Sir.’ He stopped and saluted. The admiral approached through the light rain, waving away the umbrella-bearing officer beside him. Above them, the gulls wheeled and dived, their cries muffled by the mist.
‘Leg all better?’
‘Absolutely fine, sir. Good as new.’
He watched the admiral glance down at it. When you spotted an admiral out in the open air, his men used to say, you’d not know whether to polish your buttons for a ceremony or brace yourself for a roasting. But McManus was a good sort, who always knew somehow what was going on. So many of them spent their time behind their desks, breaking off only to go aboard ship the day before she was due back in, thus claiming some of her glory. But this admiral was a rare bird: always wanting to know what was going on at the docks, mediating in disputes, testing the political waters, questioning everything, missing nothing.
Highfield fought the urge to shift the weight off his leg again. He was conscious suddenly that McManus probably knew all about that too. ‘Thought I’d go and take a look at Victoria,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen her in a few years. Not since I went aboard during the Adriatic convoys.’
‘You may find her a little changed,’ said McManus. ‘She’s taken a bit of a bashing.’
‘I suppose you could say the same for most of us.’ It was the closest Highfield would come to a joke, and McManus acknowledged it in his quiet smile.
The two men walked slowly along the dock, unconsciously stepping in time with each other.
‘So you’re A1 and ready to go again, eh, Highfield?’
‘Sir.’
‘Terrible business, what happened. We all felt for you, you know.’
Highfield kept his face to the front.
‘Yes,’ McManus continued. ‘Hart would have gone all the way to the top. Not your usual crabfat . . . Bloody shame when you were all so close to getting home.’
‘I contacted his mother, sir, while I was in hospital.’
‘Yes. Good man. Best coming from you.’
It was embarrassing to be praised for so small an achievement. Then Highfield found, as often happened when the young man was mentioned, that he could no longer speak.
When the silence had lasted several minutes, the admiral stopped and faced him. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself.’
‘Sir.’
‘I hear you’ve been a little . . . down about it. Well, we’ve all suffered such losses, and we’ve all lain awake at nights wondering if we could have prevented them.’ His assessing gaze passed over Highfield’s face. ‘You had no choice. Everyone is aware of that.’
Highfield tensed. He found it impossible to meet the admiral’s eye.
‘I mean it. And if your remaining company’s careers last as long as yours they’ll see worse. Don’t dwell on it, Highfield. These things happen.’ McManus tailed off, as if he were deep in thought, and Highfield stayed silent, listening to the sound of his feet on the now slick dockside, the distant grind and thump of cranes.
They had almost reached the gangplank. Even from here he could see the engineers on board, replacing the metal that had been buckled by impact, hear the banging and drilling that told him welders were busy inside the hangar space. They had been working hard, but a huge charred cleft in the starboard side was still partly visible in the smooth grey metal. She would win no beauty contests but, as his eyes rested upon her, Highfield felt the misery of the past weeks melt away.
They paused at the foot of the gangplank, squinting up into the light rain. Highfield’s leg twinged again and he wondered whether he could hold on to the sides inconspicuously.
‘So, what next when you get back, Highfield?’
Highfield hesitated. ‘Well, I’ll be retired, sir.’
‘I know that, man. I meant what are you going to do with yourself? Got any hobbies? No Mrs Highfield that you’ve been hiding all these years?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Oh.’
Highfield thought he detected pity in the word. He wanted to say he had never felt the lack of a female presence in his life. Get too close to a woman, and you were never happy anywhere. He’d seen men hankering for their wives while they were afloat, then irritated by the confines of femininity and domesticity when they were on land. He didn’t bother saying this any more: on the occasions when he had, the men had looked at him rather curiously.
The admiral turned back towards Victoria. ‘Well, there’s nothing like a “lifer”, is there? I suppose we wouldn’t have had the best of you if you’d always had your mind on some woman somewhere.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Golf’s my thing. I plan to be on the links morning till evening. Think my wife’ll like it that way too.’ He laughed. ‘She’s got used to doing her own thing, over the years, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Captain Highfield, although he didn’t.
‘Doesn’t relish the prospect of me under her feet all the time.’
‘Still.’
‘Not something you’ll have to worry about, eh? You can play all the golf you like.’
‘I’m not really a golfing man, sir.’
‘What?’
‘Think I’m happier on the water.’ He nearly said what he thought: that he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. And that he felt discomfited at not knowing. He had spent the last four decades with his life planned out in minutes, knowing days, weeks ahead what he would be doing, even where, according to his typewritten short or long cast, in what part of the world he would be.
Some thought him lucky to be finishing his career as the war ended: a blaze of glory, they joked, then realised what they’d said. I’ll bring my men home, he said. It’ll be a good way to end. He could sound very convincing. Several times he had fought the urge to beg the admiral to let him stay on.
‘Going up then?’
‘Thought I might inspect the work. Sounds like they’ve been busy.’ Now that he was on board again, Highfield felt a little of his authority return, the sense of surety and order that had ebbed away from him during his time in hospital. The admiral said nothing, but went briskly up the gangplank, his hands linked behind his back.
The pegging-in board had been turned towards the wall. The captain paused at the doorway, turned it round and slid his name tag across to confirm his presence aboard; a reassuring gesture. Then they stepped over the sill of the doorway, ducking simultaneously as they entered the cavernous hangar.
Not all of the lights were illuminated, and it took Highfield a couple of minutes to adjust to the gloom. Around him, ratings were strapping huge boxes of equipment to narrow shelves, raising and lowering black buckets of tools for those working above them. At one end, three young dabbers were repainting the pipework. They glanced behind them, apparently unsure whether they should salute. He recognised one, a young lad who had nearly lost a finger a few weeks previously when it got caught in the lashings. The boy saluted, revealing a leather pocket strapped to his hand. Highfield nodded in acknowledgement, pleased that he was already back to work. Then he looked in fro
nt of him at the huge liftwell that transported the planes to the deck. Several men were at work, one on a scaffold platform, apparently securing metal struts at regular intervals all the way up to the flight deck. He stared at the scene, trying to work out a possible explanation. He failed.
‘Hey! You!’ The young welder on the platform lifted his safety helmet. The captain moved to the edge of the liftwell. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’
The man didn’t answer, his expression uncertain.
‘What are you doing to the liftwells? Have you gone mad? Do you know what liftwells do? They allow the bloody planes to go up and down. Who on earth told you to do—’
The admiral placed his hand on Highfield’s arm. It was several seconds before the captain, all his senses still trained on the improbable sight before him, registered the gesture. ‘This is what I came to talk to you about.’
‘The damn fool’s putting metal supports in the liftwells. Bunk supports, for goodness’ sake. Don’t you know what you’re doing, man?’
‘He’s doing it under my orders, Highfield.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The Victoria. There have been a few developments while you were in the sick bay. New orders from London. This trip isn’t going to be quite as straightforward as you thought.’
Highfield’s face fell. ‘More POWs?’
‘No.’
‘Not enemy POWs? You remember the trouble we had on—’
‘Worse, I’m afraid, Highfield.’ He let out a long breath, his eyes steady on the captain’s face. ‘They’re for women.’
There was a long silence.
‘You’ll still be taking your men home. But you’ve got extra cargo. Six hundred-odd Australian war brides bound for their men in Blighty. The liftwells will be used for the extra berths.’
The welder resumed his work, his torch sending sparks skittering off the metal frame.
Captain Highfield turned to the admiral. ‘But they can’t go on my ship.’
‘It’s the war, Highfield. People are having to make do.’
‘But they travel on troop ships, sir. Liners, where they can cater for them. You can’t have girls and babies and suchlike on an aircraft-carrier. It’s madness. You must tell them.’
‘I can’t say I was entirely happy about it either. But needs must, old chap. All the liners have already been commandeered.’ He patted Highfield’s shoulder. ‘It’s only six weeks. Be gone before you know it. And after all that business with Hart and the mine, it might perk the men up. Take their minds off things.’
But it’s my last voyage. My last time with my men. With my own ship. Highfield felt a great wail build inside him, a fury at the humiliation of it. ‘Sir—’
‘Look, George, the telephone lines to London have been burning up on this one. There’s a bit of a political row brewing up over these wives. The British girls are holding demonstrations outside Parliament because they feel they’ve been forgotten about. Both the top brass and the Australian government are keen not to have that kind of thing repeated over here. It’s caused a lot of bad feeling with the Aussie men, having so many of their women marry out. I think all sides feel the best thing is to get the women away as soon as possible and let the whole thing settle down.’
His tone became conciliatory: ‘I know this is difficult for you, but try to look at it from the girls’ point of view. Some of them haven’t seen their men for two years or more. The war’s over, and they’re desperate to be reunited.’ He noted the rigid set of the other man’s jaw. ‘Put yourself in their shoes, George. They just want to get home to their loved ones as fast and with as little fuss as possible. You must understand how that feels.’
‘It’s a recipe for disaster, women on board.’ The strength of Highfield’s feelings hardened his voice and several men nearby stopped work to watch. ‘I won’t have it! I won’t have this ship disrupted by women. They must understand. They must see.’
The admiral’s voice was soothing, but it had taken on the impersonal bite of someone losing their patience. ‘There’s no babies or children travelling. They’ve picked this lot very carefully. Just fit young women – well, possibly a few in the family way.’
‘But what about the men?’
‘No men. Oh, there might be the odd extra, but we won’t know about that until a few days before boarding. Haven’t had the final short cast on this one yet.’ The admiral paused. ‘Oh, you mean yours. Well, they’ll be on different decks. The liftwells – with the cabins – will be closed off. There’s a few – the, er, ones in the family way – in single cabins. Your men’s work will continue as normal. And we’re putting in all sorts of safeguards to stop any improper mixing – you know the sort of thing.’
Captain Highfield turned to his superior. The urgency of his position had stripped his face of its habitual impassiveness: his whole self was desperate to convey how wrong this was and how impossible. ‘Look, sir, some of my men have been without – without female company for months. This is like sticking a match in a box of fireworks. Did you not hear about the incidents on Audacious? We all know what happened, for God’s sake.’
‘I think we’ve all learnt lessons from Audacious.’
‘It’s impossible, sir. It’s dangerous and ridiculous and it stands to destabilise the whole atmosphere on the ship. You know how fragile these things are.’
‘It’s really not negotiable, Highfield.’
‘We’ve worked for months to get the balance right. You know what my men have been through. You can’t just drop a load of girls in there and think—’
‘They’ll be under strict orders. The Navy is to issue guidelines—’
‘What do women know of orders? Where there’s men and women in close quarters, there’s going to be trouble.’
‘These are married women, Highfield.’ The admiral’s voice was sharp now. ‘They’re going home to be with their husbands. That’s the whole point.’
‘Well, with respect, sir, that shows just how much you understand about human nature.’
His words hung in the air, shocking both men. Captain Highfield took a quivering breath. ‘Permission to be dismissed. Sir.’ He hardly waited for the nod. For the first time in his naval career, Captain Highfield turned on his heel and walked in anger from his superior.
The admiral stood and watched him travel the length of the hangar and disappear into the bowels of his ship, like a rabbit finding safety in its warren. In some cases such disrespect could prompt the end of a man’s career. But, grumpy old stick that Highfield was, McManus had a lot of respect for him. He didn’t want him to end his working life in ignominy. Besides, the admiral mused, as he nodded to the young ratings to carry on, much as he loved his wife and daughters, if he was truthful, and if it were his ship, he would probably have felt the same.
8
The brides had lectures and demonstrations during the voyage to help them with the shopping and cooking problems of rationing. Their diet on the later stages of the trip was slightly pruned so that the effect of the change to rationed food would not be too severe.
Daily Mirror, 7 August 1946
Five days
With a change of mood as abrupt and capricious as those of the brides on board, the sea conditions altered dramatically outside the stretch of water known as Sydney Heads. The Great Australian Bight, the men said, with a mixture of glee and foreboding, would sort out the sailors among them.
It was as if, having lulled them into a false sense of security, the fates had now decided to demonstrate their vulnerability, the unpredictability of their future. The cheerful blue sea darkened, muddied and swelled into threatening peaks. The winds, born as whispered breezes, grew to stiff gusts, then amplified to gale force, spitting rain on the men who, smothered with oilcloth, attempted repeatedly to secure the planes more firmly to the decks. Beneath them, the ship bucked and rolled her way through the waves, groaning with the effort.
It was at this point that the passengers,
who had spent the previous days meandering round the decks like a restless swarm, retired, at first one by one, then in greater numbers, to their bunks. Those remaining on their feet made their way unsteadily along the passageways, legs braced, leaning whey-faced against the walls. Lectures were cancelled, as was the planned lifeboat drill when the ship’s company realised that too few women could stand to make it worthwhile. The women’s service officers still able to walk did their best to distribute anti-nausea pills.
The pounding of the seas, the periodic sounding of the ship’s horn and the incessant clanging of the chains and aeroplanes above them made sleep impossible. Avice and Jean (it would be Jean, wouldn’t it?) were lying on their bunks locked into their private worlds of nauseous misery. At least, Avice’s world had been private: she thought she knew Jean’s every symptom – how her stomach felt like it had curdled, how even a piece of dry bread had led her to disgrace herself outside the flight-deck canteen, how that horrible stoker who kept following them along by the laundry had eaten a cheese and Vegemite sandwich right in front of her, just to make her go even more green. It had all been hanging out of his mouth and—
‘Yes, yes, Jean. I get the picture,’ Avice had said, and blocked her ears.
‘You not coming for some tea, then?’ said Margaret, standing in the doorway. ‘It’s potted steak.’ The dog was asleep on her bed, apparently unaffected by the rough weather.
Jean was turned to the wall. Her reply, perhaps fortuitously, was unintelligible.
‘Come on, then, Frances,’ said Margaret. ‘I guess it’s just you and me.’
Margaret Donleavy had met Joseph O’Brien eighteen months previously when her brother Colm had brought him home from the pub, along with six or seven other mates who became regular fixtures in the Donleavy household in the months leading up to the end of the war. It was her brothers’ way of keeping the house busy after their mother had gone, she said. They couldn’t cope with the emptiness at first, the deafening silence caused by the absence of one quiet person. Neither her father nor her brothers had wanted to leave her and Daniel alone while they drowned their sorrows in the pub (they were mindful sorts, even if they didn’t always come across that way) so for several months they had brought the pub to the farm, sometimes fourteen or fifteen men hanging off the back of the pickup truck, frequently Americans bearing spirits and beer, or Irishmen singing songs that made Murray’s eyes brim with tears, and the house was filled nightly with the sound of men singing, drinking, and occasionally Daniel weeping as he tried to make sense of it all.
