by Jojo Moyes
‘Joe was the only one who didn’t ask me out or make a nuisance of himself,’ she told Frances, tucking into mashed potato as they sat in the near-empty canteen. ‘The others either treated me like some kind of barmaid, or tried to give me a squeeze when my brothers weren’t looking. I had to whack one with a shovel when he came on a bit fresh in the dairy.’ She grabbed her metal tray as it slid across the table. ‘He didn’t come back.’ A week later Colm had caught another peeping through the door when she was in the bathroom, and he, Niall and Liam had thrashed him to within an inch of his life. After that they had stopped bringing men home.
Except Joe, who had come every day, had teased Daniel into good humour, had offered her father advice gleaned from his father’s own smallholding in Devon, and had cast surreptitious glances at her with offerings of too-small nylons and cigarettes.
‘I had to ask him in the end,’ she said, ‘why he hadn’t made a move on me. He said he thought if he hung on long enough I’d decide he was part of the furniture.’
They had walked out for the first time three months to the day before the US Airforce dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima, and had wed several weeks afterwards, Margaret in her mother’s wedding dress, on the last occasion Joe could get leave. She had known they’d be all right together. Joe, she said, was like her brothers. He didn’t take himself or her too seriously.
‘Was he pleased about the baby?’
‘When I told him I was expecting, he asked me whether it was due at lambing season.’ She snorted.
‘Not the romantic kind.’ Frances smiled.
‘Joe wouldn’t know romance if it smacked him in the face,’ Margaret said. ‘I don’t mind, though. I’m not really one for all that sappy stuff. Live with four farming men long enough, it’s hard to associate romance with the same sex that have spent years flicking nose-pickings at you under the kitchen table.’ She grinned, took another mouthful. ‘I wasn’t even going to get married. To me marriage was just more cooking and wet socks.’ She glanced down at herself, and the grin disappeared. ‘I still ask myself every now and then how I’ve managed to end up like this.’
‘I’m sorry about your mum,’ said Frances. She had had a second helping, Margaret noted – the baby’s position meant she couldn’t manage very much without indigestion – yet she was as thin as a rake. Pudding had been a ‘bathing beauty’, blancmange, so named, the chef had said, smirking, because it shivered and had lovely curves.
‘How did she die? Sorry,’ said Frances, hurriedly, as Margaret’s pale skin coloured. ‘I don’t mean to be . . . indelicate. It’s the nursing.’
‘No . . . no . . .’ said Margaret.
They clutched the table, which was clamped to the floor, arms shooting out to stop salt, pepper or beakers sliding off.
‘It came out of nowhere,’ she said eventually, as the wave subsided. ‘One minute she was there, the next minute she was . . . gone.’
The canteen was almost silent, apart from the low muttering of those women brave or hardy enough to contemplate food, and the occasional crash as a piece of crockery or a tray fell victim to another swell. The queues of the early days had evaporated, and the few girls with an appetite dawdled in front of the serving dishes, taking their time to choose.
‘I’d say that was rather a good way to go,’ said Frances. Her eyes, when she looked at Margaret, were clear and steady, a vivid blue. ‘She wouldn’t have known a thing.’ She paused, then added, ‘Really. There are far worse things that could have happened to her.’
Margaret might have dwelt on this peculiar statement longer had it not been for the giggling in the corner. Distantly audible as background noise for some minutes, it had now built up into a peak, rising and falling in volume as if in conjunction with the waves outside.
The two women turned in their chairs to see that some women in the corner were no longer alone: they had been joined by several men in engineers’ overalls. Margaret recognised one – she had exchanged a greeting with him as he had scrubbed the decks the previous day. The men had closed in around the women, who appeared to be enjoying a little male attention.
‘Jean should be here,’ said Margaret, absently, and turned back to her food.
‘Do you think we should take them something? Some mashed potato?’
‘Be cold by the time we get it there,’ said Margaret. ‘Besides, I don’t fancy Jean bringing it up over my bunk. It smells bad enough in there as it is.’
Frances stared out of the window at the water heaving and churning around them, occasionally meeting the salt-stained windows with an emphatic slap.
She was reserved, thought Margaret, the kind who always seemed to have a second conversation taking place in her head even as she spoke. ‘I hope Maude Gonne’s all right,’ she said aloud.
Frances turned, as if brought back reluctantly from distant thoughts.
‘I’m torn between wanting to make sure she’s okay, and feeling like I can’t stand one more minute in that bloody cabin. It’s driving me nuts. Especially with those two moaning.’
Frances nodded almost imperceptibly. It was the furthest she would come, Margaret suspected, to outright agreement. But she leant forward, so that her voice could just be heard over the noise in the canteen. ‘We could take a walk round the decks later, if you want. Give her a bit of air. Maybe you could put her in that wicker basket and we could hide her with a cardigan.’
‘Hello, ladies.’
It was the engineer. Margaret jumped, then glanced behind him at the skittish girls he had just left, some of whom were peering over their shoulders at him. ‘G’day,’ she said neutrally.
‘I’ve just been speaking to my friends over there, and I thought I’d let you ladies know that there’s a little “welcome aboard” party in the stokers’ mess tonight.’ He had an accent, and an ease born of long-rewarded confidence.
‘Nice thought,’ said Margaret, sipping her tea. ‘But we’ve got a bloke posted outside our door.’
‘Not tonight you haven’t, ladies,’ he said. ‘Big shortage of morality monitors because of the weather. We’ll have a night or two of freedom.’ He winked at Frances. He had probably been born winking. ‘It’ll just be a bit of a laugh. We’ve got some grog, we’ll play cards and maybe introduce you to a few English customs.’
Margaret raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Not for us, thanks.’
‘Cards, missus, cards.’ His expression was of shock and offence. ‘I don’t know what you had in mind. Blimey, you a married woman and all . . .’
Despite herself Margaret laughed. ‘I don’t mind a game of cards,’ she said. ‘What do you play?’
‘Gin rummy. Newmarket. Perhaps the odd game of poker.’
‘Only card game there is,’ she said, ‘but I only play for stakes.’
‘My kind of girl,’ he said.
‘I’ll probably thrash you,’ she said. ‘I’ve learnt from the best.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he said. ‘I’m not fussy who I take money off.’
‘Ah. But will there be room for me?’ she said, pushing herself back in her chair, so that the full expanse of her belly was revealed. She was waiting to see his reaction.
His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. ‘We’ll make room for you,’ he said. ‘Any decent poker player’s welcome in the stokers’ mess.’
It was as if they had recognised something in each other.
‘Dennis Tims.’ He thrust out a hand.
She took it. ‘Margaret – Maggie – O’Brien.’
He nodded at Frances, who had failed to proffer her own hand. ‘We’re four decks below, almost directly under you. Make your way down the stairs by the officers’ bathrooms, then follow the sound of a good time.’ He saluted, made as if to walk away, then added, in a stage whisper, ‘If you get wedged in the stairs, Mags, give us a shout and I’ll get a few of the lads to come and give you a shove.’
The prospect of a few hours in male company made Margaret feel distinctly chi
pper. It was not the flirtation she craved – unlike many of the other women – just the uncomplicated maleness of home. She let out a huge sigh: Dennis’s arrival had shown her what a strain she had found her new all-female existence. ‘He seemed all right,’ she said cheerfully, heaving herself out from behind the table.
‘Yes,’ said Frances. Already she was taking her tray towards the washing-up trolley.
‘You coming with me? Frances?’
Margaret had to jog to keep up as the tall, slim girl strode down the passageway, barely shifting her weight despite the violent rocking of the floor. Frances had kept her face turned away from Dennis for almost the entire time he was talking, she thought. It was several minutes more before she realised that during the entire two hours they had spent together Frances had told her not a thing about herself.
Dear George,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that your leg is much recovered. I was not sure that you received my last letter as I have not had a reply for so long. I have taken the liberty of numbering this one so that you might tell which order mine were sent in. We are all well here in Tiverton. The garden is looking simply lovely, and my new borders are filling out nicely. Patrick is working hard, as always, and has taken on a new chap to help him with some of the bigger accounts. That will bring his total staffing to five, which is quite a tally for these thin years.
I am rather anxious to hear from you, George, as I have asked you several times now whether you want to take up the rental of the cottage on the edge of the Hamworth estate. I have spoken to Lord Hamworth personally (we have met occasionally at his wife’s social gatherings) and he has said he is happy to consider you, with your glowing service record, but he does need to know soon, dear, as other people have indicated an interest. There is a retired teacher next door, Mrs Barnes, a nice sort, from Cheltenham. And we have already lined up a lady to do for you, so you need not worry about your hot dinners!
And as I have mentioned before, Patrick is quite happy to introduce you to the better side of Tiverton society – he is a not inconsiderable force in the local Rotary Club and could make sure you have an ‘in’ with the right sort around here. Now that you will have some more time at your disposal, perhaps you might like to join the local car club? Or even do a bit of yachting? I’m sure you will want to carry on ‘messing about in boats’, even in your twilight years.
Another retired serviceman and his wife have just moved in locally, although I think he might be RAF, so you would have someone to exchange your ‘war stories’ with. He is a quiet sort – said hardly a word to me in the lane! – and seems to have something wrong with his eye. I assume it is a war injury, but Marjorie Latham swears he is winking at her.
I must go now, George. But I thought I should let you know that our sister is a little better. She says to tell you she is grateful for all you did, and hopes to be able to write herself soon. She has borne her loss so bravely.
I pray, as always, that your voyage is a safe one.
Your loving sister
Iris
Captain Highfield sat in his rooms, one steadying hand on his lead-crystal wine-glass as he read the letter he had put off opening since Sydney, a fork raised absently to his mouth. It had remained there, in mid-air, for several paragraphs now, and when he reached the end of the letter he put it down, then pushed away the congealing gammon steak and boiled potatoes.
He had been rather glad of the change in the weather: the women were easier to manage in the confines of their berths and cabins and, apart from a couple of cases of severe vomiting and the girl who had bruised herself rolling out of an upper bunk, the sick bay had not been unduly troubled. That said, the doctor was much on his mind at the moment.
At first he had wanted to ascribe it to the damp, the rheumatic twinge caused by the sudden drop in pressure. But the ache in his leg had become steadily more insistent, had mutated in form so that occasionally it sharpened, became a signal of malevolent intent. He knew he should go and get it seen to: the doctor in Sydney had impressed upon him the necessity of it. But he knew that if they found what he suspected they would have a reason to deprive him of this last voyage. They’d have him flown home. And even a ship full of women was preferable to no ship at all.
There was a knock on his door. Reflexively, Captain Highfield pushed his leg further under the table. ‘Enter.’
It was Dobson, bearing a thick sheaf of papers. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’ve brought you the revised sick list. I thought you’d want to know that we’re down five of the eight WSOs.’
‘All sick?’
‘Four sick, sir. One confined to bed. She fell down the stairs by the transmitter room and sprained her ankle.’
Dobson was staring at the untouched food. No doubt that would be reported to his mess later, and the possible reasons for it discussed, Highfield thought. ‘What on earth was she doing outside the transmitter room?’
‘Lost, sir.’ Dobson shifted his balance expertly as the floor rose beneath him and spray obliterated the view from the window. ‘One of the engineers found two girls in the number-two flour store this morning. Somehow managed to lock themselves in. Seems an awful lot of them can’t read a map.’
The wine had soured in his mouth. Highfield exhaled silently. ‘So what will we do about going rounds tonight?’
‘I thought we could get a few of the marines to do it, sir. Clive and Nicol are pretty responsible fellows. To be honest, I can’t see there’ll be too much trouble with the ladies while we’re coming through the Bight. I’d say at least half are too busy moaning on their bunks to get up to any mischief. The canteens are almost empty.’
Dobson was right. Highfield hoped absently that the foul weather would last the entire six weeks. ‘Fine. Get the men to do it. How’s the water level?’
‘Not too bad, sir. We’re just about keeping on top of things, although I have to say the systems on this old girl are pretty tired. Some of the machinery looks like it’s held together with baling twine and good luck. Still, it’s helped that so many of the women are in bed.’ He grinned. ‘Less hair-washing, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that. Make sure we introduce another lecture on the dhobi. Make it compulsory. And for those who fail to implement it, the threat that they will be allowed no water for three days before they meet their husbands should do the trick.’
Dobson left, something a little irritating in his swagger. He fancied himself for captain, Rennick, Highfield’s steward, had told him, more than once. He had been glad to see other men who had served beneath him promoted, but there was something about Dobson’s manner that simply stuck in his craw. Something in the man’s eyes told him that, whether it was due to Hart or his own imminent retirement, he was written off; despite his history, his position, he was no longer a man to be reckoned with.
‘Man’s an ass,’ Rennick said, arriving to take the captain’s plate. He had been with Highfield almost ten years and his opinions were expressed with the confidence of their long acquaintance.
‘He’s an ass, but he’s the only executive officer I’ve got.’
‘The men have no respect for him. He’ll do you no good on this voyage.’
‘You know what, Rennick? Right now, ass or not, Dobson is the least of my worries.’
The steward shrugged, his lined Scottish face fixing the captain with an expression that suggested they both knew more than they chose to say. As he left the room, Highfield’s eyes fell to the letter in front of him. Then he took his wine-glass in his other hand and swept the piece of paper off the mahogany table into the bin below.
Dennis had been wrong about the marine. When Margaret and Frances arrived back at their cabin, he was standing outside, his hand raised as if to knock. ‘Hey!’ yelped Margaret, trying, against her own lumbering weight, and the swaying floor, to run down the passageway. ‘Hey!’
He lowered his hand long enough for Margaret to slide between him and the door.
>
‘Can I help?’ she said, panting, one hand under her belly.
‘I’ve brought you some crackers. Captain’s orders, ma’am. We’re doing it for everyone who’s sick.’
‘They’re asleep,’ said Margaret. ‘Best not to disturb them, wouldn’t you say, Frances?’
Frances glanced at the man, and then away. ‘Yes.’
‘Frances here’s a nurse,’ said Margaret. ‘She knows what’s best for sickness.’
There was a short silence.
‘Crackers tend to help.’ The marine was holding the box stiffly in both hands. ‘Shall I leave them with you, then?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Margaret took the box, wincing: the baby hadn’t enjoyed being rattled.
The man was staring at Frances. When he realised Margaret was watching him, he looked away quickly. ‘I won’t be here tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s a few gone sick because of the weather so I’ll be helping with the rounds. I’ve got permission to look in on you later if you’d prefer.’ He had a clipped way of talking, as if uncomfortable with casual conversation.
‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Thanks for offering, though. And you don’t have to call us “ma’am”. Seems a little . . . formal.’
‘Orders, ma’am.’
‘Oh. Orders.’
‘Right.’ He lifted a hand in a half-salute.
‘’Bye, then. And thanks for the crackers.’ Margaret fluttered her fingers. She was praying that Maude Gonne, alerted by her voice, wouldn’t bark.
When they opened the door Jean woke, raising a pale face from under her blanket. She refused the crackers and sat up slowly, revealing the upper half of a flannelette nightgown garlanded with little pink rosebuds. She looked, Margaret thought, shockingly young.
