by Jojo Moyes
The master-at-arms stood squarely in front of one of the younger boys who was being supported under each arm by two pustulent mates. He shot out a broad, pudgy finger, and chucked the offender under the chin, frowning as he caught a whiff of his breath. ‘I don’t know what your mother would say to you, my old flower, if she could see you in this state, but I’ve got a good idea.’ He turned to the boys. ‘He your mate?’
‘Sir.’
‘How’d he get like this?’
The boys, for they were not much more, looked at their feet. ‘Dunno, sir.’
‘Scotch mist, is it? As opposed to just Scotch?’
‘Dunno, sir.’
‘Dunno, sir,’ the man repeated, fixing them with a well-practised glare. ‘I bet you don’t.’
Henry Nicol, Marine, stepped back against the wall. The young dabber beside him was wringing his cap in bruised, bloodied hands. He breathed out, bracing himself against the movement of the ship. They were out of the worst of the Bight, now, but it could still catch the unwary.
‘Soames, eh?’
The younger man nodded unhappily at the master-at-arms. ‘Sir.’
‘What’s he in for, Nicol?’
‘Quarrels and disturbances, sir. And drunkenness.’
‘Not like you, Soames.’
‘No, sir.’
The older man shook his head. ‘You speaking for him, are you, Nicol?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make sure you get some sleep afterwards. You’re on watch again tonight. You look bloody awful.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘Soames, it’s a bad business. Use your loaf next time, not your fists.’
The master-at-arms moved slowly on to the next man – conduct to the prejudice of good order, drugs/alcohol – and Soames slumped against the wall.
‘You’re all for it,’ the master-at-arms said. ‘It’s the captain today, not the executive officer, and I can tell you he’s not in the best of moods.’
‘I’m going to get it, aren’t I?’ Soames groaned.
In normal circumstances Nicol might have disputed this, might have been reassuring, upbeat. But with one hand still resting against the letter in his trouser pocket, he had neither the energy nor the desire to make someone else feel better. He had put off opening it for days, guessing, dreading the nature of its contents. Now, seven days after they had left Sydney, he knew.
As if knowing could ever make anything any better.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.
Dear Henry,
I’m disappointed but not surprised I haven’t heard back from you. I want to say again how sorry I am. I never set out to hurt you. But we have had hardly a word from you in so long, and I am really very fond of Anton. And he is a good man, a kind man, who pays me a lot of heed . . .
This is not meant to be a criticism of you. I know we were awfully young when we married, and perhaps if the war had not come when it did . . . Still, as we both know, our world today is full of such if-onlys . . .
He had read the first paragraph and thought that, ironically, life was easier when his letters were still censored.
It was almost twenty minutes before they were up. They paused outside the captain’s office, then Nicol followed the younger man in and they saluted. Captain Highfield was seated behind the desk, flanked by the marine captain and a lieutenant Nicol didn’t recognise, who was writing something in a ledger. For some seconds he gave no sign that he was aware of the new occupants of the room.
Nicol nudged the younger man. ‘Cap,’ he hissed, his own black beret held in front of him. Soames removed his.
The officer beside the captain read out the charge: the boy had been scrapping with another dabber in the seamen’s mess. He had also been drinking – spirits, far in excess of the daily ‘sippers’ ration to ratings.
‘How do we plead?’ said Captain Highfield, still writing. He had tall, elegant script, somehow at odds with his short, stubby fingers.
‘Guilty, sir,’ said Soames.
Yes, I am guilty. And weak. But, to be truthful, for the last four years I might as well have been a widow for the word I have had from you. I spent three of those years lying awake week after week praying for your safety; that you might come back to us, talking to the children of you daily, even when I suspected you did not remember us. When you did come back you were like a stranger.
Finally, the captain looked up. He eyed the young man, then addressed the marine. ‘Nicol, isn’t it?’
‘Sir.’
‘What can you tell me about this young man’s character?’
Nicol cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts. ‘He’s been with us a little over a year, sir. A dabber. He’s been very steady during that time, hard-working, quiet.’ He paused. ‘A good sort.’
‘So, Soames, given this glowing character reference, what turned you into a brawling idiot?’
The boy’s head dipped. ‘Look up, man, when you’re talking to me.’
‘Sir.’ He blushed. ‘It’s my girl, sir. She . . . she was to see me off in Sydney. We’ve been stepping out some time. But she’s been . . . well, it’s one of the others in C Deck, sir.’
When Anton came, and started paying me some attention, Henry, it’s not even that he stepped into your shoes. There were no shoes for him to step into.
‘. . . and he started taunting me . . . and then the others, well, they said as how I couldn’t keep hold of a woman, and you know what it’s like in the mess, sir, well, I’d had a bellyful of it and – well – I suppose I saw red.’
‘You suppose you saw red.’
The children are very fond of him. You will always be their father, and they know that, but they will love America and have all sorts of chances there that they would never have had in a sleepy old village in Norfolk.
‘Yes, sir.’ He coughed into his hand. ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘You’re very sorry,’ said the captain. ‘So, Nicol, you say he’s been a good sort up to this point?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The captain put down his pen and clasped his hands. His voice was icy. ‘You know I don’t like fighting on my ship. I especially don’t like fighting when there’s alcohol involved. Even more, I dislike discovering that there may be social events taking place on my ship without my knowledge that involve alcohol.’
‘Sir.’
‘Do you understand? I don’t like surprises, Soames.’
But here, dear, I have to tell you something hard. If there is an urgency to my letter it is because I am carrying Anton’s child, and all we are waiting for is your permission to divorce, so that we can marry and bring this baby up together.
‘You’re a disgrace.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re the fifth person I’ve seen in here this morning on a drink-related charge. Did you know that?’
The boy said nothing.
‘Rather surprising for a ship that supposedly contains no alcohol except your weekly allocation.’
‘Sir.’
Nicol cleared his throat.
The captain stared at the boy from under his brows. ‘I’m conscious of your previous good character, Soames, and you should consider yourself lucky you have someone of better character to speak for you.’
‘Sir.’
‘I’m going to let you off with a fine. But I want you to be clear on one thing – and you can tell your friends this, and all those waiting outside too. Little escapes me on this ship. Very little. And if you think I am not aware of the little get-togethers that are springing up at an hour when our crew and our female cargo should be separated not just by walls but by whole bloody passageways, then you are very much mistaken.’
‘I didn’t mean any harm, sir.’
I did not intend things to turn out this way. Please do not make this child grow up a bastard, Henry, I implore you. I know I have hurt you terribly, but please do not inflict whatever you feel for me on the little one.
‘You meant no harm,’ Highfield m
uttered, and began to write. ‘You meant no harm. None of you ever does.’
There was a brief silence in the room.
‘Two pounds. And don’t let me see you in here again.’
‘Sir.’
‘Left turn, quick march,’ called the lieutenant.
The two men saluted, and left the office.
‘Two bloody pounds,’ said Soames, as they shuffled past the queue of offenders, ramming his cap back on to his head. ‘Two bloody pounds,’ he muttered to one of his mates. ‘He’s a miserable bloody bastard, that Highfield.’
‘Bad luck.’
Soames’s pace increased with his sense of injustice. ‘I don’t know why he had to pick on me, going on and on like that. I haven’t even spoken to one of those bloody Aussie brides. Not so much as a bloody one of them. Not like bloody Tims. He has girls in that mess most nights. Jackson told me.’
‘Best stay away from the lot of them,’ said Nicol.
‘What?’ The younger man turned, perhaps sensing the barely suppressed tension in the marine’s voice. ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, removing his hand from his pocket.
Please write me or wire me when you can. I am happy to leave you the house and everything. I have kept it all in good order, the best I could. I do not want to cause you more trouble. I just want your permission to go.
Yours,
Fay
‘Yes,’ said Nicol, striding down the passageway. ‘I’m fine.’
The summary trials ended a few minutes after eleven. Captain Highfield laid down his pen and motioned to Dobson who had entered some minutes previously and the marine captain that they should sit down. A steward was sent for tea.
‘It’s not good, is it?’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We’re hardly a week in and look at it.’
The marine captain said nothing. The marines were a disciplined lot and never drank on board; they tended to appear only as character witnesses, or occasionally when the natural friction between marines and seamen boiled over into blows.
‘It’s bringing tension into the ship. And alcohol. When did we last have so many drunkenness offences at sea?’
The two men shook their heads. ‘We’ll organise a locker search, captain. See if we can flush it out,’ said Dobson. Out of the window, behind them, the skies had cleared to a bright, vivid blue, the sea becalmed. It was the kind of sight that couldn’t help but fill the heart with optimism. But Highfield took no joy from it: his leg had throbbed dully all morning, a permanent, intermittent reminder of his failure.
He had avoided looking at it when he dressed this morning: its colour disturbed him. A faint purplish tinge told not of the steady creation of new, healthy tissue but of some terrible struggle taking place beneath. If Bertram, the ship’s regular surgeon, had been aboard, he could have asked him to take a look at it. He would have understood. But Bertram had failed to show at Sydney, was now the subject of a court-martial, and that damn fool Duxbury was in his place.
Dobson leant forwards, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘The women’s officers tell me they’re pretty sure there’s movement at night. The one on B Deck had to break up a situation only last night.’
‘Fighting?’
The two seated men glanced at each other, then at the captain.
‘No, sir. Er . . . physical contact between a bride and a rating.’
‘Physical contact?’
‘Yes, sir. He had hold of her round the – round the back of the bilge pump.’
Highfield had suspected this might happen, had warned his superiors of it. Yet the reality struck him like a punch. The thought that, even as he sat there, such things were going on aboard his own ship . . .
‘I knew this would happen,’ he said, and saw that the other two men seemed markedly less disturbed by it than he felt. In fact, Dobson looked as if he was trying to contain mirth. ‘We’ll have to post more marines outside the hangar area, the stokers’ and seamen’s messes.’
‘With respect, sir,’ the marine captain interjected, ‘my boys are on rotating seven-day shifts as it is, as well as all their other tasks. I can’t ask them to do more. You saw how exhausted Nicol was, and he’s not the only one.’
‘Do we really need them outside the men’s messes?’ said Dobson. ‘If we’ve got marines keeping the brides in, plus the monitors doing the chastity rounds, surely that should be adequate?’
‘Well, it’s obviously not, is it? Not if we’re already breaking up petting parties and goodness knows what else. Look, we’re only a week out of port. If we let it slip now, heaven knows where we’ll end up.’ He was besieged by images of fornicating couples in the flour store, of irate husbands and puce-faced admiralty.
‘Oh, come on, sir. I’d say it’s important to keep it in perspective.’
‘What?’
‘There are bound to be a few hiccups to begin with, especially with so many crew new together, but it’s nothing we can’t manage. In fact, after the business with Indomitable, it’s probably a good thing. It shows that the men are perking up a bit.’
Until that point, perhaps through diplomacy or even a desire not to wound their captain further, no one had talked of the sunken ship – at least, not in relation to the men’s morale. At the mention of its name Highfield’s jaw tightened. It might have been reflexive. More likely it was because of who had spoken.
As he gathered his thoughts, Dobson added silkily, ‘If you’d rather, Captain, you could leave disciplinary matters to us. It would be sad, sir, if, because of a few youthful high jinks, you couldn’t enjoy this last voyage a little.’
In Dobson’s barbed words, in his relaxed, confident manner, lay everything the men thought about Highfield now but would not say aloud. Once, Dobson would never have dared speak to him in this way. Highfield was so stunned by this barely veiled insubordination that he couldn’t speak. When the steward arrived with his tea, he had to wait for several seconds before the captain noticed his presence.
The marine captain, a more diplomatic sort, leant forward. ‘I think, sir, that much of the problem this past week may have been to do with the conditions over the Bight,’ he said. ‘I believe that both the seamen and the women may have taken advantage of the fact that so many of the monitors were absent to increase the levels of – erm – interaction. Give it a few days more and the women will be less excitable and the men will have got used to having them around the place. I suspect things will settle down.’
Highfield, now suspicious, studied the marine captain. There was a transparency in his expression visibly lacking in that of the man beside him. ‘You think we should let things be?’
‘Yes, I do, sir.’
‘I agree, sir,’ said Dobson. ‘Best not to rattle things up too much at this stage.’
Highfield ignored him. As he closed the ledger, he turned to the marine captain. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll go softly for now. But I want to know everything, every footstep, that takes place below deck after ten p.m. Shake the monitors up – get them to use their eyes and ears. And if there is the slightest hint of misbehaviour – the slightest hint, mind – I want us to be down on it like a ton of bricks. I will not have anyone charge this voyage with lowering naval standards. Not under my command.’
Dear Deanna,
I hope you, Mother and Father are all well. I’m not sure when I will be able to post this, but I thought I would write and let you know a little of our voyage. It is all terribly exciting. I often think how much you would enjoy being here, and how surprising are the conditions we travel in, given my reservations.
I have made three delightful new friends: Margaret, whose father owns a large estate not far from Sydney; Frances, who is terribly elegant and has been doing admirable things in nursing; and Jean. They are all so much more interesting than our old crowd. One girl here has brought fifteen pairs of shoes with her! I am very relieved that I was able to go shopping before I came on board. It is so nice to have new things, isn�
�t it?
My accommodation is situated in the largest part of the boat, a short distance from the part known as the bridge and the captain’s ‘sea cabin’. We are told there may well be some cocktail parties once we get to Gibraltar as it is entirely possible that several governors are coming aboard, so that is something to look forward to.
The staff really cannot do enough for us. Every day they lay on new entertainments to keep us girls busy; needlework, dancing, all the latest films. I am off to watch National Velvet this afternoon. I don’t believe it has reached Melbourne yet but, believe me, you must go when it does. The girls who have already seen it say Elizabeth Taylor is perfectly wonderful. The sailors are charming, and helpful, and are always bringing one little things to eat. And, Deanna, you would die for the food. It’s as if no one had ever heard of rationing. Not quite the powdered egg we had all feared! So you can tell Mother and Father they do not need to worry in the slightest.
There is a fully fitted hair salon at the far end of the ship. After I finish writing I think I might take a look. Perhaps I might even offer some help! Remember how Mrs Johnson always said no one could set hair like me? I shall have to find a decent salon as soon as I reach London. I shall, of course, let you know all about London. I am hoping to hear from Ian before we meet, as to the plans for our little holiday there.
As I said, I hope my letter finds you all well, and please do pass on my happy news to the old crowd. Oh, yes, your little recital will have taken place by the time you get this. I trust it went well. I’ll write again when I’m not so busy!
Your loving sister
Avice
Avice was sitting in the small canteen on the flight deck, staring out of the salt-spattered window at the seagulls swooping alongside the ship and the bright skies beyond. For the half-hour it had taken her to write her letter, she had almost begun to believe in the version of the voyage she had created. So much so, in fact, that she had felt rather deflated when she signed off to find herself back in this rusting waterborne hangar, surrounded not by cocktail parties and adorable new friends but by the scarred noses of the aeroplanes on the deck, the shuffling, incoherent boys in their grubby overalls, the brine and salt, the smells of fried food, oil and rust.
