by Jojo Moyes
Margaret and Frances exchanged a look.
‘And horrid old engineers’ wives?’ said Margaret, drily, but Avice didn’t appear to hear.
‘Oh, I wish I’d got out my dress with the blue flowers,’ she said, to no one in particular, as she eyed her cotton skirt. ‘It’s so much nicer.’
‘You all right?’ said Frances, nodding at Margaret’s belly. Despite her large, floppy sunhat, she seemed ill at ease.
‘Fine,’ said Margaret.
‘Need a drink or anything? It’s quite warm.’
‘No,’ said Margaret, a little impatiently.
‘I don’t mind going to the canteen.’ It was as if Frances was desperate to go.
‘Oh, stop fussing,’ said Avice, straightening her hem. ‘If she wants something, she’ll ask for it.’
‘I’ll speak for myself, thanks. I’m fine,’ said Margaret, turning to Frances. ‘I’m not ill, for goodness’ sake.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Well, don’t. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ She lowered her head, fighting her ill-temper. Beside her, Frances had gone very still, reminding Margaret uncomfortably of Letty.
‘Hear ye, hear ye,’ said Neptune, lifting his trident so that it glinted in the sun. Slowly the noise subsided to a barely suppressed communal giggle, the odd whisper rippling through the crowd like a breeze across a cornfield. Satisfied that he had the women’s full attention, he lifted a scroll of paper.
‘You ladies now by Britain claim’d
Will find our company is shamed.
And offences grave and numerous here
Old Neptune’s court has come to hear.
Rating, captain, all the same,
Before our sea king’s judgement famed
And all will find their sins are met
With punishment both foul and wet,
Whether failing to share with friends his grog
Or being termed a pollywog,
You’ll hear the charge, and then we’ll see
How Neptune choose to punish thee.’
‘It’s hardly Wordsworth, is it?’ sniffed Avice.
‘Who?’ said Jean.
‘Now our ratings, our tadpoles, pollywogs
Will have to fight like cats and dogs
To save themselves from Neptune’s pack
And earn the right to be “Shellback”.
Captain, chaplain, or humble docker,
They’ve sent too many to Davy Jones’ locker.
So we will decide, O ladies fair,
Just who gets a spell in our dunking chair.’
Eventually, after much catcalling and something that might have qualified as a scuffle, the first ‘tadpole’ was called up: a young rating whose squint was explained by the spectacles borne aloft like a prize behind him. His guilt, apparently, was predicated on it being only his second time of crossing the line – the first had been in wartime, and had not been commemorated. As the women howled their approval, he was first charged with ‘failing to acknowledge the territory of Neptune’, then, as the enforcers held him down, the Royal Dentist filled his mouth with what looked like soapsuds, leaving him gagging and choking. He was then lifted into the chair and, at the lowering of Neptune’s trident, summarily ducked, as the women clapped and cheered.
‘It’s not very dignified, is it?’ said Avice, leaning forward for a better view.
At this point, the Bears moved into the crowd, eyeing the women with theatrical intent. The brides, in turn, shrieked obligingly and clutched each other, vowing loudly and without any intent whatsover, to protect each other. They were melodramatic enough for Margaret to roll her eyes. Beside her, Frances didn’t flinch. But, then, she seemed so little moved by the presence of men that Margaret wondered how she had ever come to be married at all.
One of the Bears stopped in front of them. His chest still wet from some previous assault, green-faced with a string of shells around his neck, he bent low and peered at the women. ‘What sinners and miscreants do we have here, then?’ he said. ‘Which of you is deserving of punishment?’ He was met by a collective shriek as the brides parted like biblical waves around him.
Except Frances. As he paused in front of her, she sat very still and stared back at him, until, realising he would get no sport from her, he turned to Margaret. ‘Aha!’ he cried, advancing towards her. Margaret was about to protest smilingly that there was no way they were putting her in that bloody chair when he swivelled round, like a pantomime villain, to face the delighted audience around him. ‘I see I shall have to find another victim,’ he said, thrusting a hand towards her, ‘for it is Neptune’s law that one must not offend a whale!’
The brides around them fell about. Margaret, who had been about to make some smart retort, found herself tongue-tied. They were all laughing at her. As if her pregnancy made her some kind of joke. ‘Oh, rack off,’ she said crossly. But that only made everyone laugh louder.
She sat there as he prowled off after other game, her eyes filled inexplicably with tears. Frances’s hat was pulled low on her head, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
‘Bloody eejit,’ Margaret muttered, then louder: ‘Bloody eejit.’ As if saying it might make her feel better.
The sun grew fiercer and she could feel her nose and cheeks burning. Several other ratings were brought forward, and similarly charged; some were writhing and swearing, or carried bodily, allegedly having attempted to hide in different parts of the ship. Most laughed.
Margaret envied Frances her hat. She shifted on her crate, one hand raised to her hairline as she watched the entertainment, the staged misfortunes of others gradually forcing aside her own bad mood. ‘You’ve been on ships before. Is it always like this?’ she said to Frances, who was now wearing sunglasses. She couldn’t bear an atmosphere.
Frances forced a smile, and Margaret felt ashamed for having been so sharp with her. ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve always been working.’ Then she was distracted by something off to her right.
‘Who are you nodding at?’
‘That’s our marine,’ Frances said.
‘It is?’ Margaret squinted at the dark-haired man standing a short distance away from them. She hadn’t ever really looked at his face, had been too busy hurrying past him, hunched over her concealed dog. ‘He looks bloody awful. Shouldn’t he be asleep if he’s on watch all night?’
Frances didn’t answer. The marine had spotted them and her eyes were now on her feet.
‘He’s nodding at you,’ said Margaret, waving cheerfully. ‘There! You not going to wave back?’
But Frances didn’t appear to have heard.
‘Look!’ interrupted Jean, grabbing Margaret’s elbow. ‘Bloody hell! They’ve got one of the officers!’
‘And he’s no ordinary officer,’ said Avice. ‘He’s the executive officer. He’s terribly high up, you know. Oh, my goodness!’ Her mouth twitched under her hand, as if she thought that, for the sake of propriety, she shouldn’t be seen to enjoy this quite so much.
Swearing and spluttering, the XO had been carried from beside the captain to the ducking stool and strapped in. There, set upon by Bears, his shirt was removed and, as the brides shrieked their approval, he was smothered in grease and his face plastered with what might have been oatmeal.
Several times he twisted in the seat, as if to appeal to someone behind him, but syrup was rubbed into his hair and feathers scattered on top. With every humiliation the noise level grew higher, until even the gulls circling the scene were shrieking. It was as if, having been made brutally aware of their own lack of control over their lives, the women took a cathartic pleasure in determining what happened to someone else’s.
‘Off! Off! Off!’ yelled the crowd, men’s voices mingling with women’s.
Margaret’s own humiliation was forgotten. She was grinning and shouting, reminded of her brothers’ rough-housing, of the way, as children, they had pinned each other to the dirt and forced cow dun
g into each other’s mouths.
She was distracted by a tap on her shoulder. Frances was mouthing something at her. It was impossible to hear what she was saying, but she seemed to be gesturing that she was leaving. She looked pale, Margaret thought, then turned back to the XO’s misery.
‘Look at him,’ yelled Avice, marvelling. ‘He looks absolutely furious.’
‘Mad as a cut snake,’ said Jean. ‘I didn’t think they’d do it to someone that high up.’
‘Are you okay—’ Margaret began, then saw that Frances had already gone.
At the urging of the now delirious crowd, the Royal Barber applied foam to the officer’s hair, then took a pair of oversized scissors and hacked at it. Then his mouth was cranked open by gleeful men and he was fed what Neptune announced as ‘seafarer’s medicine’. As he retched and spluttered, his face now all but unrecognisable, one of the Bears walked round the assembled women, proudly detailing its ingredients – castor oil, vinegar, soapsuds, and powdered egg. Two rotting fish were stuck into the XO’s ears, a woman’s scarf tied around his neck. There was a brief countdown, and then he was ducked, emerging twice to express his outrage.
‘You’ll all bloody well pay for this,’ he was shouting, through the suds. ‘I’ll get your names and take this up with your superiors.’
‘Hold your tongue, Dobbo,’ ordered Queen Amphitrite, ‘or you may find something even fishier on it.’
The women laughed louder.
‘I really can’t believe they’re meant to do that,’ said Avice fizzing with excitement. ‘I’m sure someone so high up isn’t meant to be included.’ Then she took on the stillness of a gun-dog scenting sport. ‘Oh, my goodness! That’s Irene Carter!’
Neptune’s court – and her companions – forgotten, she stood up and pushed her way through the jeering crowd, one hand raised to her hair as she went. ‘Irene! Irene! It’s Avice!’
‘Do you think the captain will report them for it?’ Jean said, wide-eyed, as the noise subsided and the spluttering victim was unstrapped from the ducking chair. ‘You’d think someone like that was off-limits, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Margaret.
She scanned the deck for Frances and spotted the captain. He was standing beside the island, his face partially obscured by the men around him. A shorter man with a heavily lined face stretched up to mutter something into his ear. It was hard to tell from that distance, what with the captain wearing his cap, and with so many people moving around, but she could have sworn he was laughing.
It was almost two hours before she found Frances. National Velvet was playing and she was seated alone in the cinema, several rows from the front, her sunglasses pushed back on her head, apparently absorbed in the sight of Mickey Rooney drunk in a saloon bar.
Margaret paused at the side of the little aisle, squinting in the dark to confirm to herself that it was Frances, then went over to her ‘You all right?’ she said, easing in beside her.
‘Fine,’ Frances murmured.
Margaret thought she had never met someone so determinedly emotionless in her life. ‘The ceremony was a good laugh,’ she said, raising her feet on to the seat in front. ‘The chef was charged with cooking inedible food. They stuck a dead squid on his head and made him eat yesterday’s slops, all mixed up. I thought it was a bit unfair. I mean, I couldn’t do any better.’
In the light from the screen she saw Frances smile in a way that suggested a complete lack of interest.
Margaret continued doggedly: ‘Jean’s gone to take tea with the able seamen. Oh, and Avice has left us. Found some old friend and they fell on each other like long-lost sweethearts. They even looked like each other – perfect hair, lots of makeup, that kind of thing. My guess is she’ll drop us like a hot brick now. I got the feeling we were a bit of a disappointment to her. Or I was,’ she said hurriedly. ‘You know, the fat old milkmaid with the stinky little dog. Probably not her idea of a social scene.’ The baby was kicking. Margaret shifted, scolding it silently.
‘I . . . was wondering why you left,’ she said. ‘I thought . . . well, I just wanted to check you were all right.’
At this point Frances evidently realised she was not going to be allowed to watch the film. Her posture softened a little and her head dipped towards Margaret. ‘I’m not very good with crowds,’ she said.
‘That it?’ said Margaret.
‘Yes.’
Elizabeth Taylor mounted her horse with the kind of easy leap that suggested weightlessness, a joy in the simple act of movement. Margaret watched her, reminded of her mother’s bad-tempered mare, remembering how, months earlier, she had been able to vault lithely on to its back, and then, showing off to her brothers, spin round athletically to face its rear. She had been able to do handstands on the older, quieter horse.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘About being a bit sharp earlier.’
Frances kept her eyes on the screen.
‘I just find – I find being pregnant a bit difficult. It’s not really me. And sometimes . . . I say things without thinking.’ Margaret rested her hands on her belly, watching as they lifted with the baby’s squirms. ‘It’s because of my brothers. I’m used to being direct. And I don’t always think about how it comes across.’
Frances was looking down now and the screen was illuminated briefly by cinematic sunlight. It was the only sign by which she could tell that the other woman was listening. ‘Actually,’ she continued, the darkness and their solitude allowing her to say the things she had kept to herself for so long, ‘I hate it. I shouldn’t say that but I do. I hate being so big. I hate not being able to walk up two bloody stairs without puffing like an old codger. I hate the look of it, the idea that I can’t do a bloody thing – eat, drink, walk around in the sun – without having to think of the baby.’
She fiddled with her hem. She was heartily sick of this skirt and of wearing the same things day after day. She had hardly worn a skirt in her life until she had become pregnant. She smoothed it distractedly.
Eventually she spoke again. ‘You know, almost as soon as Joe and I got married he was gone and I was living with Dad and my brothers. Married in theory, I guess you could call it. It certainly didn’t feel like being married. But I didn’t complain because we were all in the same boat, right? None of us had our men with us. And then the war ended. And then I discovered . . . you know . . .’ She looked down. ‘And instead of finally getting my passage overseas and meeting Joe again and just being able to enjoy me and him being together, finally being together, which was all I really wanted, we’ve already got this thing to take into account. No honeymoon. No time to ourselves. By the time it’s born we’ll have been alone together for about four weeks of our married life.’
She rubbed her face, grateful that Frances couldn’t see it. ‘You probably think I’m awful for saying all this. You’ve probably seen all sorts of death and sickness and babies and are sitting there thinking I should be grateful. But I can’t be. I just can’t. I hate the thought that I’m meant to feel all these feminine, maternal things that I can’t make myself feel.’ Her voice caught. ‘Most of all, I hate the thought that once it’s born I’m never going to be free again . . .’
Her eyes had filled with tears. Awkwardly she tried to wipe her eyes with her left hand so that Frances would not know. This was what it was turning her into: a stupid, weeping girl. She blew her nose on a damp handkerchief. Tried to get comfortable again and flinched as the baby delivered another sharp kick to her ribs, as if in retribution. It was then that she felt a cool hand on her arm.
‘I suppose it’s to be expected,’ Frances said, ‘that we’ll get a bit tense with each other. I mean, living so close and all.’
Margaret sniffed again. ‘I didn’t mean to cause offence.’
It was then that Frances turned to her. Margaret could just discern her huge eyes. She swallowed, as if what she had to say required effort. ‘None taken.’ And, after the briefest of squeezes, she took her hand
back into her lap and returned to the film.
Margaret and Frances walked back along the hangar deck, having joined the second shift, rather than their allotted one, for dinner, due to the late finish of the film. This request had prompted as much cheek-sucking and ill-tempered acquiescence among the women’s officers, Margaret said, as if they had asked to eat in the nude. ‘Lukewarm corned-beef pie as opposed to warm corned-beef pie. It hardly requires an international treaty, does it?’
Frances had smiled for the second time that evening; Margaret had noted it because each time her face had been transformed. That porcelain stillness, the melancholy air of withholding, had evaporated briefly and this sweetly beautiful stranger had broken through. She had been tempted to comment on it, but what little she knew of Frances had told her that any remark would bring down the shutters again. And Margaret was not a stickybeak.
Frances was talking about life on board a hospital ship. As her quiet, precise voice detailed the rounds, the injuries of a young marine she had treated outside the Solomon Islands, Margaret thought of that smile, then of Letty. Of the brief, blushing youthfulness of her, that strange almost-prettiness that beset her features when she had dared briefly to believe in a future with Murray Donleavy. She pushed away the memory, feeling darkly ashamed.
The temperature had not cooled as much as it had on previous evenings, and a balminess in the air reminded her of summer at home, of sitting out on the front porch, bare feet warm against the rough boards, the sound of the occasional slap as one of her brothers abruptly ended the night flight of some carnivorous insect. She tried to imagine what they would be doing that night. Perhaps Daniel would be sitting on the porch skinning rabbits with his penknife . . .
