Ship of Brides

by Jojo Moyes

  There was no sign of the baby yet. Avice had examined herself with some pride, the still-flat stomach but an attractive hint of fullness to her bosom. She wouldn’t be one of these flabby whales, like Margaret, who sat puffing and sweating in corners, ankles and feet as grotesquely swollen as an elephant’s. She would make sure she stayed trim and attractive until the end. When she was large she would retire into her home, make the nursery pretty and not reveal herself again until the baby came. That was a ladylike way to do it.

  Now that she no longer felt nauseous, she was sure that pregnancy would positively agree with her: aided by the constant sunshine, her skin glowed, her blonde hair had new highlights. She drew attention wherever she went. She had wondered, now that her condition was public knowledge, whether she should cover up a little, whether it was advisable to be a little more modest. But there were so few days left before they entered European waters that it seemed a shame to waste them. Avice shed her sundress, and straightened up a little, just to make sure that she could be seen to her best advantage before she lay decoratively on the deck to sunbathe. Apart from that unfortunate business with Frances (and what a turn-up that had been for the books!), and what with her steady notching up of points for Queen of the Victoria, she thought she had probably made the voyage into rather a success.

  A short distance away, on the forecastle, Nicol was propped against the wall. Normally he would not have smoked on deck, especially not on duty, but over the past days he had smoked steadily and with a kind of grim determination, as if the repetitive action could simplify his thoughts.

  ‘Going in later?’ One of the seamen, with whom he had often played Uckers, a kind of naval Ludo, appeared at his elbow. The men would be piped to bathe when the last of the women were out.

  ‘No.’ Nicol stubbed out his cigarette.

  ‘I am. Can’t wait.’

  Nicol feigned polite interest.

  The man jerked a thumb at the women. ‘That lot. Seeing them out having a good time. Reminds me of my girls at home.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We got a river runs past the end of our garden. When my girls were small we’d take them in on sunny days – teach them to swim.’ He made a breaststroke motion, lost in his memories. ‘Living near water, see, they got to know how to stay afloat. Only safe, like.’

  Nicol nodded in a way that might suggest assent.

  ‘Times I thought I’d not see them again. Many a time, if I’m honest. Not that you let yourself think like that too often, eh, boy?’

  Despite himself Nicol smiled at the older man’s description of him.

  ‘Still . . . still. Better times ahead.’ He drew hard on his cigarette, then dropped it into the water. ‘I’m surprised old Highfield let ’em in. Would have thought the sight of all that female flesh’d be too much for him.’

  The afternoon was set fair, as it had been for days. Below them, in the glassy waters, two women writhed and squealed their way on to one of the lifeboats, while others leant over the ship’s rail shouting encouragement. Another shrieked hysterically as her friend splashed her.

  The man gazed at them in benign appreciation. ‘Cold fish, that Highfield. Always thought it. You got to wonder about a man always wants to be by himself.’

  Nicol said nothing.

  ‘Time was, I would have argued the toss with anyone said he was a bad skipper. Got to admit, when we was on the convoys he did us proud. But you can tell he’s lost it now. Confidence shot, isn’t it, since Indomitable?’

  The older man was breaking an unspoken convention among the men not to talk about what had happened on that night, let alone who might be to blame. Nicol did not respond, except to shake his head.

  ‘Couldn’t hand down orders. Not when it counted. I’ve seen it before – them that want to do everything their bloody selves. I reckon if he’d had his head screwed on proper that night he could have handed down orders and we would have saved a lot of men. He just got stuck in his bloody self. Didn’t look at the big picture. That’s what you need in a skipper – an ability to see the bigger picture.’

  If he had had a shilling for every armchair strategist he’d met in his years of service, Nicol observed, he’d have been a rich man.

  ‘I allus thought it was a bit of a joke on the top brass’s part, giving him her sister ship to bring home . . . No . . . I don’t think you know a man till you seen him around his nearest and dearest. I’ve served under him five year and I’ve not heard a single person speak up for him.’

  They stood in silence for some time. Finally, perhaps recognising that their exchange had been rather one-sided, the man asked, ‘You’ll be glad to see your family again, eh?’

  Nicol lit another cigarette.

  She was not there. He hadn’t thought she would be.

  He had lain awake for the rest of that night, Jones’s words haunting him almost as much as his own sense of betrayal. Slowly, as the night gave way to day, his own disbelief had evaporated, steadily replaced by the putting together of odd clues, inconsistencies in her behaviour. Standing in the bowels of the ship, he had wanted her to deny it indignantly; wanted to hear her outrage at the slur. None had been forthcoming. Now he wanted her to explain herself – as if, in some way, she had tricked him.

  He hadn’t needed to ask any further questions to clarify what he had been told; not of her, anyway. When he returned to the mess she had still been the talk of the men. Wide-eyed little thing she had been, Jones-the-Welsh said, leaning out of his hammock for a cigarette. A ton of makeup on her, almost like the others had done it to her for a joke.

  Nicol had paused in the hatch, wondering whether he should turn round. He wasn’t sure what made him stay.

  Jones himself had apparently been presented with her but declined. She stuck out because of her shape: ‘Thin as a whippet,’ he said, ‘with no tits to speak of.’ And because she was drunk, he said. He curled his lip, as if he had been offered something distasteful.

  The manager had sent her upstairs with one of his mates and she’d fallen up the steps. They had all laughed: there was something comical about the skinny girl with all the makeup, drunk as a skunk, her legs all over the place. Actually, he said, more seriously, ‘I thought she was under age, you know what I’m saying? Didn’t fancy having my collar felt.’

  Duckworth, an apparent connoisseur of such things, had agreed.

  ‘Bloody hell, though. You’d never know now, would you? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’

  No, Duckworth had observed. But for them recognising her, no one would have known.

  Nicol had begun to pull down his hammock. He had thought he might try for some sleep before his next watch.

  ‘Now now, Nicol,’ came Jones’s voice from behind him. ‘Hope you’re not thinking about slipping in there for a quickie later. Need to save your money for that missus of yours.’ He had guffawed. ‘Besides, she’s a bit better-looking now. Bit more polish. She’d probably charge you a fortune.’

  He had thought he might hit him. Some irrational part of him had wanted to do the same to her. Instead he had pasted a wry smile on his face, feeling even as he did that he was engaged in some sort of betrayal, and disappeared into the wash cubicle.

  Night had fallen. Victoria pushed forward in the black waters, oblivious to the time or season, to the moods and vagaries of her inhabitants, her vast engines powering obediently beneath her. Frances lay in her bunk, listening for the now familiar sounds, the last pipes, muttered conversations and faltering footsteps that spoke of the steady settling of the ship’s passengers to sleep, the sniffs and grunts, the slowing of breath that told the same story of the two other women in her cabin. The sounds of silence, of solitude, the sounds that told her she was free once again to breathe. The sounds she seemed to have spent a good portion of her life waiting for.

  And outside, just audible to the trained ear, the sound of two feet shifting on the corridor floor.

  He arrived at four a.m. She heard him murmuring something t
o the other marine as they changed guard, the muffled echo of the other man’s steps as he went to some mess, or to sleep. She listened to the man outside as she had for what felt like hundreds of nights before.

  Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she rose from her bunk. Unseen by the two sleeping women on each side of her, she tiptoed towards the steel door, her footsteps sure and silent in the dark. Just before she reached it, she stood still, eyes closed as if she were in pain.

  Then she stepped forward, and quietly, carefully, laid her face against it. Slowly she rested her entire length, her thighs, her stomach, her chest against it, palms pressed flat on each side of her head, feeling the cool metal through her thin nightgown, its immovable solidity.

  If she turned her head, kept her ear pressed against the door, she could almost hear him breathing.

  She stood there, in the dark, for some time. A tear rolled down her face and plopped on to her bare foot. It was followed by another.

  Outside, apart from the low rumble of the engines, there was silence.

  17

  Among the 300 different items the Red Cross has put aboard for the use of brides are bed linen, towels, stationery, medical and beauty preparations, and tons of tinned fruit, cream, biscuits, meat and boxes of chocolates. It has also provided 500 canvas folding deck-chairs and a special book on midwifery.

  Sydney Morning Herald, 3 July 1946

  Twenty-six days

  A major port, especially one that had formed an important staging-post for most of the war years, can safely be assumed to have seen most things pass through its gates. Guns, armoury, foodstuffs, silks, spices, troops, traders, holy texts and foul waste had all passed through, eliciting little comment.

  Old hands could remember the nightmare roaring of the six white tigers confined to crates en route to the home of an American movie mogul; others the glowing gold dome of a temple for some vainglorious European head of state. More recently, for several weeks the harbour had hummed with a rare fragrance after a crane carrying five thousand bottles of sickly perfume had dropped its cargo on to the dockside.

  But the sight of some six hundred women waiting to go ashore at Bombay brought the traffic at Alexandra Lock to a standstill. The women, lining the decks in their brightly coloured summer dresses, waved down with hats and handbags, their voices filled with the energy of three and a half weeks spent at sea. Hundreds of children ran along either side of the dock, their arms stretched upwards, calling to the women to toss down more coins, more coins. Small tugboats, hovering beneath the great bow like satellites, noisily dragged Victoria round, pulling her into position alongside the quay. As the ship glided gracefully into place, many of the women exclaimed loudly at how such a huge ship could fit through the lock; others exclaimed rather more vigorously at the smell, pressing white handkerchiefs to their glowing faces. And all along the quay eyes lifted to the great aircraft-carrier that no longer carried aircraft. Men and women stood in brightly coloured robes and saris, troops, dockyard workers, traders, all paused to watch the Ship of Brides manoeuvre her way in.

  ‘You must stick together and stay in the main thoroughfares.’ The WSO was struggling to be heard over the clamour of those desperate to disembark. ‘And you must return by twenty-two hundred hours at the latest. Captain Highfield has made it clear he will not tolerate lateness. Do you all understand?’

  It was only a matter of months since the Indian sailors’ mutiny at the harbour; they had gone on strike in protest against their living conditions. How this had escalated was still a matter of some debate, but it was indisputable that it had erupted into a fierce gun battle between English troops and the mutineers that had lasted several days. There had been several heated discussions about the wisdom of letting the women ashore but given that they had remained aboard at Colombo and Cochin, it did not seem fair to keep them any longer. The officer held up a clipboard, wiping her face with her free hand. ‘The duty officer will be taking names as each woman returns aboard. Make sure yours is among them.’

  The heat was fierce and Margaret clung to the side of the ship, wishing, as the crowd pressed and writhed around her, that she could find somewhere to sit down. Avice, beside her, kept standing on tiptoe, shouting back what she could see, one hand shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight.

  ‘We must do the Gateway of India. Apparently everyone does the Gateway of India. And the Willingdon Club is meant to be lovely, but it’s a few miles out of the city. They’ve got tennis courts and a swimming-pool. Do you think we should get a taxi?’

  ‘I want to find a nice hotel, and put my feet up for half an hour,’ said Margaret. They had stood watching for almost the two hours it had taken Victoria to drop anchor, and the oppressive temperature had caused Margaret’s ankles to swell.

  ‘Plenty of time for that, Margaret. Us ladies in the family way must do our best to keep active. Ooh, look! They’re about to let us off.’

  There was a queue for the gharries, the little horse-drawn carriages that would take the women to the Red Gate at the entrance to the dock. Those who had already made it down the gangplank were clustered around them, chattering away, checking and rechecking handbags and sunhats, pointing out the distant views of the city.

  Through the gate, Margaret could see wide, tree-lined avenues, flanked by large hotels, houses and shops, the pavements and roads thick with movement. The solidity and space made her feel almost giddy after so long at sea, and several times she had found herself swaying, unsure whether it was due to heat or sea-legs.

  Two women walked past, balancing oversized baskets of fruit on their heads with the same nonchalant ease as the brides wore their hats. They whispered to each other, covering their mouths and giggling through bejewelled fingers. As Margaret watched, one spied something on the ground. Her back ramrod straight, she stretched out a bare foot, picked up the object with her toes, took it in her hand and pocketed it.

  ‘Strewth,’ said Margaret, who had not seen her own feet for several weeks now.

  ‘There’s a dinner-dance at Green’s Hotel, apparently,’ Avice was checking notes in her pocket book. ‘Some of the girls from 8D are heading there later. I said we might meet them for tea. But I’m desperate to go shopping. I feel I’ve bought everything it’s possible to buy from the PX.’

  ‘I just want a bloody seat,’ Margaret muttered. ‘I don’t care about sightseeing or shopping. I just want dry land and a bloody seat.’

  ‘Do you really think you should use so much bad language?’ Avice murmured. ‘It’s really not becoming to hear it from someone in . . . your . . .’

  It was then, as Avice’s voice tailed away, that Margaret became aware of a shushing. She wondered what had caused it. Following the others’ gaze, she turned to see Frances walking down the gangplank behind them. She was dressed in a pale blue blouse, buttoned to the neck, and khaki trousers. She wore her wide-brimmed sunhat and glasses, but her red-gold hair and long limbs confirmed her identity.

  She hesitated at the bottom, conscious perhaps of the quiet. Then, seeing Margaret’s hand held aloft, she made her way through the women to where Margaret and Avice stood. As she moved, girls stepped back from her like parting seas.

  ‘Changed your mind, then?’ Margaret was conscious of her voice booming into the silence.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frances.

  ‘It’d drive you nuts to stay aboard too long, eh?’ Margaret looked at Avice. ‘Especially in heat like this.’

  Frances stood very still, her eyes fixed on Margaret. ‘It is pretty close,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I vote we find some bar or hotel where we can—’

  ‘She’s not walking around with us.’

  ‘Avice!’

  ‘People will talk. And goodness knows what might happen – for all we know her former customers are walking the streets. They might think we’re one of those . . .’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Frances is perfectly welcome to walk with us.’

  Margaret
was aware that all the women around them were listening. Bunch of chattering harpies, that was what her dad would have called them. Surely nothing Frances had done, whatever her past, warranted such treatment?

  ‘You, perhaps,’ said Avice. ‘I’ll find someone else to walk with.’

  ‘Frances,’ Margaret said, daring any of the women to speak again, ‘you’re welcome to walk with me. I’d be glad of the company.’

  It was hard to tell from behind her sunglasses, but Frances appeared to glance sideways at the sea of closed faces.

  ‘You can help me find somewhere nice to sit down.’

  ‘Just watch out she doesn’t find somewhere to lie down.’

  Frances’s head shot round and her fingers tightened on her handbag.

  ‘Come on,’ Margaret said, holding out her hand. ‘Let’s hit the old Gateway of India.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Ah, come on! You might never get another chance to see India.’

  ‘No. Thank you. I – I’ll see you later.’ Before Margaret had a chance to say any more she had disappeared back through the crowd.

  The women closed ranks, murmuring in righteous indignation. Margaret watched the distant gangplank, just able to make out the tall thin figure walking slowly up it. She waited until it had vanished inside. ‘That was mean, Avice.’

  ‘I’m not horrid, Margaret, so you needn’t look at me like that. I’m just honest. I’m not having my one trip ashore ruined by that girl.’ She straightened her hair, then placed a sunhat carefully on her head. ‘Besides, in our condition, I think it’s best if we keep our worries to a minimum. It can’t be good for us.’

  The queue had moved on. Avice linked her arm with Margaret’s and walked her swiftly towards a gharry.