by Jojo Moyes
Margaret knew she should go to Frances: by even participating in this outing she had condoned Frances’s treatment. But she was desperate to feel land under her feet. And it was so difficult to know what to say.
With only a handful of brides left aboard, the ship had become a maelstrom of focused activity: teams of ratings prowled decks normally closed to men, scrubbing, painting and polishing. Several were on their knees on the flight deck, fighting with foam and wooden brushes to rid the grey concrete of its lingering rainbow puddles of aviation fuel. Small tugs unloaded huge crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, feeding them through hatches into the hold, while on the other side the tankers began to refuel the ship.
In other circumstances, Frances might have enjoyed the sight of the ship at work, fully engaged in its normal course of duties. Now she took in the smirk of the duty officer at the top of the gangplank, the knowing glance he exchanged with his mate as she re-embarked, showing him her station card. She saw the lingering glances of the painting parties, the lowered eyes and muttered greeting of the officer who had previously wished her a cheerful good morning.
Over the last few days she had wondered at how it was possible to feel so lonely in a ship so full of people.
She was a few steps away from the little dormitory when she saw him. She had told herself that her previous outings around the ship had been to give herself some fresh air; to make herself leave the sweaty confines of the cabin. Now, as she recognised the man walking towards her, she knew she had not been honest with herself.
She glanced down at her clothes, unconsciously checking herself as she had once done while on duty, feeling her skin prickle with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. She was unsure of what she could possibly say to him. She knew he would have to say something now: they were too close for him not to.
They stopped. Looked at each other for just the briefest moment, then stared at their feet.
‘Going ashore?’ He indicated the harbour.
She could see nothing on his face, no clue. Should I be grateful for the mere fact that he has spoken to me at all? she wondered. ‘No . . . I – I decided to stay here.’
‘Enjoy the peace and quiet.’
‘Something like that.’
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to talk to her but was too gentlemanly to hurt her feelings.
‘Well . . . as much peace as you can find with . . . with this . . .’ He gestured to where a party of engineers were repairing some piece of equipment high up, joking noisily with each other as they worked.
‘Yes,’ she said. She could think of nothing else to say.
‘You should make the most of it,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . hard to find a bit of space to yourself on board. I mean real space . . .’
Perhaps he might understand more than he was saying, she thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘I—’
‘Hey, Marine.’
The rating walked towards them, holding out a note, his cap pulled at a jaunty angle over one eye. ‘They want you in the control room before your watch. Briefing for the governor’s visit.’ As he came closer she could see he had recognised her. The look the younger man gave her as he handed over the note made her wince. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, cheeks reddening.
As she turned away, she half hoped he might ask her to wait a moment. That he might say something, that told her he didn’t see her as the rest of them did. Say something, she willed him. Anything.
Moments later she wrenched open the door to the dormitory and let it shut heavily behind her. She leant against it, her back sticking through her blouse to its unforgiving surface. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that it ached. She had never thought until now about life’s fairness, at least not in relation to herself. Her patients had suffered, and she had occasionally questioned why God could take one or leave another in such pain. She had never wondered about the fairness of her own experiences: she had long ago discovered that it was better not to think about those years. But now, with all the other emotions swirling around inside her in some infernal cocktail, she felt the pendulum swing from bleak despair to blind fury at the way her life had turned out. Had she not suffered enough? Was this, and not what she had seen in the war, the real test of her resolve? How much more was she expected to pay for?
Maude Gonne, perhaps understanding that Margaret had gone ashore, scratched restlessly at the door. Frances stooped, picked her up and sat down with her on her lap.
The dog took no comfort from this. In fact she paid Frances no attention. Frances sat there stroking, gazing at the milky, unseeing eyes, the quivering body desperate for only one person.
Frances held the dog close to her, pitying her plight. ‘I know,’ she whispered, laying her cheek against the soft head. ‘Believe me, I know.’
Accustomed to the intense heat of Bombay, and oblivious to the huge fans that whirred overhead, the waiters in the cocktail bar of Green’s Hotel were visibly perspiring. The sweat glistened on their burnished faces and seeped into the collars of their immaculate white uniforms. But their discomfort was less to do with the heat – it was a relatively mild evening – than the endless demands of the hundred or so brides who had chosen that bar to end their day’s shore leave.
‘If I have to wait one more minute for my drink I swear I’ll have words with that man,’ said Avice, wafting the fan she had bought that afternoon and eyeing the unfortunate waiter as he ducked through the crowd, tray held aloft. ‘I’m wilting,’ she said, to his departing back.
‘He’s doing his best,’ said Margaret. She had been careful to sip her drink slowly, having guessed from the packed bar that service was likely to be slow. She was feeling restored: she had been able to elevate her feet for half an hour, and now let her head rest on the back of the chair, enjoying the light breeze created by the overhead fan.
It was the same everywhere: in Greens, the Bristol Grill, the grand Taj Mahal hotel; a combination of the Victoria and several troopships landing at once had swamped the harbour area with would-be revellers, men made gay and reckless by the end of the war and their increasing proximity to home. They had looked in at several places before deciding that at Green’s they might get a seat. Now, from their vantage-point on the veranda, they could look back through the archway at the dance area, which was now populated by men and women casting hopeful – and sometimes covetous – looks in the direction of the tables. Some of the brides had begun drinking John Collins and rum punches at lunchtime and were now feeling the effects of their encroaching hangovers. They seemed listless and vaguely discontented, their makeup sliding down their faces and their hair limp.
Margaret felt no guilt at hogging her seat. Heedless of the heat and dust, and of her own oft-stated ‘delicate condition’, Avice had dragged her everywhere that afternoon. They had walked around all the European shops, spent at least an hour in the Army and Navy Stores and another bartering with the men and small boys who besieged them with apparently unmissable bargains. Margaret had swiftly grown tired of haggling; it felt wrong to hold out for the odd rupee faced with the abject poverty of the salesmen. Avice, however, had leapt into it with astonishing enthusiasm, and spent much of the evening holding aloft her various purchases and exclaiming at the prices.
Margaret had been overwhelmed by the little they had seen of Bombay. She had been shocked at the sight of Indians bedding down in the street, at their seeming indifference to their conditions. At their thin limbs next to her own milk-fed plumpness, at their physical disabilities and barely dressed children. It made her feel ashamed for the nights she had moaned about the discomfort of her bunk.
Her drink appeared, and she made a point of tipping the waiter in front of Avice. Then, as he departed, she stared out at Victoria, floating serenely in the harbour, and wondered guiltily if Frances was asleep. All its lights were on, giving it a festive appearance, but without either aircraft or people the flight deck looked empty, like a vast, unpopulated plain.
‘Ah! A seat! Mi
nd if we join you?’ Margaret looked round to see Irene Carter, flanked by one of her friends, pulling out the chair opposite. She gave a wide, lipsticked smile that did not stretch to her eyes. Despite the heat she looked cool and brought with her a vague scent of lilies.
‘Irene,’ said Avice, her own smile something of a snarl. ‘How lovely.’
‘We’re exhausted,’ said Irene, throwing her bags under the table and lifting a hand to summon a waiter. He arrived at her side immediately. ‘All those natives following you around. I had to get one of the officers to tell them to leave me alone. I don’t think they know how upsetting they can be.’
‘We saw a man without legs,’ confided her companion, a plump girl with a mournful air.
‘Just sitting out on a rug! Can you imagine?’
‘I think he might have been stuck there,’ the girl said. ‘Perhaps someone put him down and left him.’
‘We’ve hardly noticed. We’ve been so busy shopping, haven’t we, Margaret?’ Avice gestured at her own bags.
‘We have,’ said Margaret.
‘Bought anything nice?’ said Irene. Margaret fancied there was a steely glint in her eye.
‘Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,’ said Avice, her own smile glued in place.
‘Really? I heard you’d bought something for the Queen of the Victoria final.’
‘Natty Johnson saw you in the Army and Navy,’ said the plump girl.
‘That? I don’t suppose I’ll wear it. To be honest, I haven’t given a thought to what I’ll wear.’
Margaret snorted quietly into her drink. Avice had spent the best part of an hour parading in front of the mirror in a variety of outfits. ‘I wish I knew what Irene Carter was wearing,’ she had muttered. ‘I’m going to make sure I knock her into a cocked hat.’ She had spent on three new dresses more money than Margaret’s father would spend on cattle feed in a year.
‘Oh, I dare say I’ll dig something out of my trunk,’ said Irene. ‘It’s only a bit of fun after all, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly is.’
Bloody hell, thought Margaret, gazing at Avice’s butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Irene. ‘You know what, Avice? I shall tell all those girls who’ve been whispering that you’re taking it too seriously that they’re quite wrong. There.’ She paused. ‘And that I’ve heard that direct from the horse’s mouth.’ She lifted her drink as if in a toast.
Margaret had to bite her lip hard to stop herself laughing at Avice’s face.
The four women, forced together through lack of spare tables rather than camaraderie, spent the best part of an hour and a half seated together. They ordered a fish curry; Margaret found it delicious but regretted it when indigestion struck. The other brides, however, made a show of fanning their mouths and pronouncing it inedible.
‘I hope it hasn’t done any harm to the baby,’ said Avice, laying a hand on her non-existent bump.
‘I heard your news. Congratulations,’ said Irene. ‘Does your husband know? I’m assuming it is your husband’s,’ she added, then laughed, a tinkling sound, to show she was joking.
‘I believe we’re getting post tomorrow,’ said Avice, whose own graceful smile had gone a little rigid. ‘I imagine he’ll have told everyone by now. We’re having a party when we get to London,’ she said. ‘We felt we rather missed out, with the war, so we’re going to have a do. Probably at the Savoy. And now, of course, it will be a double celebration.’
The Savoy was a good one, Margaret thought. Irene had looked briefly furious.
‘In fact, Irene, perhaps you’d like to come. Mummy and Daddy will be flying from Australia – the new Qantas service? – and I’m sure they’d love to see you. What with you being so new in London, I’m sure you’ll be glad of all the friends you can get.’ Avice leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Always makes you feel better to have at least one date in the social diary, doesn’t it?’
Ka-pow! thought Margaret, who was enjoying herself now. This was far dirtier than anything her brothers had ever done to each other.
‘I shall be delighted to come to your little gathering, if I can,’ said Irene, wiping the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll have to check what our plans are, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Avice sipped her iced water, a little smile dancing on her lips.
‘But I do think it’s lovely that you’ll have something to take your mind off things.’
Avice raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, this horrid business with you having befriended a prostitute. I mean, who on earth could have known? And so soon after your other little friend was caught fraternising with those grubby engineers.’
‘With her knickers down,’ said the plump girl.
‘Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it,’ said Irene.
‘I hardly—’ Avice began.
Irene’s voice was concerned: ‘It must have been so worrying for you, not knowing if you were going to be tarred with the same brush . . . you know, with what everyone’s been saying about your dormitory and what goes on there. We’ve all so admired your stoicism. No, your little social do is a very good idea. It will quite take your mind off things.’
The afternoon had stretched into evening, and with the fading of the light her thoughts had grown darker. Unable to face the confines of the cabin any longer, she had toyed with the idea of leaving the ship. But she had no one to accompany her, and Bombay seemed to require a certain robustness of spirit that she did not own. She had stepped out and headed for the boat deck, close to where she had sat with Maude Gonne just a week earlier.
Now she stood, while the harbour lights glinted steadily on the inky water, interrupted occasionally by the noisy passage of tugs and barges. A strange conjunction of scents, spices, fuel oil, perfume, rotten meat, expanded in the stilled air so that she was both entranced and repelled by the mere act of breathing. Her thoughts had calmed a little now; she would do what she had always done, she told herself. She would get through. It was only a couple more weeks until she reached England and she had learnt long ago that anything could be endured if you tried hard enough. She would not think of what might have been. The men who had best survived the war, she had long ago observed, had been those able to live one day at a time, those able to count even the smallest of blessings. She had bought herself a packet of cigarettes at the PX. Now she lit one, conscious that it was a self-destructive gesture but savouring the acrid taste. Across the water, voices called to each other and from somewhere further distant Indian music drifted, one long, mournful filigree note.
‘You want to watch out. You’re not meant to be here.’
She jumped. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
‘It’s me,’ he said, stubbing out his own cigarette. ‘Maggie not with you?’
‘She’s ashore.’
‘With all the others.’
She wondered if there was a polite way of asking him to leave her.
He was wearing his engineer’s overalls; it was too dark to see the oil on them but she could smell it under the scent of the smoke. She hated the smell of oil: she had treated too many burned men who had been saturated with it, could still feel the tacky density of the fabric she had had to peel off their flesh.
I shall start nursing again in England, she told herself. Audrey Marshall had sent her off with a personal letter of recommendation. With her service record there would be no shortage of opportunities.
‘Ever been to India before?’
She was annoyed at the interruption of her thoughts. ‘No.’
‘Seen a lot of countries, have you?’
‘A few,’ she said. ‘Mainly bases.’
‘You’re a well-travelled woman, then.’
It’s because Margaret isn’t here, she thought. He’s one of those men who needs an audience. She did her best to smile. ‘No more than anyone else who’s seen service, I imagine.’
He lit himself another cigarette and blew the smoke meditativ
ely into the sky. ‘But I bet you could answer me a question,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘Is there a difference?’
She frowned. On the shore, two vehicles were locked in an impasse, horns blaring. The sound echoed across the dockyard, drowning the music.
‘I’m sorry?’ She had to lean forward temporarily to hear him.
‘In the men.’ He smiled, revealing white teeth in the darkness. ‘I mean, is there a nationality you prefer?’
From his expression she knew she had heard what she suspected. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. She moved past him, her cheeks burning, but as she reached for the handle of the hatch, he stepped in front of her.
‘No need to have an attack of modesty on my account,’ he said.
‘Will you excuse me?’
‘We all know what you are. No need to skirt round it.’ He spoke in a sing-song voice so that it was a second before she had gauged the menace in what he was saying.
‘Please would you let me pass?’
‘You know, I had you all wrong.’ Dennis Tims shook his head. ‘We called you Miss Frigidaire in the mess. Miss Frigidaire. We couldn’t believe you’d even married. Had you down as wedded to one of those Bible-bashers, a virgin for life. How wrong we were, eh?’
Her heart was racing as she tried to assess whether she would be able to push past him for the door. One of his hands rested lightly on the handle. She could feel the confidence behind his strength, the sureness of a man who always, physically, got his own way.
‘So prim and proper, with your blouses buttoned up to your neck. And really you’re just some whore who no doubt persuaded some fool pollywog sailor to stick a ring on your finger. How’d you do it, eh? Promise him you’d save it all for him, did you? Tell him he was the only one who meant anything?’
He put out a hand towards her breast and she batted it away.
‘Let me out,’ she said.
‘What’s the matter, Miss Priss? Not like anyone’s around to know.’ He gripped her arms then, pushed her backwards towards the guard rail. She stumbled as his weight met her like a solid wall. In the distance, from the hotel near the harbour, she could hear laughter.
