by Jojo Moyes
She looked down at the pleats on her new suit, satisfied by how superior her outfit was compared with those of the girls around her. Her parents, who had been unable to see her off, had sent a telegram and some money, and her mother had arranged for the suit to be delivered that morning to the hotel. Avice had been worried about what to wear, unsure of the etiquette for such an occasion. Now, with a clear view of at least a hundred other girls, hardly any of whom seemed to have dressed for the occasion, she wondered why she had fretted.
The ship was shabby. Avice had had her picture taken, been interviewed by the Bulletin for its society pages, and someone whom she had been pretty sure was the captain had shaken her hand, but it didn't alter the fact that the Victoria was rusting in places, and bore no more resemblance to the Queen Mary than Jean did to her namesake Jean Harlow. As Avice had made her way up the rickety gangplank, her nostrils had curled at the faint but definite aroma of boiled cabbage, which reinforced the second-class nature of her transport.
Still, no one could accuse Avice of lack of fibre. Oh, no. She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to think about what she was heading to. In six weeks, she would discover what her new life held. She would get to know his parents, take tea at the Rectory, meet the ladies of the quaint English village where they lived, perhaps the odd duke or duchess. She would be introduced to his friends, those outside the RAF, who had known him as a child. She would begin to make their home.
She would finally be Mrs Ian Radley, rather than just Avice - or, as her mother put it, 'Oh, Avice . . .' - who might be married but, as far as her family was concerned, seemed no more deserving of respect or adult consideration than she had been as a child.
'Watch her!'
Avice glanced down to the deck below: Jean had just slipped off the side of the gun turret. She was hanging, giggling, from the trouser pocket of one of the ratings, her slip and a good deal of leg exposed to anyone who cared to look. She was about to say something, when she realised that the deck was vibrating gently under her feet: the engines must have started, not that they could be heard in the din. She looked over the edge and saw, with a start, that the gangplank had been hauled up. There was a swell of noise, and a short distance away a winch was hoisting up several sailors who had apparently missed their opportunity to get aboard by normal means. They were laughing and cheering, covered with lipstick kisses. Possibly even drunk.
Disgraceful, thought Avice, smiling despite herself as they were dumped unceremoniously on the flight deck above. Around them, small tugs bossed and bullied the vast ship, negotiating its slow release from the harbour. The women were chattering excitedly, waving with greater urgency, their voices lifting as each tried to make sure their message was heard over the hubbub.
'Mum!' a voice below Avice yelled, increasingly hysterically. 'Mum! Mum!'
Someone beside her was praying, then broke off to exclaim to herself: 'I can't believe it! I can't believe it!'
The crowd, a sea of Australian flags and the odd Union Jack, frothed and bubbled as people pushed towards the edge of the quay, bobbing above their neighbours to be seen by those aboard. Several placards were held aloft: 'God Speed, Audrey', 'Good Luck from the Dockyard Workers of Garden Island'. She found herself gazing around the port, then at the hills beyond. Is this it? she thought suddenly, her breath catching in her throat. My last view of Australia? Then, with a lurch, the streamers snapped, their cobwebby strands releasing the ship from the rails of the dockside and, with an audible groan, she lurched away from the quay, sinking a few degrees as she slipped anchor.
There was a collective gasp. The engines began to power. A girl shrieked and over the din the band, now clearly visible on the quayside, struck up with 'Waltzing Matilda'.
A few items were hurled from the ship's berth and fell short, sending up small splashes of futility. The thin ribbon of blue water widened beneath them, then became an expanse. The ship, as if oblivious to the madness around it, glided, surprisingly quickly, away from the harbour.
'You'll be sorry!' came a solitary cry, over the music. It sounded like a joke. 'You'll all be sorry!'
It was at this point that the ship's passengers descended briefly into silence. Then, breaking it, the first of the girls began to cry.
Murray Donleavy placed his arm round his sobbing son, and sat silently as the crowds melted away, the sound of grieving women becoming more distinct. Finally, only a few huddles of people remained, staring out as the ship gradually merged with the horizon. It was getting chilly and the boy was shivering. He took off his jacket and threw it about Daniel's shoulders, then hauled the boy against him for warmth.
Every now and then Daniel raised his head as if he wanted to speak, but was unable to find words and sank back into silent weeping, his face thrust into his hands as if the tears were a cause of shame.
'Nothing to be sorry for, boy,' he murmured. 'It's been a tough day.'
Theirs was one of the few vehicles remaining, sitting in a sea of muddied streamers and discarded sweet wrappers. Murray walked round to the driver's side of the pickup, then halted when he noticed that his son was standing still and staring at him. 'You all right now?'
'Do you think she'll hate me, Dad?'
Murray moved round and hugged his boy again. 'Don't be so bloody soft.' He ruffled his hair. 'She'll be banging on about you visiting her before you know it.'
'In England?'
'Don't see why not. You keep saving up that rabbit money and you'll be able to fly there before you know it. Things are changing fast.'
The boy gazed ahead at nothing, transported to a world of richly rewarded pelts and huge aeroplanes. 'I could fly there,' he repeated.
'Like I said, boy, you save your money. The rate you're going, you'll be able to pay for all of us.'
Daniel smiled then, and his father's heart ached to see him meet another loss so bravely. This must be how it had felt for the women during the war, he observed, as he climbed into the truck. Except that they hadn't known if we were coming back. Take care of her, he told the ship silently. Look after my girl.
They sat in the cab for a few moments, watching people trail out through the dockyard gates, seeing exposed the vast expanses of ground that had been invisible, hidden under human traffic. The wind was picking up now, sending bits of paper scuttling around the quayside, to be dived on by seagulls. He sighed, suddenly conscious of the length of the drive home.
'Dad, she's left her sandwiches.' Beside him, Daniel held aloft the greaseproofed package that Letty had put together that morning. 'It was here, on the floor. She's left her lunch behind.'
Murray frowned, trying to remember what his daughter had said about leaving them at home. Oh, well, he thought. She must have been mistaken. That's women when they're carrying. All over the place. Noreen had been the same.
'Can I have them, Dad? I'm starving.'
Murray stuck his key into the ignition. 'Don't see why not. They're no use to her now. Tell you what, save one for me.'
It had finally begun to rain: the grey skies that had threatened to discharge their load all day were spitting against the windscreen. Murray started the truck, and reversed out slowly on to the dockside. Suddenly he hit the brake, sending Daniel shooting forward, his mouthful of sandwich spraying over the dashboard.
'Hang on,' he said, his face electrified with the memory of an empty basket and his daughter's inexplicable hurry to get on board. 'Where's the bloody dog?'
5
An Australian bride missed sailing for England in HMS Victorious because at the last moment a charge, subsequently dismissed, was laid against her. Immediately she was released, she was rushed in a police car to No. 3 Wharf Woolloomooloo, but the brideship aircraft-carrier had sailed.
Sydney Morning Herald, 4 July 1946
One Day In
HMS Victoria was seven hundred and fifty feet long, and weighed twenty-three thousand tons, comprising nine floors below the flight deck and four decks above it up to the vertigino
us heights of the bridge and island. Even without the brides' specially created berths it would have housed in its gigantic belly some two hundred different rooms, stores and compartments, equalling the size, perhaps, of several department stores or upmarket apartment blocks. Or even, depending on where the brides had come from, several large barns. The hangars alone, where most of the brides were housed, fed and entertained, were nearly five hundred feet long and situated on the same floors as the canteens, bathrooms, the captain's sleeping area and at least fourteen sizeable storerooms. They were linked by narrow passageways, which, if one confused the decks, were as likely to lead to an aircraft repair shop or engineers' mess as a brides' bathroom - a situation that had already caused several red faces. Someone had pinned a plan of the ship in the brides' canteen, and Avice had found herself studying it several times, mulling bad-temperedly over Vegetable Stores, Parachute Packing Rooms and Pom-Pom Magazines that should, by rights, have been grand ballrooms and first-class cabins. It was a floating world of unintelligible rules and regulations, of ordered and as yet unrevealed routines, a labyrinthine rabbit warren of low-ceilinged rooms, corridors and lockers, the vast majority of which led to places where the women were not meant to be. It was vast yet cramped, noisy - especially for those billeted near the engine rooms - battered, and filled to bursting point with chattering girls and men trying, in some cases half-heartedly, to do their work. With the sheer numbers of people moving around and a general unfamiliarity with the placing of the different flights of stairs and gangways it frequently took the best part of half an hour simply to traverse one deck, alternately pushing past people or pressing against the pipe-laden walls to give way to others.
And still Avice could not lose Jean.
From the moment she discovered they had been allocated the same cabin (more than six hundred brides and they had lumped her with Jean!) the girl had decided to take on a new role: that of Avice's Best Friend. Having conveniently forgotten the mutual antipathy that had characterised their meetings at the American Wives' Club, she had spent the greater part of the last twenty-four hours trailing after her, interrupting whenever Avice struck up conversation with anyone else to stake her claim with a suggestion of a shared history in Sydney.
So it was that they were both on the early sitting for breakfast ('Avice! Do you remember that girl who used to sew everything blanket stitch? Even her undies?'), walking the decks to try to get their bearings ('Avice! Do you remember when we had to wear those necklaces made out of chicken rings? Have you still got yours?') or sharing a packed queue for the bathroom ('Avice! Did you wear those cami-knickers on your wedding night? They look a bit posh for every day . . . or are you trying to impress someone? Eh? Eh?'). She knew she should be nicer to Jean, especially since she had discovered she was only sixteen - but really! The girl was awfully trying.
And Avice wasn't convinced that she was entirely truthful either. There had been an exchange when Jean had chattered on at breakfast about her plans to get a job in a department store where her husband's aunt held a managerial post. 'How can you work? I thought you were expecting,' Avice had said coldly.
'Lost it,' said Jean blithely. Avice gave her a hard, sceptical look. 'It was very sad,' Jean said. Then, after a pause: 'Do you think they'll let me have a second helping of bacon?'
Jean, Avice noted as she walked briskly up the last flight of stairs, hardly ever mentioned her husband, Stanley. She herself would have mentioned Ian more often, but on the few occasions when she had Jean had tried to elicit from her some smutty confidence ('Did you let him do it to you before your wedding night?' And, even worse: 'Did it give you a fright the first time you saw it . . . you know . . . sticking up?'). Finally Avice gave up trying to shake her off by movement. They were all due upstairs on the flight deck at eleven for the captain's address. It should be simple enough to lose her among more than six hundred other women, shouldn't it?
'Do you fancy going to one of these lectures?' Jean shouted, chewing gum as they made their way past the projection room. 'There's one on the strains of marrying a foreigner next week.' Her voice, as it had all morning, carried over the noisy vibrations of the engines and the repeated piped calls, summoning Petty Officer Gardner or special sea dutymen to the commander's office.
Avice pretended not to hear her.
'I quite fancy the one on common difficulties in the first year,' Jean went on. 'Except our first year has been dead easy so far. He wasn't even there.'
'The ship's company of HMS Victoria will do their best to make your passage to the United Kingdom an enjoyable one . . . At the same time you must remember you are not in a liner, but are privileged to be a passenger in one of His Majesty's ships. Life on board must be governed by service rules and customs.'
Margaret stood on the flight deck, three deep in the rows of brides, some of whom were giggling with nerves as they listened to the captain. He moved, she thought, as if someone had sewn his sleeves to the body of his jacket.
The sea, sparkling blue, was benign and calm, and the deck - the size of a two-acre field, hardly moved. Margaret cast surreptitious glances along its shining length, sniffing the salted air, feeling the breeze-blown sea mist on her skin, enjoying her first sense of space and freedom since they had slipped anchor the previous day. She had thought she might be a little frightened once they could no longer see land but instead she relished the sheer size of the ocean and wondered - with curiosity, not terror - what lay beneath the surface.
At each end of the deck, reflected in shallow, prismed puddles of seawater and aircraft fuel, the aeroplanes stood tethered, their gleaming noses pointing upwards as if hankering for flight. Between them, at the base of the tower known as the 'island', groups of men in overalls stood watching.
'Every person aboard one of His Majesty's ships is subject to the Naval Discipline Act, which means no spirits, wine or beer, and that gambling in any form is forbidden. There is to be no smoking near the aircraft at any time. Most importantly, do not get in the way of or distract men who are on duty. You are allowed nearly everywhere on the ship except the men's living spaces, but work must not be interrupted.'
At this some of the girls glanced around and one of the ratings winked. A giggle rippled through the female ranks. Margaret shifted her weight to her other foot and sighed.
Jean, one of the girls allocated to share her cabin, had nipped into the space in front of her two minutes after the captain had started talking, and stood, one leg bent under her, biting her nails. She had been buoyant that morning, chattering away from daybreak about her excitement, about the ship, her new shoes. Anything that came to mind had spewed out, unfiltered, to the ears of her new companions. Now, faced with the captain's stern manner and his litany of possible misdemeanours, she was looking temporarily wobbly, her excitement giving way to trepidation.
'You may have heard from other brides that they had the chance to disembark at various ports on their journey. It must be remembered that in a troopship you will probably get no leave. There may be a chance to land at Colombo and possibly at Bombay, if the international situation allows, but this cannot be looked upon as certain. I would add that persons failing to return to the ship by the stated time are liable to be left behind.'
The captain's gaze travelled along them. There was nothing speculative in it.
'If there is a general complaint about some matter, the duty women's service officer should be informed, and she will bring the matter to the notice of one of the lieutenant commanders. Meanwhile, the following spaces are out of bounds to women: ratings' living spaces and messes, officers' cabins and messes, below the level of the hangar deck, one deck above the flight deck, gun positions and galleries, and inside boats.
'A more comprehensive guide, in booklet form, will be distributed to each of you later this afternoon. I'd like you all to read it and ensure you follow its regulations to the letter. I cannot emphasise strongly enough how grave the consequences will be for those who choose to disobey them.'
A silence descended on the deck, as he allowed the weight of his words to resonate. Margaret felt her cheeks flush as she thought of her cabin on the hangar deck below. A little way along, a woman was crying.
'Eight women's service officers are on board to advise, help and assist you on the journey.' Here, he indicated the women standing by the Corsairs, each looking almost as grim and self-important as the captain himself. 'Each WSO has a group of cabins under her special care and will always be available to help you.' He fixed the women in front of him with a stern gaze. 'The WSOs will also go rounds during the night.'
'That's my evening's entertainment buggered,' whispered the girl beside Margaret, and was met by a muffled snort of laughter.
'Just as women are not allowed in naval personnel's quarters, the ship's company is not allowed in the women's quarters and living spaces, except as required for duty. I would remind you of my previous statement, that the duty women's service officers will go rounds during the night.'
'And naughty girls will have to walk the plank.' There was another surreptitious but clear outbreak of giggling, a pressure valve loosening.
'Lord knows what he takes us for,' said the girl beside Margaret, fiddling with a brooch.
The captain appeared to be at the end of his interminable speech. He looked down at a note attached to his booklets, apparently determining whether or not to continue. After a moment or two, he raised his head. 'I have also been asked to tell you that . . . a small hairdressing salon . . .' here the captain's jaw tightened '. . . has been created in the after end of the lounge adjacent to B Cabin. It will be staffed by volunteers from among the passengers, if anyone would . . . like to offer their services.'
He stared at his papers, then fixed them all with a look that might have been cold or simply weary resignation.
'Friendly soul,' said Margaret, under her breath, as the group dispersed.
