The Ship of Brides

by Jojo Moyes

  And yet those two faces - the tall thin girl with her vehement accusation, and the raw grief on the face of the little one - made him wonder how much they were asking of these women, to travel so far on a promise based on so little. To put them in the face of such temptation. That was if it had been temptation at all . . .

  The removal of the girl - the second to be taken off in such circumstances - had cast a pall over the ship. He could tell the brides felt more insecure than ever. They cast sidelong glances at him as he moved along the decks on his rounds, huddled into doorways as if fearful he might consign them to the same fate. The chaplain had attempted to address the women's fears with a few carefully chosen words during devotions but that had only added to their heightened anxiety. The women's officers, meanwhile, were ostracised. The brides, having heard of Jean's treatment, had chosen to express their contempt in various ways, some more vocal than others, and now several of the women's officers had come to him in tears.

  Several weeks ago he would have told them all to pull themselves together. Now he felt bleak sympathy. This was not misbehaviour: the brides were not on some great adventure. They were essentially powerless. And such powerlessness could invoke unusual emotions both in those who experienced it and the onlookers.

  Besides, he had other concerns. The ship, as if she had heard of her own planned fate, had suffered a series of breakdowns. The rudder had jammed, necessitating an emergency switch to steam steering, for the third time in the past ten days. The water shortage continued, with the engineers unable to work out why the desalination pumps kept breaking down. He was supposed to pick up a further fourteen civilian passengers at Aden, including the governor of Gibraltar and his wife who had been visiting the port, for passage back to their residence, and was not sure how he was going to cater for them all. And he was finding it increasingly hard to disguise his limp. Dobson had asked him pointedly if he was 'quite all right' the previous day and he had been forced to put his full weight on it even though it throbbed so hard he had had to bite the inside of his cheek to contain himself. He had considered going to the infirmary and seeing if there was something he could take; he held the keys, after all. But he had no idea what medicine he should use, and the prospect of doing further damage to it made him wince. Three more weeks, he told himself. Three more weeks, if I can hang on that long.

  And that, in the end, was why he decided to hold the dance. A good captain did everything in his power to ensure the happiness and well-being of his passengers. A bit of music and some carefully monitored mixing would do everyone good. And he, of all people, understood the need for a diversion.

  Maude Gonne was not well. Perhaps it was the subdued mood of the little cabin, which seemed empty without Jean's effervescent presence, that had drawn her down. Perhaps it was simply the effect of several weeks of poor food and confinement in the heat. She had little appetite and was listless. She was barely interested in her trips to the bathroom or late-night flits around the deck, no longer sniffing the unfamiliar salt air from under whatever disguise they chose to carry her. She had lost weight and felt damningly light, her frame insubstantial.

  Frances sat on her bunk, one hand gently stroking the little dog's head as she wheezed her way into sleep, milky eyes half closed. Occasionally, perhaps remembering Frances's presence, she would wag her tail as if politely affirming her gratitude. She was a sweet old dog.

  Margaret blamed herself. She should never have brought her, she had told Frances. She should have thought about the heat, the perpetual confinement, and left her in the only home she knew, with her dad's dogs and endless green spaces where she was happy. Frances knew that Margaret's uncharacteristic neurosis echoed the silent undercurrent of her thoughts: If she couldn't even look after a little dog properly, then what hope . . . ?

  'Let's take her for a walk upstairs,' she said.

  'What?' Margaret shifted on her bunk.

  'We'll pop her in your basket and put a scarf over the top. There's a gun turret a bit further on from the bathroom where no one ever goes. Why don't we sit out there for a bit and Maudie can enjoy some proper daytime fresh air?'

  She could tell that Margaret was nervous about the idea, but she had few other options.

  'Look, do you want me to take her?' Frances said, seeing how exhausted Margaret was. Discomfort meant she hadn't slept properly for days.

  'Would you? I could do with a nap.'

  'I'll keep her out as long as I can.'

  She walked swiftly down to C Deck, conscious that if she looked confident in what she was doing no one was likely to stop her. Several brides were now undertaking duties on the ship, clerical work, and cooking. Some had even joined the recently formed Brides' Painting Party, and the sight of a woman on a deck previously considered the domain of service personnel was not as irregular as it might have been two weeks previously.

  She opened the little hatch, then ducked, stepped out and propped it open behind her. The day was bright, the heat balmy but not oppressive. A gentle breeze lifted the silk scarf on Frances's basket and swiftly a small black nose poked out, twitching.

  'There you go, old girl,' Frances murmured. 'See if that helps.'

  Several minutes later, Maude Gonne had eaten a biscuit and a scrap of bacon, the first morsels in which she had shown interest for two days.

  She sat there with the dog on her lap for almost an hour, watching the waves rush by beneath her, listening to snatches of conversation and occasional laughter from the flight deck above, punctuated by the odd summons from the Tannoy. Although her clothes, unwashed for several days, felt stale and, occasionally, the movement of her body sent up scents that made her long for a bath, she knew she would miss this ship. Its noises had become familiar enough to be comforting. She wasn't even sure whether, like everyone else, she wanted to disembark at Aden.

  She had not seen the marine in two days.

  Another marine had been on duty the previous evenings, and even though she had spent an unusual amount of time wandering the length of the ship, he had failed to materialise. She wondered, briefly, if he was ill and felt anxious about the prospect of him being treated by Dr Duxbury. Then she told herself to stop being ridiculous: it was probably for the best that she hadn't seen him. She had felt disturbed enough by Jean's removal without an impossible schoolgirl crush.

  But almost an hour later, as she prepared to step inside, she found herself leaping back. His face was pale where many of his colleagues now sported Pacific tans, his eyes still shadowed, betraying sleepless nights, but it was him. The easy movement of his shoulders, square in his khaki uniform, suggested a strength she had not seen when he was immobile outside the door. He was holding a kitbag on his shoulder and she was paralysed by the thought that he might be preparing to disembark.

  Not sure what she was doing, Frances slid back against the wall, her hand to her chest, listening for his steps as he moved past her down the gangway. He was several paces beyond her when they slowed. Frances, inexplicably holding her breath, realised that he was going to stop. The door opened a little, his head came round, a couple of feet from hers, and he smiled. It was a genuine smile, one which seemed to rub the angles from his face. 'You all right?' he said.

  She had no words to explain her hiding-place. She was aware that she had blushed and made as if to say something, then nodded.

  He gave her a searching look, then glanced down at the basket. 'That who I think it is?' he murmured. The sound of his voice made her skin prickle.

  'She's not too well,' she replied. 'I thought she needed fresh air.'

  'Make sure you stay well away from D Deck. There's inspections going on and all sorts.' He glanced behind him, as if to make sure no one else was around. 'I'm sorry about your friend,' he said. 'It didn't seem right.'

  'It wasn't,' she said. 'None of it was her fault. She's only a child.'

  'Well, the Navy can be an unforgiving host.' He reached out and touched her arm lightly. 'You okay, though?' She blushed again, and he
tried to correct himself. 'I mean the rest of you? You're all right?'

  'Oh, we're fine,' she said.

  'You don't need anything? Extra drinking water? More crackers?'

  There were three lines at the corners of his eyes. When he spoke, they deepened, testament to years of salt air, perhaps, or of squinting at the sky.

  'Are you going somewhere?' she asked, pointing to his bag. Anything to stop herself staring at him.

  'Me? No . . . It's just my good uniform.'

  'Oh.'

  'I'm off again tonight,' he said. He smiled at her, as if this were something good. 'For the dance?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'You haven't heard? There's a dance on the flight deck tonight. Captain's orders.'

  'Oh!' she exclaimed, more loudly than she'd intended. 'Oh! Good!'

  'I hope they turn the water on for a bit first.' He grinned. 'You girls will all run a mile faced with the scent of a thousand sweaty matelots.'

  She glanced down at her creased trousers, but his attention had switched to a distant figure.

  'I'll see you up there,' he said, his marine mask back in place. With a nod that could almost have been a salute, he was gone.

  The Royal Marines Band sat on their makeshift pedestal outside the deck canteen, a little way distant of the ship's island, and struck up with 'I've Got You Under My Skin'. The Victoria's engines were shut down for repairs and she floated serene and immobile in the placid waters. On the deck, several hundred brides in their finest dresses - at least, the finest to which they had been allowed access - were whirling around, some with the men and others, giggling, with each other. Around the island, tables and chairs had been brought up from the dining area, and were occupied by those unable or unwilling to keep dancing. Above them, in the Indian sky, the stars glittered like ballroom lights, bathing the seas with silver.

  It could have been - if one bent one's imagination a little and ignored the presence of the guns, the scarred deck, the rickety tables and chairs - any of the grand ballrooms of Europe. The captain had felt an unlikely joy in the spectacle, feeling it (sentimentally, he had to admit) no less than the old girl deserved in her final voyage. A bit of pomp and finery. A bit of a do.

  The men, in their best drill uniform, were looking more cheerful than they had done for days, while the brides - mutinous after the temporary closure of the hair salon - had also perked up considerably, thanks to the introduction of emergency salt-water showers. It had been good for them all to have an excuse to dress up a bit, he thought. Even the men liked parading in their good tropical kit.

  They sat in now well-established huddles or chatted in groups, the men temporarily unconcerned by the lack of defining rank structure. What the hell? Highfield had thought, when he was asked by one of the women's service officers if he wanted to enforce 'proper' separation. This voyage was already something extraordinary.

  'How long does the Victoria take to refuel, Captain Highfield?'

  Beside him sat one of the passengers, a little Wren to whom Dobson had introduced him half an hour earlier. She was small, dark and intensely serious, and had quizzed him so lengthily about the specifications of his ship that he had been tempted to ask her if she was spying for the Japanese. But he hadn't. Somehow she hadn't looked the type to have a sense of humour.

  'Do you know? I don't think I could tell you offhand,' he lied.

  'A little longer than your boys do,' muttered Dr Duxbury, and laughed.

  In thanks for their fortitude over the water situation, Captain Highfield had promised everyone extra 'sippers' of rum. Just to warm up the evening a little, he had announced, to cheers. He suspected, however, that Dr Duxbury had somehow obtained more than his allotted share.

  What the hell? he thought again. The man would be gone soon. His leg was painful enough tonight for him to consider taking extra sippers himself. If the water situation had been different he would have placed it in a bath of cold water - which seemed to ease it a little - but instead he was in for another near sleepless night.

  'Did you serve alongside many of the US carriers?' the little Wren asked. 'We came up alongside the USS Indiana in the Persian Gulf, and I must say those American ships do seem far superior to ours.'

  'Know much about ships, do you?' said Dr Duxbury.

  'I should hope so,' she said. 'I've been a Wren for four years.'

  Dr Duxbury didn't appear to have heard. 'You have a look of Judy Garland about you. Has anyone ever told you that? Did you ever see her in Me and My Girl?'

  'I'm afraid not.'

  Here we go, thought Captain Highfield. He had already endured several dinners with his proxy medic, at least half of which had culminated in the man singing his terrible ditties. He talked of music so much and medicine so little that Highfield wondered if the Navy should have checked his credentials more carefully before taking him on. Despite his misgivings, he had not requested a second doctor, as he might have on previous voyages. He realised, with a twinge of conscience, that Duxbury's distraction suited him: he did not want an efficient sort asking too many questions about his leg.

  He took a last look at the merriment in front of him; the band had struck up a reel and the girls were whooping and spinning, faces flushed and feet light. Then he looked at Dobson and the marine captain, who were talking to a flight captain over by the lifeboats. His work was done. They could take over from here. He had never been a great one for parties anyway.

  'Excuse me,' he said, pushing himself upright painfully, 'I've got to attend to a little matter,' and with that he went back inside.

  'Jean would have loved this,' said Margaret. Seated in a comfortable chair that Dennis Tims had brought up from the officers' lounge, a light shawl round her shoulders, she was beaming. A good sleep and Maude Gonne's recovery had significantly lifted her mood.

  'Poor Jean,' said Frances. 'I wonder what she's doing.'

  Avice, a short distance away, was dancing with one of the white-clad officers. Her hair, carefully set in the salon, gleamed honey under the arc-lights, while her neat waist and elaborate gathered skirt betrayed nothing of her condition.

  'I don't think your woman there is worrying too much, do you?' Margaret nodded.

  Not two hours after Jean had gone, Avice had appropriated her bunk for storage of the clothes and shoes she wanted brought up from her trunk.

  Frances had been so enraged that she had had to fight the compulsion to dump them all on the floor. 'What's the matter?' Avice had protested. 'It's not like she needs it now.'

  She was still celebrating having won that afternoon's cleverest-use-of-craft-materials competition with her decorated evening bag. Not, she told the girls afterwards, that she would have had it within six feet of her on a night out. The important thing had been beating Irene Carter. She was now two points ahead of her for the Queen of the Victoria title.

  'I don't think she worries about anything--' Frances stopped herself.

  'Let's not think about it tonight, eh? Nothing we can do now.'

  'No,' said Frances.

  She had never been particularly interested in clothes, had fallen with relief into her uniform for almost as long as she could remember. She had never wanted to draw attention to herself. Now she smoothed her skirt: in comparison with the peacock finery of the other women, the dress she had once considered smart now looked dowdy. On a whim, she had released her hair from its tight knot at the back of her head, staring at herself in the little mirror, seeing how, as it hung loose on her shoulders, it softened her face. Now, with all the carefully set styles around her, the product of hours spent with rollers and setting lotion, she felt unsophisticated, unfinished, and wished for the reassurance of her hairpins. She wondered if she could voice her fears to Margaret, seek reassurance. But the sight of her friend's perspiring face and swollen frame, squeezed into the same gingham dress she had worn for the last four days, stopped the question on her lips. 'Can I get you a drink?' she said instead.

  'You beauty! Thought you'd neve
r ask,' Margaret said companionably. 'I'd fetch them myself, but it'd take a crane to hoist me out of this chair.'

  'I'll get you some soda.'

  'Bless you! Do you not want to dance?'

  Frances stopped. 'What?'

  'You don't have to stay with me, you know. I'm a big girl. Go and enjoy yourself.'

  Frances wrinkled her nose. 'I'm happier at the edge of things.'

  Margaret nodded, lifted a hand.

  It wasn't strictly true. Tonight, protected by the semi-darkness, by the sweetened atmosphere and lack of attention afforded her by the music, Frances had felt a creeping longing to be one of those girls whirling around on the dance floor. No one would judge her for it. No one would pay her any attention. They all seemed to accept it for what it was: an innocent diversion, a simple pleasure stolen under the moonlight.

  She collected two glasses of soda and returned to Margaret, who was watching the dancers.

  'I never was one for dancing,' said Margaret, 'yet looking at that lot right now I'd give anything to be up there.'

  Frances nodded towards Margaret's belly. 'Not long,' she said. 'Then you can foxtrot half-way across England.'

  She had told herself it didn't matter, not seeing him. That, looking like she did, she might even prefer it. He was probably lost in that dark crowd, dancing with some pretty girl in a brightly coloured dress and satin shoes. Anyway, she had become so used to pushing men away that she wouldn't have known how to behave otherwise.

  The only dances she had been to in her adult life had been in hospital wards; those had been easy. She had either danced with her colleagues, who were generally old friends and kept a respectful distance, or with patients, to whom she felt vaguely maternal, and who generally retained an air of deference for anyone 'medical'. She would often find herself murmuring to them to 'watch that leg', or checking whether they were still comfortable as they crossed the floor. The matron, Audrey Marshall, had joked that it was as if she was taking them for a medicinal promenade. She wouldn't have known how to behave, faced with these laughing, cocky men, some so handsome in their dress uniforms that her breath caught in her throat. She wouldn't have known how to make small-talk, or flirt without intent. She would have felt too self-conscious in her dull pale blue dress beside everyone else's glorious gowns.