by Jojo Moyes
Finally she spoke. 'Just as well, really,' she said. 'Poor little bastard.'
There was a brief, shocked silence, as if even she was surprised by her choice of words.
Frances's eyes widened.
Avice shook her head. Then suddenly, lurching up and forward like somebody choking, she began to wail. Racking sobs filled the little room and she sank back on to the narrow bed, her face buried in the sheet, the muffled noise passing through her as if with seismic tremors.
Frances dropped the dress, clambered quietly on to Avice's bed and sat beside her, stunned. She stayed there for some time until, unable to bear the terrible sound any longer, she put her arms round the girl and held her. Avice neither pushed her away nor leant in to her. It was as if she was so locked into her own private unhappiness that she did not know Frances was there.
'It will be all right,' Frances said, not knowing if she could justify her words. 'It will be all right.'
It was some time before the sobbing subsided. Frances fetched more painkillers from the dispensary and a sedative, in case it proved necessary. When she returned, Avice was lying back against the wall, a pillow propped under her. She wiped her eyes, then gestured to Frances to pass her her dress, from which she pulled a piece of tattered, damp paper. 'Here, you can read this properly now,' she said.
'Not Wanted Don't Come?'
'No. Oh, he wants me, all right . . .'
Avice thrust it towards her and, conscious that they had traversed some barrier, Frances took it and this time read properly the bits that had not run in the waters of the Atlantic.
I should have told you this a long time ago. But I love you, darling, and I couldn't bear the thought of your sad face when I told you, or the slightest possibility of losing you . . . Please don't misunderstand me - I'm not asking you not to come. You need to know that the relationship between me and my wife is far more like brother and sister than anything. You, my darling, mean far more to me than she ever could . . .
I want you to know I meant every word I said in Australia. But you must understand - the children are so young, and I am not the type to take my responsibilities lightly. Perhaps when they are a little older we can think again?
So, I know I'm asking a lot of you, but just think about this in your days left on board. I've got a fair bit put away, and I could set you up in a lovely little place in London. And I can be with you a couple of nights a week, which, when you think of it, is more than most wives see their men in the Navy . . .
Avice, you always said that us being together was all that mattered. Prove to me, darling, that this was the truth . . .
As Frances digested the final words, she didn't know whether she should look Avice full in the face. She did not want her to think she was gloating. 'What will you do?' she said carefully.
'Go home, I suppose. I couldn't while there was . . . but now, I suppose, it can be like nothing happened. None of it happened. My parents didn't want me to come anyway.' Her voice was thin and cold.
'You will be all right, you know.'
In her reaction to this, there was just a hint then of the old Avice: the superciliousness that told Frances that what she had said, what she was, were worthless. Avice dropped the letter on to the bedcover. The way she looked at Frances now was naked, unembarrassed. 'How do you carry on living,' she asked, 'with all that hanging over you? All that disgrace?'
Frances understood that, for once, the words were not as harsh as they sounded. Beneath Avice's pallid complexion, there was genuine curiosity in her eyes. She chose her words carefully. 'I suppose I've discovered . . . we all carry something. Some burden of shame.'
Frances reached under the girl, pulled out the towel and checked the size of the stain. She hid it discreetly, then handed her another.
Avice shifted on the bed. 'And yours has been lifted. Because you found someone prepared to take you on. Despite your - your history.'
'I'm not ashamed of who I am, Avice.'
Frances picked up the soiled items for the WSO to take to the laundry. Then she sat down on the bed. 'You might as well know. I've done one thing in my life that I'm ashamed of. And that wasn't it.'
The Australian Army Nursing Service had set up a recruiting depot in Wayville, near the camp hospital. She had been a trainee nurse for some time at the Sydney Showground Hospital, had worked for a good family in Brisbane to finance her training, and now, single, medically fit, without dependants and with a glowing reference from her matron, the newly formed Australian General Hospital was keen to take her. She had had to lie about her age, but the knowing look the CO had given her when she calculated her new date of birth told her she wasn't the first. There was a war on, after all.
Joining the AGH, she said, had been like coming home. The sisters were stoic, capable, cheerful, compassionate and, above all, professional. They were the first people she had ever met who accepted her as she was, appreciated her effort and dedication. They came from all over Australia and had no interest in her history. Most had a reason for their lack of a husband, of dependants, and it was rarely one they wanted to dwell on. Besides, the necessities of their job meant they lived from day to day, in the present.
She had never tried to contact her mother. She thought it probably betrayed a rather ruthless streak in her personality, but even that hard knowledge about herself did not tempt her to change her mind.
Over several years they had served together in Northfield, Port Moresby and, lastly, in Morotai, where she had met Chalkie. During that time she had learnt that what had happened to her was not the worst thing that could happen to a person, not when you considered the cruelties inflicted in the name of war. She had held dying men, dressed wounds that had made her want to retch, cleaned out stinking latrines, washed foul sheets, and helped erect tents that were threadbare from overuse and mould. She thought she had never been as happy in her life.
Men had fallen for her. It was almost par for the course in the hospital - many of them had not seen a girl for some time. A few kind words, a smile, and they bestowed on you all sorts of qualities you might or might not have. She had assumed Chalkie was one of those. She thought, in his delirium, that it was possible he could not see past her smile. He asked her to marry him at least once a day and, as with the others, she had paid him little attention. She would never marry.
Until the day the gunner arrived.
'Was he the man you fell in love with?'
'No. The one who recognised me.' Here she swallowed. 'He came from the same unit that had been stationed by the hotel where I had lived all those years ago. And I knew there would be a time when I had to leave Australia, that it would be the only way I could ever get away from . . .' She paused. 'So I decided to say yes.'
'Did he know? Your husband?'
Frances's hands had rested quietly in her lap. Now her fingers linked, separated, linked again. 'The first few weeks when I knew him he was delirious half the time. He knew my face. Some days he thought we were already married. He occasionally called me Violet. Someone told me that was the name of his late sister. Sometimes, late at night, he would ask me to hold his hand and sing to him. When the pain got very bad, I did, even though I have a terrible voice.' She allowed herself a small smile. 'I never knew a man as gentle. The night I told him I would marry him, he cried with happiness.'
Avice's eyes closed with pain, and Frances waited until the cramp had passed. Then she continued, her voice clear in the darkening room. 'He had this CO, Captain Baillie, who knew Chalkie had no family. He knew, too, that I had nothing much to gain from the marriage, and that in simple terms it would make him happy. So he said yes where, I suppose, plenty wouldn't. It wasn't very honourable on my part, I suppose, but I did care for him.'
'And you knew you would get your passage out.'
'Yes.' A half smile played across her lips. 'Ironic, really, isn't it? A girl with my history marrying the only man who never laid a finger on me.'
'But at least you kept your reputation int
act.'
'No. That didn't happen.' Frances fingered her skirt, the same grubby, salt-hardened one she had worn on the lifeboat. 'A few days before Chalkie and I were married I was sitting outside the mess camp, washing bandages, when that gunner came up and -' she choked '- tried to put his hand up my skirt. I screamed, and hit his face quite hard. It was the only way I could get him off. But the other nurses ran out and he told them it was all I was good for. That he had known me in Aynsville. That was the decider, see? It was such a small town, and I had told them where I came from. They knew it had to be true.' She paused. 'I think it would have been easier for them if he had told them I'd killed someone.'
'Did anyone tell Chalkie?'
'No. But I think that was out of sympathy for him. Oh, some chose to ignore it. I suppose when you've been so near death people's reputations cease to matter. But they all knew how he felt about me, and he was fragile. The men are loyal to each other . . . It comes out in strange ways sometimes.'
'But the nurses did what I did in judging you?'
'Most of them, yes. I think the matron took a different view. We'd worked together for a long time. She knew me - she knew me as something else. She just told me I should make the most of what he had given me. Not many people get a second chance in life.'
Avice lay down and stared at the ceiling. 'I suppose she was right. No one has to know. No one has to know . . . anything.'
Frances raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. 'Even after all this?'
Avice shrugged. 'England's a big place. There are a lot of people. And Chalkie will look after you now.'
As Frances failed to reply, Avice asked, 'No one told him in the end, did they? Not after all that?'
'No,' Frances said. 'No one told him.'
On the other side of the door, where he had been listening, still holding two stone-cold tin mugs of tea, the marine moved his head gently away from the hard surface, and closed his eyes.
23
There were romances and several weddings took place and, as it was Dutch Territory, many pieces of paper had to be signed . . . The dentist usually made the wedding ring with his drill, and wedding frocks ranged from creations out of white mosquito nets to AANS ward uniform . . . According to army policy, the bride returned to Australia soon after.
A Special Kind of Service Joan Crouch
Morotai, Halmaheras Islands, 1946
'I know it's irregular,' said Audrey Marshall, 'but you saw them. You saw what it's done to her.'
'I find it all rather hard to believe.'
'She was a child, Charles. Fifteen, from what she told me.'
'He's very fond of her, I'll grant you.'
'So what harm would it do?'
The matron pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle of pale brown liquid. She held it up and he nodded, declining the addition of chlorinated water that sat in a jug on her desk. They had meant to talk earlier, but there had been an accident on the road to the American radar unit: a jeep had collided with a Dutch supplies lorry and overturned, killing one man and injuring two others. Captain Baillie had spent more than an hour with the Dutch authorities, filling in forms and discussing the incident with the Dutch CO. One of the men had been his batman; he was shaken and exhausted.
He took a sip, plainly not wanting to have to consider this new problem on top of everything else. 'It could cause all sorts of trouble. The man doesn't know his own mind.'
'He knows he loves her. It would make him happy. And, besides, what can she do? She can't stay in nursing now everyone knows. She can't stay in Australia.'
'Oh, come on, it's a big place.'
'Someone found her here, didn't they?'
'I don't know . . .'
Matron leant over the desk. 'She's a good nurse, Charles. A good girl. Think what she's done for your men. Think of Petersen and Mills. Think of O'Halloran and those wretched sores.'
'I know.'
'What harm? The boy's got no money, has he? You said he had no family to speak of.' Her voice dropped a little. 'You know as well as I do how ill he is.'
'And you know I've tried jolly hard to discourage this kind of thing. All that bloody paperwork for a start.'
'You're on good terms with the Dutch. You've told me yourself. They'll sign whatever you hand them.'
'You're convinced that this is a sensible idea?'
'It would bring him some happiness and give her a lifeline. She'd be entitled to go to England. She'll make a superb nurse over there. What harm can that do?'
Charles Baillie sighed deeply. He put down his glass on the desk and turned to the woman opposite. 'It's hard to refuse you anything, Audrey.'
She smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knows the battle is won. 'I'll do what I have to do,' she said.
The chaplain was a pragmatic man. Weary of the pain and suffering he had seen, he had been easily persuaded to help. The young nurse, a favourite of his, was a perfect illustration of the redemptive powers of marriage, he told himself. And if it enabled the poor soul beside her to be even partly lifted from the horrors of his last weeks, he felt pretty sure his God would understand. When the matron had thanked him, he had replied that he thought the Almighty was more of a pragmatist than any of them knew.
Congratulating themselves on their solution, and with perhaps the faintest curiosity as to how their plan would be received by its subjects, the three sat in the matron's office long enough to celebrate their good sense with another drink. For medicinal purposes, of course, the matron said with a grin, remarking on the pallor of Captain Baillie's face. She couldn't stand to see a man with a pale face: she always wanted to check them for blood disorders.
'Only problem with my blood is there's not enough whisky in it,' he muttered.
They toasted Sister Luke, her future husband, the end of the war and Churchill for good measure. Shortly after ten o'clock they walked out into the tented ward, a little more erect, a little less relaxed, as they stood before their charges.
'She's in B Ward,' said the sister, who was reading a letter at the night desk.
'With Corporal Mackenzie,' said the matron, turning to Captain Baillie not a little triumphantly. It would work out well for everyone. 'There, you see?'
They walked through the sandy pathway between the beds, careful not to wake those men already sleeping, then pushed back the curtain to enter the next ward, Captain Baillie pausing to slap, with a curse, the mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck. Then they stopped.
Sister Luke glanced up as she heard them enter. She looked at them with wide, unreadable eyes. She was leaning over Alfred 'Chalkie' Mackenzie's bed, three-quarters of which was still covered by a mosquito net. She was pulling a white Navy-issue sheet over his face.
Avice was sleeping when the marine returned with two new, still-hot cups of tea. He knocked twice and entered, watching his feet as he crossed the little room. He placed the two mugs on the table between the beds. He had been half hoping that the WSO would be with them.
Frances had been standing over Avice and jumped, evidently having not expected to see him. A little colour rose to her cheeks. He thought she looked exhausted. A few hours ago he might have given in to the urge to touch her. Now, having heard her words, he knew he would not. He moved back towards the door and stood, legs apart, shoulders square, as if to reaffirm something to himself.
'I - I wasn't expecting you,' she said. 'I thought you'd been called off to do something else.'
'I'm sorry I took so long.'
'Dr Duxbury's given me the all-clear. I'm just getting my things together so I can go back. Avice will probably spend tonight in here. I may come back to make sure she's okay. They're a bit overstretched.'
'She all right?'
'She'll get there,' Frances said. 'I was going to find Maggie. How is she?'
'Not too good. The dog . . .'
'Oh.' Her face fell. 'Oh, no. And she's all by herself?'
'I'm sure she'd be glad of your company.' She still hadn't changed h
er clothes and he ached to wipe the dark smudge from her cheek. His hand tightened behind him.
She stepped forward, glanced back at the sleeping Avice. 'I thought about what you said,' she said, her voice low and conspiratorial, 'that the war has made us all do things we're not proud of. Until you said that, I had always thought I was the only one . . .'
He had not anticipated this. He took a step backwards, not trusting himself to speak, half wanting to cry to her not to go on. Half desperate to hear her words.
'I know we haven't always been able to speak . . . honestly. That it's . . . complicated, and that other loyalties might not always . . .' She tailed off, and her eyes flashed up at him. 'But I wanted to thank you for that. You've . . . I'll always be glad you told me. I'll always be so grateful that we met each other.' The last words were rushed, as if she had had to force them out while she still had the courage to say them.
He felt suddenly small, wretched. 'Yes. Well,' he said, when he could form words, 'it's always nice to have made a friend.' He felt mean even opening his mouth as he added, 'Ma'am.'
There was a little pause.
'Ma'am?' she repeated.
The shy smile had disappeared; a movement so delicate he thought only he could have detected it. I have no choice, he wanted to shout at her. It is for you I'm doing this.
She searched his face. What she found there made her look down and away from him.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I've got to go now. Things to do. But . . . you'll like England.'
'Thank you. I've heard a lot about it from the lectures.'
The rebuke in her words felt like a blow. 'Look . . . I hope you'll always think of me . . .' his hands were rigid at his sides '. . . as your friend.' That word had never sounded so unwelcome.
She blinked a little too swiftly, and in shame he made himself look away.
'That's very kind, but I don't think so, Marine,' she said. She let out a small breath, then turned, and began to refold the clothes in the little pile on her bed. Her voice, when it shot back, was sharp with hurt: 'After all, I don't even know your name.'
Margaret stood towards the aft end of the flight deck by the lashings, a cardigan stretched round her thickened waist, a headscarf trying and failing to stop her hair whipping too hard round her face. Her back was to the bridge and her head was dipped over the bundle in her arms.
