Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘You take care now,’ Margaret said, squeezing her arm.

‘I’ll look forward to hearing how it all goes,’ said Frances, nodding at her belly.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Margaret said, with confidence.

Frances watched the three of them as they made their way to the dockyard gates, still chatting, arms linked, until people closed round her and she couldn’t see any more.

She took a deep breath, trying to dislodge the huge lump in her throat. It will be all right, she told herself. A fresh start.

At that point, she glanced back at the ship. There were men moving around, women still waving. She could see nothing, no one. I’m not ready, she thought. I don’t want to go. She stood, a thin woman jostled by the crowds, tears streaming down her face.

Nicol pushed his way to the front of the queue and several of the waiting women protested loudly. ‘Frances Mackenzie,’ he shouted at the WSO. ‘Where is she?’

The woman bristled. ‘Do you mind? My job is to sign these ladies off the ship.’

He grabbed her, his voice hoarse with urgency. ‘Where is she?’

They stared at each other. Then her eyes narrowed and she ran her pen down several pages. ‘Mackenzie, you say. Mackie . . . Mackenzie, B. . . . Mackenzie, F. That it?’

He grabbed the clipboard.

‘She’s gone,’ she said, snatching it back. ‘She’s already disembarked. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

Nicol ran to the side of the ship and leant over the rail, trying to see her in the crowd, trying to make out the distinctive, strong, slim frame, the pale reddish hair. Below him thousands of people were still on the side, jostling, weaving past each other, disappearing and reappearing.

His heart lodged somewhere high in his throat, and, in despair, he began to shout, ‘Frances, Frances,’ already grasping the scale of his loss, his defeat.

His voice, roughened with emotion, hovered for a moment over the crowds, caught, and then sailed away on the wind, back out to sea.

Captain Highfield was almost the last man to leave the ship. He had undergone his ceremonial goodbye, flanked by his men, but at the gangplank, he stood, looking out, as if reluctant to disembark. When they realised he was in no hurry to move, a number of senior officers had filed past, wishing him well in his future life. Dobson made his goodbye as brief as possible, and talked ostentatiously of his next posting. Duxbury departed arm in arm with one of the brides. Rennick, who stayed longest, declined to look him in the eye, but enclosed his hand firmly within his own and told him in a tremulous voice ‘to take a little care after yourself’.

The captain laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed something into his palm.

And then he was alone, standing at the top of the gangplank.

Those few who were watching from the dockside, the few who were minded to pay him any attention, given the more pressing matters they had to attend to, remarked afterwards that it was strange to see a captain all by himself on such an occasion when there were so many crowds below. And that, strange as it might sound, they had rarely seen a grown man look more lost.

26

It was the last time I ever saw her. There were so many people, screaming and yelling and pushing to get to each other, and it was impossible to see. And I looked up, and someone was pulling at my arm and then a couple ran towards each other and just locked on to each other right in front of me and kissed and kissed, and I don’t think they could even hear me when I asked them to get out of the way. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t see a thing.

And I think it was then that I realised it was a lost cause. It was all lost. Because I could have stood there for a day and a night and hung on for ever but sometimes you just have to put one foot in front of the other and move on.

So that was what I did.

And that was the last I saw of her.

PART THREE

27

It seems so sad that I left so many wonderful mates, and never heard about them from that day to this . . . one met so many people during the war in times of great comradeship. Most people who recall those days admit to making the same mistake of not keeping in touch.

L. Troman, Wine, Women and War

2002

The stewardess walked down the aisle, checking that all seatbelts were fastened for landing, with an immaculate, generalised smile. She did not notice the old woman who dabbed her eyes a few more times than might have been necessary. Beside her, her granddaughter fastened her belt. She placed the in-flight magazine in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of her.

‘That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard.’

The old woman shook her head. ‘Not that sad, darling. Not compared to some.’

‘I guess it explains why you had such a reaction to that ship. My God, what are the chances of that happening, after all those years?’

She shrugged, a delicate gesture. ‘Pretty small, I suppose. Although perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. Lots of ships that leave the Navy are recycled, as it were.’

She had recovered her old composure. Jennifer had watched it ease back over her, a clear shell, hardening with every mile that stretched between themselves and India. She had even managed to scold Jennifer several times, for mislaying her passport, for drinking beer before lunchtime. Jennifer had been amused and reassured. Because by the time they had got on to the flight she had said almost nothing in sixteen hours. She had been reduced somehow, more frail, despite the restorative comforts of the luxurious hotel and the first-class lounge in which the airline staff had allowed them to wait. Jennifer, holding her hand, touching the papery skin, had felt the guilt bear down on her with even more determination. You shouldn’t have brought her, it said. She’s too old. You dragged her across continents and kept her waiting in a hot car, like a dog.

Sanjay had whispered that they should call a doctor. Her grandmother had barked at him as if he had suggested something indecent.

And then, shortly after take-off, she had begun to talk.

Jennifer had ignored the stewardess offering drinks and peanuts. The old lady pushed herself a little upright and spoke as if they had spent the last hours not in terrible silence but deep in conversation.

‘I hadn’t thought of it as anything but a travel arrangement, you see?’ she said suddenly. ‘A means of getting from A to B, a hop across the seas.’

Jennifer had shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Or whether a response was even required. She let her thoughts drift briefly, wondered if she should have rung her parents. They would blame her, of course. They hadn’t wanted Gran to go. It was she who insisted that they go together. She had wanted to show her, she supposed. Widen her horizons. Show her how things had changed.

Her grandmother’s voice had dropped. She had turned to the window, as if she were speaking to the skies. ‘And there I was, feeling things I never expected to feel. And so exposed to all those people, knowing it was only a matter of time . . .’ She gazed out of the window, at the heavenly landscape, the rippled carpet of white clouds sitting serenely in space.

‘A matter of time . . . ?’

‘Till they found out.’

‘About what?’

There was an abrupt silence.

‘About what, Gran?’

Her grandmother’s eyes landed on Jennifer and widened, as if she was surprised to find her there. She frowned a little. Lifted her hands an inch or two from the armrests, as if reassuring herself that she could.

Her voice, when it came, was polite, unemotional. A coffee-morning voice. ‘Would you be kind enough to get me a drink of water, Jennifer dear? I’m rather thirsty.’