Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

Petty Officer Ian Stewart Radley. At twenty-six, a whole five years older than her, which Avice considered just right, tall and straight-backed with eyes the colour of the sea, a gentlemanly British accent and broad, soft hands that had made her tremble the first time they ever brushed hers – even holding a shortbread finger. He had asked her to dance – even though no one else was on the floor – and with him being a serviceman, she had thought it mean-spirited to refuse. What was a quickstep or a Gay Gordons when he was looking death in the face?

Less than four months later they were married, a tasteful ceremony in the Collins Street register office. Her father had been suspicious, had made her mother quiz her – in a discreet woman-to-woman way, of course – as to whether there was any reason for such a hasty marriage other than Ian’s imminent departure. Ian had told her father, rather honourably, she thought, that he was happy to wait, if that was what Avice’s parents wanted, that he would do nothing to upset them, but she had been determined to become Mrs Radley. The war had hastened everything, foreshortened the natural timescale of such things. And she had known, from that first cup of tea, there was no one else in the world she could envisage marrying; no one else upon whom she could consider bestowing her many gifts.

‘But we know nothing about him, dear,’ her mother had said, wringing her hands.

‘He’s perfect.’

‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘What do you need to know? He’s been out there holding the Brisbane line, hasn’t he? Doesn’t protecting our country, putting his own life at risk twelve thousand miles from his home to save us from the Japs, make him worthy of my hand?’

‘No need to be melodramatic, sweetheart,’ her father had said.

They had given in, of course. They always did. Her sister Deanna had been furious.

‘My Johnnie was billeted with my aunt Vi,’ said another girl. ‘I thought he was gorgeous. I sneaked into his room the second night he was there and that was that.’

‘Best to get in early,’ said another, to raucous laughter. ‘Stake your claim.’

‘Especially if Jean’s around.’

Even Jean found that funny.

‘Now, who wants to practise making one of these lovely necklaces?’ Mrs Proffit held up an uneven-looking chain of aluminium coils. ‘I’m sure it’s what the best-dressed ladies are wearing in Europe.’

‘Next week it’ll be how to make couture evening cloaks from horse blankets.’

‘I heard that, Edwina.’ Mrs Proffit placed the necklace carefully on the table.

‘Sorry, Mrs P, but if my Johnnie saw me wearing one of those he wouldn’t know whether to kiss me or check my rear to see if I’d laid an egg.’

There was an explosion of laughter, an outburst of barely suppressed hysteria.

Mrs Proffit sighed and laid down her craftwork. Really! It was only to be expected, as embarkation drew closer – but really! These girls could be so wearying.

‘So, when are you out?’

Jean’s host family were two streets away from the Wentworth, and the girls had ended up walking back together, dawdling. Despite the air of mutual dislike between them, they were reluctant to sit alone in their rooms for yet another evening.

‘Avice? When are your orders for?’

Avice wondered whether to answer truthfully. She was pretty sure that Jean – immature and coarse as she was – was not the kind of girl she would normally want to associate with, especially if what had been said about her condition was true. But neither was Avice a girl used to self-restraint, and the effort involved in keeping quiet for an entire afternoon about her own plans had been a strain. ‘Same as you. Three weeks. What’s she called? The Victoria ?’

‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’ Jean lit a cigarette, cupping her hands against the sea breeze. As an afterthought, she offered one to Avice.

Avice wrinkled her nose and declined. ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s a bugger. They get the bloody Queen Mary and we get the old tin can.’

A car drove past slowly, and two servicemen hung out of the windows, shouting something crude. Jean grinned at them, waving her cigarette, as the car disappeared round the corner.

Avice stood in front of her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Didn’t you hear Mrs Proffit? The one who’s married to the commander?’

Avice shook her head.

Jean laughed humourlessly. ‘I don’t think it’s quite hair salons and first-class cabins for you and me, girl. Our Victoria is a bloody aircraft-carrier.’

Avice stared at the girl for a minute, then smiled. It was the kind of smile she reserved at home for the staff when they did something particularly stupid. ‘I think you must be mistaken, Jean. Ladies don’t travel on aircraft-carriers.’ She pursed her lips, as smoke trickled her way. ‘Besides, there’d be nowhere to put us all.’

‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’

Avice fought back irritation at being addressed in this manner by someone who had to be at least five years younger than herself.

‘They’ve run out of decent transport. They’re going to stick us on anything to get us over there. I reckon they figure whoever really wants to go will put up with whatever they throw our way.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Even old Mrs P seemed a bit concerned. Think she’s worried about her young ladies arriving in England wearing overalls and covered with fuel. Not quite the impression she wants for Australia’s finest.’

‘An aircraft-carrier?’ Avice felt a little wobbly. She reached for a nearby wall and sat down.

Jean seated herself comfortably beside her. ‘That’s what she is. I never bothered to check the name of it. I just assumed . . . Oh, well, they’ll have modified it a bit, I should think.’

‘But where will we sleep?’

‘Dunno. On the deck with the planes?’

Avice’s eyes widened.

‘Strewth, Avice, you’re even more gullible than I thought.’ Jean cackled, stubbed out her cigarette, stood up and began to walk on.

It might have been her imagination but Avice thought she sounded increasingly coarse.

‘They’ll find some way to fit us on. Got to be better than sticking around here, anyway. We’ll get a bed and our food, and the Red Cross will look after us.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Avice’s face had clouded. She walked briskly. If she rang now she might catch her father before he left for his club.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t possibly travel on something like that. My parents wouldn’t have it, for a start. They thought I’d be travelling on a liner. You know, one of the ones that had been requisitioned for transport. That’s almost the only reason they let me go.’

‘You take what you’re given in times like these, girl. You know that.’

Not me, said Avice silently. She was now running towards the hotel. Not a girl whose family owned the biggest radio manufacturer in Melbourne.

‘They’ll be providing us with engineers’ uniforms too, just in case they need us to do a little scrubbing down.’

‘I don’t think that’s very funny, actually.’

‘You’ve got to laugh.’

Go away, you horrid girl, Avice thought. I wouldn’t set foot on the same ship as you for a trip round Sydney Harbour, even if it were the Queen Mary .

‘Don’t worry, Avice. I’m sure they’ll be able to fix you up with a first-class berth in the boiler room!’ She could still hear Jean’s unpleasant cackle half-way down the street.

‘Mummy?’

‘Avice darling, is that you? Wilfred! It’s Avice!’ She could hear her mother yelling down the hallway, could picture her on her telephone seat, the Persian rug on the parquet floor, the ever-present vase of flowers on the table beside her. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’