Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

His finger traced the line of names until, apparently satisfied, he waved them on. ‘All brides, Victoria . Number six berth. You’ll probably have to drop her by the post. There’s no space to stop.’

‘Can’t do that, mate. Look at her.’

The officer ducked down to her father’s window then glanced away, scanning the crowds. ‘You might be lucky and find a space over on the left. Follow the signs to the quayside, then head left by the blue pillar.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

The man banged twice on the roof of the truck. ‘Try not to run anyone over. It’s madness in there.’

‘Do me best.’ Murray shoved his hat further down on his head, and negotiated his way towards the quayside. ‘Can’t promise anything, mind.’

The truck growled and whined as Murray steered through the crowd, braking now and then as some stray person fell off the kerb into the road, or swerving round a weeping mother and daughter, clutching each other, oblivious to their surroundings. ‘Too right they’re not like cows,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Cows have more sense.’

He didn’t like crowds at the best of times. Despite Woodside’s relative proximity to the city, Margaret thought he had probably been to Sydney no more than a handful of times since she was born. Noisy, stinking place, full of sharks. He couldn’t walk a straight line, he would complain. All the people had him dodging about just to get from A to B. She didn’t much like them herself, but today she felt curiously detached, as if she were an observer, unable to take in the magnitude of what she was about to do.

‘How we doing for time?’ he said, as they sat, engine idling, waiting for another crocodile of people to pass, dragging bulging suitcases or recalcitrant children.

‘Dad, we’re fine, I’ve told you. I could get out and walk from here if you like.’

‘As if I’d leave you alone with that lot!’

Suddenly she realised he felt a huge responsibility for getting her there; that, much as he hated to lose her, he was afraid he would not do right by her this last time. ‘It’s only a couple of hundred yards and I’m hardly an invalid.’

‘I promised I’d see you on to your ship, Maggie. You just sit tight.’ His jaw had tightened and she wondered absently to whom he had made the promise.

‘There! Look, Dad!’ Daniel was rapping on the back window, gesticulating wildly to where an official-looking car was just leaving a parking space.

‘Right.’ Her father’s chin jutted, and he revved the engine, causing the people in front of him to skip out of the way. ‘Get up there,’ he roared through his window and, within seconds, had wedged the truck into the little space, thwarting several other cars which had edged towards it. ‘There!’ He turned off the ignition, and as the engine ticked its way to sleep, he turned to his daughter. ‘There,’ he said again, not quite as firmly.

She reached across and took his hand. ‘I knew you’d get me here,’ she said.

The ship was huge; big enough to take up the entire length of the dockside, blocking out the sea and the sky so that only its flat grey surfaces met the crowds who now swarmed up to the barriers, trying frantically to communicate with those already on the water. Big enough to knock Maggie’s breath clean into the back of her throat.

On its side, gun turrets bulged like balconies, some with cannons still poised or bearing spindly gantries, bent like the necks of elegant birds. On the flight deck, just visible from this far back, aircraft were poised in three formations, their wings folded above them, Corsairs, Fireflies and, possibly, a Walrus. Margaret, imbued by osmosis with her brother’s passion for aircraft, could name them all. Hundreds of girls were aboard already, lining the flight deck or sitting astride gun barrels, waving from walkways, their gestures tiny and metronomic against the aircraft-carrier, coats and headscarves tied tight against the brisk sea breeze. A few peered from portholes, mouthing silent messages to those below. It was impossible to hear anything in the overall din, so many signalled in a kind of manic semaphore.

To one side a brass band was playing: she could just identify ‘The Maori’s Farewell’ and ‘Bell-bottomed Trousers’ as snatches carried over the noise of the crowd. As they stood, a girl was being helped down the gangplank, crying, brightly coloured paper streamers stuck to her coat. ‘Changed her mind,’ she heard one of the officers say. ‘Someone take her to the cargo sheds with the others.’

Margaret allowed herself to feel the slightest trepidation, and knew how easy it would be to let hysteria engulf her.

‘Nervous?’ said her father. He had seen the girl too.

‘Nope,’ she said. ‘I just want to see Joe again.’

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. ‘Your mum would be proud.’

‘Mum would say I should be wearing something smarter.’

‘That too.’ He nudged her and she nudged him back, then reached up to adjust her hat.

‘Any more brides?’ A Red Cross woman with a clipboard elbowed her way past. ‘Brides, you need to board now. Have your papers ready.’ As each girl made her way up the gangplank, she was showered with streamers, and cries of ‘You’ll be sorry,’ from the dockers in a tone that might or might not have been jovial.

Her father had taken her trunk to Customs. Now she peered round him to where her youngest brother was standing, eyes averted from her and the ship. ‘Look after that mare for me, Daniel,’ she said, now having to shout a little. ‘Don’t let any of those deadweights anywhere near her.’ He stared at the ground, refusing to look at her. ‘And keep her in a snaffle as long as you can. She’s not pulling at the moment, and she’ll go better in the long run if you can keep her mouth soft.’

‘Daniel. Answer your sister.’ Her father elbowed him.

‘All right.’

She stared at his thin shoulders, at the face resolutely turned from hers, overwhelmed by the urge to hug him, to tell him how much she loved him. But he had found her pregnant form increasingly repellent, had recoiled from contact with her since she had confirmed she was leaving. It was as if he blamed her bump, not Joe, for taking her away.

‘Shake my hand?’

There was a long pause, weighted by the prospect of their father’s opprobrium, then Daniel’s hand snaked out and took hers in a brief, firm clasp. Then he dropped it. Still he would not look at her.

‘I’ll write you,’ she said. ‘You’d better bloody reply.’

He said nothing.

Her father stepped forward and hugged her tightly. ‘Tell that man of yours he’s to look after you,’ he said, his voice strangled as he spoke into her hair.

‘Not you too, Dad.’ She breathed in the mothball smell of his good jacket, and the bovine scent that mingled with hay. ‘You’ll be all right, you lot. Letty will look after you better than I ever did.’

‘Well, that wouldn’t be hard.’

She could hear the effort in his joke, and held him tighter.

‘I wish – I wish . . .’

‘Dad . . .’ Her voice held a warning.

‘Right.’ He pulled away from her, took several swift glances around him, as if his mind was already elsewhere. He swallowed. ‘Well, we’d better let you get on board. Want me to carry your bags?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ She slung the big bag over her shoulder, jamming her hand basket and food parcel under her free arm as she balanced herself. Then she took a deep breath, and made towards the ship.

Her father’s hand shot out. ‘Hang on, girl! You’ve got to go through Customs first.’

‘What?’

‘Customs. Look – they’re sending everyone that way before they get on board.’

She peered through the jostling crowds to where he was pointing: a huge corrugated-iron shed across the quayside.