Jojo Moyes: Ship of Brides

‘Please ask them to go away, Jen,’ the old woman whispered. ‘Really. I’ll be fine if everyone just leaves me alone.’

‘Is it me? I’m really sorry, Gran. I know I’ve been a pain. I just didn’t like the way he was talking to me. It’s because I’m a girl, you know? It gets up my nose.’

‘It’s not you—’

‘I’m sorry. I should have been more thoughtful. Look, we’ll get you back to the car.’

Mr Vaghela was gratified to hear the apology. It was good to know that young people could acknowledge their irresponsible behaviour. She should not have caused the old lady to walk such a distance in this heat, not in a place like this. It indicated a lack of respect.

‘It’s not you, Jennifer.’ The old woman’s voice was strained. ‘It’s the ship,’ she whispered.

Uncomprehending, they followed her gaze, taking in the vast pale grey expanse of metal, the huge, rusting rivets that dotted their way up the side.

The young people stared at each other, then down at the old lady, who seemed, suddenly, impossibly frail.

‘It’s just a ship, Gran,’ said Jennifer.

‘No,’ she said, and Mr Vaghela noted that her face was as bleached as the metal behind it. ‘That’s where you’re quite wrong.’

It was not often, Mr Ram B. Vaghela observed to his wife on his return, that one saw an old lady weeping. Evidently they were much more free with their emotions than he had imagined, these British, not at all the reserved stiff-upper-lips he had anticipated. His wife, rather irritatingly, raised an eyebrow, as if she could no longer be bothered to make an adequate response to his observations. He remembered the old woman’s grief, the way she had had to be helped back to the car, the way she had sat in silence all the way to Mumbai. She was like someone who had witnessed a death.

Yes, he had been rather surprised by the English madam. Not the kind of woman he’d had her down as at all.

He was pretty sure they were not like that in Denmark.

PART ONE

I

Money in rabbits! At recent sales in Sydney best furred full-grown bucks made 19s 11d per pound, the highest price I ever heard of in Australia. The percentage of top pelts would be small, but at about five to the pound just on 4s each is a remarkable return.

‘The Man on the Land’, Bulletin , Australia, 10 July 1946

Australia, 1946

Four weeks to embarkation

Letty McHugh halted the pick-up truck, wiped non-existent soot from under her eyes, and noted that on a woman with ‘handsome features’, as the saleswoman had tactfully defined hers, Cherry Blossom lipstick was never going to alter much. She rubbed briskly at her lips, feeling stupid for having bought it at all. Then, less than a minute later, she reached into her bag and carefully reapplied it, grimacing at her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

She straightened her blouse, picked up the letters she had collected on her weekly visit to the post office and peered out at the blurred landscape through the windscreen. The rain probably wouldn’t let up no matter how long she waited. She pulled a piece of tarpaulin over her head and shoulders and, with a gasp, leapt out of the truck and ran for the house.

‘Margaret? Maggie?’

The screen door slammed behind her, muffling the insistent timpani of the deluge outside, but only her own voice and the sound of her good shoes on the floorboards echoed back at her. Letty checked her handbag, then wiped her feet and walked into the kitchen, calling a couple more times, even though she suspected that no one was in. ‘Maggie? You there?’

The kitchen, as was usual since Noreen had gone, was empty. Letty put her handbag and the letters on the scrubbed wooden table and went to the stove, where a stew was simmering. She lifted the lid and sniffed. Then, guiltily, she reached into the cupboard and added a pinch of salt, some cumin and cornflour, stirred, then replaced the lid.

She went to the little liver-spotted mirror by the medicine cupboard and tried to smooth her hair, which had already begun to frizz in the moisture-filled air. She could barely see all of her face at once; the Donleavy family could never be accused of vanity, that was for sure.

She rubbed again at her lips, then turned back to the kitchen, her solitude allowing her to see it with a dispassionate eye. She surveyed the linoleum, cracked and ingrained with years of agricultural dirt that wouldn’t lift, no matter how many times it was mopped and swept. Her sister had planned to replace it, had even shown Letty the design she fancied, in a book sent all the way from Perth. She took in the faded paintwork, the calendar that marked only this or that agricultural show, the arrival of vets, buyers or grain salesmen, the dogs’ baskets with their filthy old blankets lined up round the range, and the packet of Bluo for the men’s shirts, spilling its grains on to the bleached work surface. The only sign of any female influence was a copy of Glamor magazine, its straplines advertising a new story by Daphne du Maurier, and an article entitled ‘Would You Marry A Foreigner?’. The pages, she noted, had been heavily thumbed.

‘Margaret?’

She glanced at the clock: the men would be in shortly for lunch. She walked to the coathooks by the back door and pulled off an old stockman’s jacket, wincing at the smell of tar and wet dog that, she knew, would linger on her clothes.

The rain was now so heavy that in places around the yard it ran in rivers; the drains gurgled a protest, and the chickens huddled in ruffled groups under the shrubs. Letty cursed herself for not having brought her gumboots but ran from the back door of the house to the yard and round to the back of the barn. There, as she had half expected, she made out what looked like a brown oil-proofed lump on a horse, circling the paddock, no face visible under the wide-brimmed hat that fell down to the collar, almost mirrored with slick channels of rainwater.

‘Margaret!’ Letty stood under the eaves of the barn and shouted to be heard over the rain, waving half-heartedly.

The horse was plainly fed up: its tail clamped to its soaking hindquarters, it was tiptoeing sideways round the fence, occasionally cowkicking in frustration while its rider patiently turned it to begin each painstaking manoeuvre again.

‘Maggie!’

At one point it bucked. Letty’s heart lurched and her hand flew to her mouth. But the rider was neither unseated nor concerned, and merely booted the animal forwards, muttering something that might or might not have been an admonishment.

‘For God’s sake, Maggie, will you get over here!’

The brim of the hat lifted and a hand was raised in greeting. The horse was steered round and walked towards the gate, its head low. ‘Been there long, Letty?’ she called.

‘Are you insane, girl? What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ She could see her niece’s broad grin under the brim of the hat.

‘Just a bit of schooling. Dad’s too big to ride her and the boys are useless with her, so there’s only me. Moody old girl, isn’t she?’

Letty shook her head, exasperated, and motioned for Margaret to dismount. ‘For goodness’ sake, child. Do you want a hand getting off?’

‘Hah! No, I’m fine. Is it lunchtime yet? I put some stew on earlier, but I don’t know what time they’ll be in. They’re moving the calves down to Yarrawa Creek, and they can be all day down there.’

‘They’ll not be all day in this weather,’ Letty responded, as Margaret clambered down inelegantly from the horse and landed heavily on her feet. ‘Unless they’re as insane as you are.’

‘Ah, don’t fuss. She looks worse than she is.’

‘You’re soaked. Look at you! I can’t believe you’d even consider riding out in this weather. Good gracious, Maggie, I don’t know what you think you’re doing . . . What your dear mother would say, God only knows.’