Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

He had not told the men: he suspected most would not notice what ship they were on, as long as the messes were of a decent size, the money regular and the food edible. With the war over, many would leave the Navy for good. He, and the old ship, would be no more than a dim memory when war stories were exchanged over dinner.

Highfield sighed, and placed his weight tentatively on his bad leg. They would dock at Bombay the following day. He would pay no attention to the C-in-C’s instruction. For several days now he had had teams of dabbers and ratings buffing, painting, polishing. The Navy knew that sailors kept busy were sailors less likely to get into trouble – and with a cargo like this one that struggle was constant. There would not be a brass bolt on the ship that he couldn’t see his face in.

The men, he guessed, were speculating that something was wrong with him. It was possible too that the governor of Gibraltar would notice. He was not a stupid man. I’m buggered if I’m leaving you early, he told the ship silently, tightening his grip on the rail. I’ll hang on to you till my damn leg falls off.

‘What you do, ladies, is mix one level tablespoon of the powdered egg with two tablespoons of water. Allow it to stand for a few minutes until the powder has absorbed all the moisture, then work out any lumps with a wooden spoon. You may have to be a bit vigorous . . . a bit of elbow grease, you know.’ She took in the blank faces. ‘That’s an English expression. It doesn’t mean . . . grease as such.’

Margaret sat with her notebook on her lap, her pen in her hand. She had given up writing several recipes ago, distracted by the murmur of conversation around her.

‘A prostitute? I don’t believe it. Surely the Navy wouldn’t let one travel with all the men.’

‘Well, they didn’t know, did they? They can’t have.’

‘There are all sorts of things you can bake with powdered egg. Add a bit of parsley or watercress and you can make quite a good . . . approximation of scrambled egg. So don’t feel limited just because you may not have the ingredients you’ve been used to at home. In fact, girls, you will not have the kind of ingredients you’ve been used to at home.’

‘But who on earth would have married her? Do you think it was one of her . . . customers?’

‘And what if he doesn’t know? Don’t you think the Navy should tell him?’

It had been the same story all over the ship. For the last few days Frances Mackenzie, possibly the least conspicuous passenger the Victoria had ever transported, had become its most notorious. Those who had had any dealings with her were fascinated that this supposedly demure young woman had such a chequered past. Others found the story of her past career compelling, and felt obliged to embellish it with information that no one was yet in a position to disprove. That was if anyone had had the inclination to do so; the next shore leave was still a fair distance away and there was little doubt it was the most fascinating thing that had happened on the voyage so far.

‘I heard she was on the train. You know, the one they used to send up to the troops. It was full of . . . those sorts.’

‘Do you think they had to check her for diseases? I know they did on the American transports. I mean, we might have been sharing a bathroom with her, for goodness’ sake.’

Margaret had fought the urge to interrupt, to inform these stupid, gossiping women that they didn’t know what they were talking about. But it was difficult when she herself had no idea of the truth.

It wasn’t as if Frances was saying anything. On the night of the accident, she had retired to her bed and lain there, pretending to be asleep until the others had gone out in the morning, often doing the same when they came back. She had barely spoken, keeping her conversation to an absolute practical minimum. She had given the dog some more water. Had propped the door ajar. If that was all right with them. She had avoided the main canteen. Margaret wasn’t sure that she was eating anything at all.

Avice had asked, rather ostentatiously, to be moved to another cabin, and when the only other bunk on offer had proven not to her liking, she had announced loudly that she wanted as little to do with Frances as possible. Margaret had told her not to be so bloody ridiculous, and not to listen to a load of bloody gossip. There would be no truth in it.

But it was difficult to be as vehement as she would have liked when Frances was doing so little to defend herself.

And even Margaret, never usually lost for words, had difficulty in knowing what to say to her. She was, she suspected, a little naïve at the best of times, and was having trouble reconciling the severely dressed, rather prim young woman with ‘one of those’. Margaret’s only knowledge of such women came from the poster with a picture of one in Dennis Tims’s mess, with the uncompromising message: ‘Venereal Disease – the Silent Killer’; and the Westerns she had seen with her brothers, where the women all sat together in the back of some saloon. Had Frances worn tight-bodiced dresses and a dollop of rouge on her face to welcome men in? Had she enticed them upstairs, spread her legs and invited them to do God only knew what to her? These thoughts haunted Margaret, colouring her every exchange with Frances, despite all the kindnesses the girl had shown her. She knew it and it made her ashamed. She suspected that Frances knew it too.

‘Well, I think it’s disgusting. Frankly, if my parents knew I was travelling with someone like that they would never have let me on board.’ The girl in front of her straightened her shoulders with a self-righteous shudder.

Margaret stared at the powdered-egg recipes in front of her, at her distracted scrawl.

‘It makes you wonder,’ said the girl next to her.

Margaret stuffed her notebook into her basket, got up and left the room.

Dear Deanna,

I can’t tell you what fun I’m having on board – quite a surprise, all things considered. I somehow find myself in the running for Queen of the Victoria , a prize they award to the bride who has proven themself a cut above in all matters feminine. It will be lovely to be able to show Ian that I can be such an asset to him and his career. I have so far won points in craft, dressmaking, musical ability (I sang ‘Shenandoah’ – the audience were most appreciative) and – you’ll never guess – Miss Lovely Legs! I wore my green swimsuit with the matching satin heels. I hope you didn’t mind too much me taking them. You seemed to wear them so seldom, and it seemed silly you keeping them ‘for best’ when there is so little social life left in Melbourne now the Allies are leaving.

How are you? Mummy’s letter said you were no longer in correspondence with that nice young man from Waverley. She was rather vague about what had happened – I find it very hard to think anyone would so cruelly drop a girl like that. Unless he had found someone else, I suppose.

Men can be such an enigma, can’t they? I thank goodness every day that Ian is such a devoted soul.

I must go, dearest sister. They are ‘piping the hands to bathe’, and I am simply desperate for a swim. I will post this when we next dock, and be sure to tell you of any adventures I have there!

Your loving sister,

Avice

It was the first time the brides had been allowed to bathe, and there were few who, still feeling the effects of the water shortage, were not making the most of it. As Avice finished her letter and headed out on to the foredeck, she could see around her hundreds of women submerged in the clear waters, squealing as they floated around lifeboats, while the marines and officers not manning the boats leant over the ship’s side, smoking and watching them.