Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘Yes,’ said Frances.

‘It’d drive you nuts to stay aboard too long, eh?’ Margaret looked at Avice. ‘Especially in heat like this.’

Frances stood very still, her eyes fixed on Margaret. ‘It is pretty close,’ she said.

‘Well, I vote we find some bar or hotel where we can—’

‘She’s not walking around with us.’

‘Avice!’

‘People will talk. And goodness knows what might happen – for all we know her former customers are walking the streets. They might think we’re one of those . . .’

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Frances is perfectly welcome to walk with us.’

Margaret was aware that all the women around them were listening. Bunch of chattering harpies, that was what her dad would have called them. Surely nothing Frances had done, whatever her past, warranted such treatment?

‘You, perhaps,’ said Avice. ‘I’ll find someone else to walk with.’

‘Frances,’ Margaret said, daring any of the women to speak again, ‘you’re welcome to walk with me. I’d be glad of the company.’

It was hard to tell from behind her sunglasses, but Frances appeared to glance sideways at the sea of closed faces.

‘You can help me find somewhere nice to sit down.’

‘Just watch out she doesn’t find somewhere to lie down.’

Frances’s head shot round and her fingers tightened on her handbag.

‘Come on,’ Margaret said, holding out her hand. ‘Let’s hit the old Gateway of India.’

‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Ah, come on! You might never get another chance to see India.’

‘No. Thank you. I – I’ll see you later.’ Before Margaret had a chance to say any more she had disappeared back through the crowd.

The women closed ranks, murmuring in righteous indignation. Margaret watched the distant gangplank, just able to make out the tall thin figure walking slowly up it. She waited until it had vanished inside. ‘That was mean, Avice.’

‘I’m not horrid, Margaret, so you needn’t look at me like that. I’m just honest. I’m not having my one trip ashore ruined by that girl.’ She straightened her hair, then placed a sunhat carefully on her head. ‘Besides, in our condition, I think it’s best if we keep our worries to a minimum. It can’t be good for us.’

The queue had moved on. Avice linked her arm with Margaret’s and walked her swiftly towards a gharry.

Margaret knew she should go to Frances: by even participating in this outing she had condoned Frances’s treatment. But she was desperate to feel land under her feet. And it was so difficult to know what to say.

With only a handful of brides left aboard, the ship had become a maelstrom of focused activity: teams of ratings prowled decks normally closed to men, scrubbing, painting and polishing. Several were on their knees on the flight deck, fighting with foam and wooden brushes to rid the grey concrete of its lingering rainbow puddles of aviation fuel. Small tugs unloaded huge crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, feeding them through hatches into the hold, while on the other side the tankers began to refuel the ship.

In other circumstances, Frances might have enjoyed the sight of the ship at work, fully engaged in its normal course of duties. Now she took in the smirk of the duty officer at the top of the gangplank, the knowing glance he exchanged with his mate as she re-embarked, showing him her station card. She saw the lingering glances of the painting parties, the lowered eyes and muttered greeting of the officer who had previously wished her a cheerful good morning.

Over the last few days she had wondered at how it was possible to feel so lonely in a ship so full of people.

She was a few steps away from the little dormitory when she saw him. She had told herself that her previous outings around the ship had been to give herself some fresh air; to make herself leave the sweaty confines of the cabin. Now, as she recognised the man walking towards her, she knew she had not been honest with herself.

She glanced down at her clothes, unconsciously checking herself as she had once done while on duty, feeling her skin prickle with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. She was unsure of what she could possibly say to him. She knew he would have to say something now: they were too close for him not to.

They stopped. Looked at each other for just the briefest moment, then stared at their feet.

‘Going ashore?’ He indicated the harbour.

She could see nothing on his face, no clue. Should I be grateful for the mere fact that he has spoken to me at all? she wondered. ‘No . . . I – I decided to stay here.’

‘Enjoy the peace and quiet.’

‘Something like that.’

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to talk to her but was too gentlemanly to hurt her feelings.

‘Well . . . as much peace as you can find with . . . with this . . .’ He gestured to where a party of engineers were repairing some piece of equipment high up, joking noisily with each other as they worked.

‘Yes,’ she said. She could think of nothing else to say.

‘You should make the most of it,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . hard to find a bit of space to yourself on board. I mean real space . . .’

Perhaps he might understand more than he was saying, she thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I—’

‘Hey, Marine.’

The rating walked towards them, holding out a note, his cap pulled at a jaunty angle over one eye. ‘They want you in the control room before your watch. Briefing for the governor’s visit.’ As he came closer she could see he had recognised her. The look the younger man gave her as he handed over the note made her wince. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, cheeks reddening.

As she turned away, she half hoped he might ask her to wait a moment. That he might say something, that told her he didn’t see her as the rest of them did. Say something, she willed him. Anything.

Moments later she wrenched open the door to the dormitory and let it shut heavily behind her. She leant against it, her back sticking through her blouse to its unforgiving surface. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that it ached. She had never thought until now about life’s fairness, at least not in relation to herself. Her patients had suffered, and she had occasionally questioned why God could take one or leave another in such pain. She had never wondered about the fairness of her own experiences: she had long ago discovered that it was better not to think about those years. But now, with all the other emotions swirling around inside her in some infernal cocktail, she felt the pendulum swing from bleak despair to blind fury at the way her life had turned out. Had she not suffered enough? Was this, and not what she had seen in the war, the real test of her resolve? How much more was she expected to pay for?

Maude Gonne, perhaps understanding that Margaret had gone ashore, scratched restlessly at the door. Frances stooped, picked her up and sat down with her on her lap.

The dog took no comfort from this. In fact she paid Frances no attention. Frances sat there stroking, gazing at the milky, unseeing eyes, the quivering body desperate for only one person.

Frances held the dog close to her, pitying her plight. ‘I know,’ she whispered, laying her cheek against the soft head. ‘Believe me, I know.’

Accustomed to the intense heat of Bombay, and oblivious to the huge fans that whirred overhead, the waiters in the cocktail bar of Green’s Hotel were visibly perspiring. The sweat glistened on their burnished faces and seeped into the collars of their immaculate white uniforms. But their discomfort was less to do with the heat – it was a relatively mild evening – than the endless demands of the hundred or so brides who had chosen that bar to end their day’s shore leave.