Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘If I have to wait one more minute for my drink I swear I’ll have words with that man,’ said Avice, wafting the fan she had bought that afternoon and eyeing the unfortunate waiter as he ducked through the crowd, tray held aloft. ‘I’m wilting,’ she said, to his departing back.

‘He’s doing his best,’ said Margaret. She had been careful to sip her drink slowly, having guessed from the packed bar that service was likely to be slow. She was feeling restored: she had been able to elevate her feet for half an hour, and now let her head rest on the back of the chair, enjoying the light breeze created by the overhead fan.

It was the same everywhere: in Greens, the Bristol Grill, the grand Taj Mahal hotel; a combination of the Victoria and several troopships landing at once had swamped the harbour area with would-be revellers, men made gay and reckless by the end of the war and their increasing proximity to home. They had looked in at several places before deciding that at Green’s they might get a seat. Now, from their vantage-point on the veranda, they could look back through the archway at the dance area, which was now populated by men and women casting hopeful – and sometimes covetous – looks in the direction of the tables. Some of the brides had begun drinking John Collins and rum punches at lunchtime and were now feeling the effects of their encroaching hangovers. They seemed listless and vaguely discontented, their makeup sliding down their faces and their hair limp.

Margaret felt no guilt at hogging her seat. Heedless of the heat and dust, and of her own oft-stated ‘delicate condition’, Avice had dragged her everywhere that afternoon. They had walked around all the European shops, spent at least an hour in the Army and Navy Stores and another bartering with the men and small boys who besieged them with apparently unmissable bargains. Margaret had swiftly grown tired of haggling; it felt wrong to hold out for the odd rupee faced with the abject poverty of the salesmen. Avice, however, had leapt into it with astonishing enthusiasm, and spent much of the evening holding aloft her various purchases and exclaiming at the prices.

Margaret had been overwhelmed by the little they had seen of Bombay. She had been shocked at the sight of Indians bedding down in the street, at their seeming indifference to their conditions. At their thin limbs next to her own milk-fed plumpness, at their physical disabilities and barely dressed children. It made her feel ashamed for the nights she had moaned about the discomfort of her bunk.

Her drink appeared, and she made a point of tipping the waiter in front of Avice. Then, as he departed, she stared out at Victoria , floating serenely in the harbour, and wondered guiltily if Frances was asleep. All its lights were on, giving it a festive appearance, but without either aircraft or people the flight deck looked empty, like a vast, unpopulated plain.

‘Ah! A seat! Mind if we join you?’ Margaret looked round to see Irene Carter, flanked by one of her friends, pulling out the chair opposite. She gave a wide, lipsticked smile that did not stretch to her eyes. Despite the heat she looked cool and brought with her a vague scent of lilies.

‘Irene,’ said Avice, her own smile something of a snarl. ‘How lovely.’

‘We’re exhausted,’ said Irene, throwing her bags under the table and lifting a hand to summon a waiter. He arrived at her side immediately. ‘All those natives following you around. I had to get one of the officers to tell them to leave me alone. I don’t think they know how upsetting they can be.’

‘We saw a man without legs,’ confided her companion, a plump girl with a mournful air.

‘Just sitting out on a rug! Can you imagine?’

‘I think he might have been stuck there,’ the girl said. ‘Perhaps someone put him down and left him.’

‘We’ve hardly noticed. We’ve been so busy shopping, haven’t we, Margaret?’ Avice gestured at her own bags.

‘We have,’ said Margaret.

‘Bought anything nice?’ said Irene. Margaret fancied there was a steely glint in her eye.

‘Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,’ said Avice, her own smile glued in place.

‘Really? I heard you’d bought something for the Queen of the Victoria final.’

‘Natty Johnson saw you in the Army and Navy,’ said the plump girl.

‘That? I don’t suppose I’ll wear it. To be honest, I haven’t given a thought to what I’ll wear.’

Margaret snorted quietly into her drink. Avice had spent the best part of an hour parading in front of the mirror in a variety of outfits. ‘I wish I knew what Irene Carter was wearing,’ she had muttered. ‘I’m going to make sure I knock her into a cocked hat.’ She had spent on three new dresses more money than Margaret’s father would spend on cattle feed in a year.

‘Oh, I dare say I’ll dig something out of my trunk,’ said Irene. ‘It’s only a bit of fun after all, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is.’

Bloody hell, thought Margaret, gazing at Avice’s butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Irene. ‘You know what, Avice? I shall tell all those girls who’ve been whispering that you’re taking it too seriously that they’re quite wrong. There.’ She paused. ‘And that I’ve heard that direct from the horse’s mouth.’ She lifted her drink as if in a toast.

Margaret had to bite her lip hard to stop herself laughing at Avice’s face.

The four women, forced together through lack of spare tables rather than camaraderie, spent the best part of an hour and a half seated together. They ordered a fish curry; Margaret found it delicious but regretted it when indigestion struck. The other brides, however, made a show of fanning their mouths and pronouncing it inedible.

‘I hope it hasn’t done any harm to the baby,’ said Avice, laying a hand on her non-existent bump.

‘I heard your news. Congratulations,’ said Irene. ‘Does your husband know? I’m assuming it is your husband’s,’ she added, then laughed, a tinkling sound, to show she was joking.

‘I believe we’re getting post tomorrow,’ said Avice, whose own graceful smile had gone a little rigid. ‘I imagine he’ll have told everyone by now. We’re having a party when we get to London,’ she said. ‘We felt we rather missed out, with the war, so we’re going to have a do. Probably at the Savoy. And now, of course, it will be a double celebration.’

The Savoy was a good one, Margaret thought. Irene had looked briefly furious.

‘In fact, Irene, perhaps you’d like to come. Mummy and Daddy will be flying from Australia – the new Qantas service? – and I’m sure they’d love to see you. What with you being so new in London, I’m sure you’ll be glad of all the friends you can get.’ Avice leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Always makes you feel better to have at least one date in the social diary, doesn’t it?’

Ka- pow ! thought Margaret, who was enjoying herself now. This was far dirtier than anything her brothers had ever done to each other.

‘I shall be delighted to come to your little gathering, if I can,’ said Irene, wiping the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll have to check what our plans are, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Avice sipped her iced water, a little smile dancing on her lips.

‘But I do think it’s lovely that you’ll have something to take your mind off things.’

Avice raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, this horrid business with you having befriended a prostitute. I mean, who on earth could have known? And so soon after your other little friend was caught fraternising with those grubby engineers.’

‘With her knickers down,’ said the plump girl.

‘Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it,’ said Irene.