Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘You must read us yours,’ she said, sunglasses masking her eyes. ‘My mother says she’s been inviting yours round for tea since they discovered we were shipmates. They’ll be desperate to know what we’ve been doing.’

And I bet you’ve told her everything, thought Avice.

‘Hey-ho. I’m off to tea and to read Harold’s letters. Did you get many?’

‘Oh, heaps,’ said Avice, brandishing hers in the air. There had been only one from Ian. She had tucked it under her mother’s so that Irene couldn’t tell. ‘Good luck with the next contest, anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s fancy dress, I believe, so I’m sure you’ll do much better. You’re getting so tanned you could wear a scarf round your waist and go as a native.’ And clutching her ‘certificate’, Avice walked, with as little conceit as she could muster, away.

Frances wasn’t in the dormitory. She rarely was any more. Avice thought she was probably hiding somewhere. Margaret was attending a lecture on places to visit in England. She kicked off her shoes and lay down, preparing to read Ian’s latest communication in an atmosphere of rare privacy.

She scooted through the letters from her father (business, money, golf), mother (travel details, dresses) and sister (‘quite happy by myself, thank you, blah-blah-blah’), then came to Ian’s envelope. She gazed at his handwriting, wondering at how one could sense authority even in ink and paper. Her mother had always said there was something immature about men with bad handwriting. It suggested that their character was somehow unformed.

She glanced at her wristwatch: there was ten minutes before the first lunch shift. She had just time to read it. She peeled it open and gave a little sigh of pleasure.

A quarter of an hour later, she was still staring at it.

Frances and Margaret were seated in the deck canteen when the rating found them. They had been eating ices. Frances was now accustomed to the relative hush that descended whenever she dared show herself in public. Margaret had chattered away with grim determination. Once or twice she had asked the most persistent starers whether it was a bite of her ice-cream they were after and sworn at them under her breath as they blushed.

‘Mrs Frances Mackenzie?’ the rating had asked. He looked painfully young: his neck hardly filled the collar of his uniform.

She nodded. She had been half expecting him for days.

‘Captain would like to see you in his offices, ma’am. I’m to bring you.’

The canteen had gone quiet.

Margaret blanched. ‘Do you think it’s the dog?’ she whispered.

‘No,’ said Frances, dully. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not that.’

She could see from the expressions on the faces around her that the other women were pretty sure too. Not Wanted Don’t Come, the whisper started. Only this time the brides evinced no anxiety.

‘Don’t be long,’ said a voice, as she left the canteen. ‘You wouldn’t want people to start talking.’

Avice lay on the bed. From somewhere nearby there was a strange sound, a low, guttural moan, and it was with distant surprise that she realised it was emanating from her own throat.

She stared at the hand holding the letter, then at the wedding ring on her slim finger. The room receded around her. Suddenly, she threw herself off her bunk, fell on to her knees, and vomited violently into the bowl that had never been removed after her early days of sickness. She retched until her ribs hurt and her throat burned, arms wrapped round her torso as if they were the only thing stopping her whole self turning inside-out. Through coughing, she could hear her own voice, spluttering, ‘No! No! No!’ as if she were refusing to accept that this monstrosity could be real.

Finally, spent, she pushed herself back against the bunk, her hair plastered in sweaty tendrils round her face, limbs awkward and ungainly on the hard floor, her dress, her makeup unheeded. She wondered if the whole thing had been a dream. Perhaps the letter didn’t exist. The sea could get you like that – she had heard plenty of sailors say so. But there it was on her pillow. In Ian’s handwriting. His beautiful handwriting. His beautiful, horrific, diabolic handwriting.

Outside, she could hear the clicking heels of a group of women who were chattering as they passed. Maude Gonne, positioned just behind the door, raised her head, as if waiting to hear a familiar voice among them, and then, disappointed, laid it between her paws.

Avice followed the sound, head swaying like a drunk’s. She felt detached from everything. There was nothing she wanted more than to lie down. Her head felt as if a great weight were pressing down on her. She could do nothing except stare at the ribbed metal floor.

She shoved the bowl back under her bed. Despite the smell, the unforgiving metal beneath her, her wet hair, she lay down, eyes on the other letter open beside her. Her mother had written:

I’ve told everyone that the celebration will be at the Savoy. Daddy got a very advantageous rate because of one of his contacts in the hotel business. And, Avice darling – you’ll never guess – the Darley-Hendersons are going to make it part of their round-the-world trip, and if that wasn’t exciting enough the Governor and his wife have said they’re coming too. People seem so much happier to travel now the war is over. And they will ensure we get your picture into Tatler . Darling, I might have had my doubts about this wedding, but I have to tell you I’m pleased as punch about this trip. We’ll put on a do that will have not just Melbourne but half of England talking for months!

Your loving Mother

PS Pay no attention to your sister. She’s a little bit sour at the moment. Case of the green-eyed monster, I suspect.

PPS We’ve not heard yet from Ian’s parents, which is a pity. Could you ask him to send us their address so we can contact them ourselves? I want to know if there is anyone special they’d like to invite.

It had been a long, rather wearing afternoon, and it was something of an effort to stand when the girl entered the room, so Captain Highfield stayed behind his desk to allow himself the chance to lean on it. The governor’s arrival, and its attendant difficulties, had taken it out of him, and it was for that reason – and perhaps to save the girl’s blushes – that he had chosen to hold this meeting without the aid of either the chaplain or WSO.

She stood in the doorway when the rating announced her and stayed there after he had left, clutching a small bag. He had seen her at close quarters twice now and she was physically striking. Only her demeanour stopped her being a compelling figure. She had seemingly developed the trick of receding into the background; now that he had briefed himself through her notes, he understood why.

Captain Highfield gestured to her to sit down. He stared at the floor for some minutes, trying to work out how to address the issue, wishing that, just this once, he could have handed over the captaincy to someone else. Disciplinary matters with his men were straightforward: one followed procedure, gave them a bawling-out if necessary. But women were different, he thought, exasperated, conscious of the woman opposite, of the women who had been in before her. They brought all their problems on board along with their tons of baggage, created new ones for good measure – and then made you feel guilty, wrong, for simply following the rules.

Outside the stand-easy was being sounded over the Tannoy, signalling the men’s canteen break. He waited until there was silence. ‘Do you know why I have summoned you to see me?’ he asked.

She did not reply. She blinked slowly at him, as if the onus was on him to explain himself.