Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

She had written to Daniel instead: a series of questions about the mare, an urgent demand that he should skin as many darn rabbits as he could so that he could get over to England to see her. Daniel had written once, a letter she had received at Bombay. It comprised just a few lines and told her little, other than the state of the cows, the weather, and the plot of a movie he had seen in town, but her heart had eased. She had been forgiven, those few lines told her. If her father had threatened him with the belt to do it he would have put a blank sheet in an envelope rather than comply. There was a sharp rap on the door, and she leapt on her dog, cutting short her bark. Holding her, she broke into a fake coughing fit, trying to emulate the noise. ‘Hold on,’ she said, her broad hand clamped gently but firmly round Maude Gonne’s muzzle. ‘Just coming.’

‘Is Mrs A. Radley there?’

Margaret faced Avice’s bunk. Avice, blinking, sat. Her clothes were crumpled, her face pale and blank. She slid slowly to the floor, lifting a hand to her hair. ‘Avice Radley,’ she said, opening the door a little way.

A young rating stood before her.

‘You’ve had a wire. Come through the radio room this afternoon.’

Margaret dropped the dog behind her and stepped forward to take Avice’s arm. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said involuntarily.

The rating registered the two wide-eyed faces. Then he thrust the piece of paper into Avice’s hand. ‘Don’t look like that, missus – it’s good news.’

‘What?’ said Margaret.

He ignored her. He waited for Avice’s eyes to drop to the paper before he spoke again, his voice thick with mirth. ‘It’s family. Your folks are going to be in Plymouth to meet you off the ship.’

Avice had sobbed for almost twenty minutes, which had initially seemed excessive and had now become alarming. Margaret, her previous reticence forgotten, had climbed on to Avice’s bunk and now sat beside her, trying not to think about the way it creaked ominously under her weight. ‘It’s okay, Avice,’ she kept saying. ‘He’s all right. Ian’s all right. That bloody wire just gave you a bit of a fright.’

The captain wasn’t best pleased, the rating had said gleefully. Said he’d be using the radio room for taking down shopping lists next. But he’d allowed the message through.

Margaret tutted. ‘They shouldn’t have sent someone down here like that. They must have known it would scare you half to death. Specially someone in our condition, eh?’ She tried to get the girl to smile.

Avice failed to answer her. But eventually the sobbing subsided, until it was just a stuttering echo of itself, a breath that caught periodically in the back of her throat. Finally, when Margaret felt the worst was over, she stepped down.

‘There now,’ she said uselessly. ‘You get some rest. Calm yourself down a bit.’ She lay on her own bunk and began to chat about their plans for the last few days – the best lectures to attend, Avice’s preparations for the Queen of the Victoria final, anything to shake her out of her depression. ‘You’ve got to wear those green satin shoes again,’ she rattled on gamely. ‘You don’t know how many girls would give their eye teeth for them, Avice. That girl from 11F said she’d seen some just like them in Australian Women’s Weekly .’

Avice’s eyes were raw and red-rimmed. You don’t understand, she thought, as she stared at the blank wall, not registering the endless stream of words that floated up from below. Just for a moment, I thought everything was going to be okay, that there was going to be a way out of this for me.

She lay very still, as if somehow she could turn herself to stone.

Just for a moment, I thought they had come to tell me he was dead.

‘So, anyway, there I was, dirty water up to my ears, pans sloshing up and down the galley, ship listing forty-five degrees to port, and the old boy wades in, looks me up and down, empties several pints of bilge water out of his cap and says, “I hope those aren’t odd socks you’re wearing, Highfield. I won’t have standards slipping on my ship.”’

The captain stretched out his leg. ‘Best bit about it was he was right. God only knows how he could tell under four foot of water, but he was right.’

Frances straightened up and smiled. ‘I’ve had matrons like that,’ she said. ‘I reckon they could tell you the number of pills in every bottle.’

She began to place the instruments back in the carrying case.

‘Ah,’ said Highfield. He cleared his throat. ‘Well, then. Forty-one torpedo heads, separated from cases, two empty cases, thirty-two bombs, most dismantled, four cases ammunition for 4.5 inch magazine, one case 4.5 inch HA/LA twin mounting, nine cases assorted armaments, small-arms magazine and pom-poms. Oh, and twenty-two rounds for several assorted handguns. Those currently locked in my personal stores.’

‘Something tells me,’ said Frances, ‘you’re not entirely ready for retirement.’

Outside, behind his left shoulder, the sun was setting. It sank towards the horizon at a gentler pace than it had in previous waters. The ocean stretched around them, its greyish hue the only clue to the cooler temperature. Now they were often pursued by gulls, scavenging after the gash, or rubbish, the ship’s cook threw overboard, or bits of biscuit the girls hurled at them for the fun of watching them catch scraps in mid-air.

Highfield leant forward: the scar tissue on his leg was like melted candlewax. ‘How’s it . . . ?’

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You must be able to feel it.’

‘I feel better,’ he said. Then, catching her eye, ‘It’s still a little sore, but much improved.’

‘Your temperature’s normal.’

‘I thought I’d got a touch of the tropical sweats.’

‘Probably had those too.’ She knew he felt better. It was in his demeanour; something in him was no longer quite so grimly contained. Now his eyes held a glint of something else, and his smile came readily. When he stood straight, it was with pride rather than the desperation to prove he still could.

He had embarked on another story; one about a missing torpedo case. She had finished, and allowed herself to sit neatly in the chair opposite him and listen. He had told her this story some days previously but she didn’t mind: she sensed that he was not a man who talked easily. A lonely man, she had concluded. She had often found those in charge to be the loneliest.

Besides, she had to admit, faced with the cold reception she still received from most of the brides, with Avice’s strange melancholy and the marine’s absence, she enjoyed his company.

‘. . . and the ruddy man was only using it to cook fish. “Couldn’t find anything else that looked like a fish kettle,” he said. I tell you, when we thought about it, we were only grateful he hadn’t used the warhead.’

Highfield’s laugh emerged from him like a bark, as if it surprised him, and she smiled again, keen not to reveal her familiarity with what he had said. He would glance at her after each joke, an infinitesimal movement, but one in which she recognised his awkwardness with women. He would not want to bore her. She would not allow him to think he had.

‘Sister Mackenzie . . . can I offer you a drink? I often have a little tot at this time of day.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t drink.’

‘Sensible girl.’ She watched as he manoeuvred himself round his desk. It was beautiful, a deep walnut colour embossed with dark green leather. The captain’s private room could have sat happily in any well-off house, with its carpet, paintings and comfortable upholstered chairs. She thought of the sparse conditions of the men below, their hammocks, lockers and bleached tabletops. Nowhere but in the British Navy had she seen the blatant difference in the men’s living conditions, and it made her wonder about the country she was heading to. ‘How did you do it?’ she asked, as he poured his drink.