Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘What?’

‘Your leg. You never said.’

He was standing with his back to her and for a moment it went still enough for her to understand that her question had not been as inconsequential as she had intended. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’

It was as if he had not heard her. He stoppered the decanter, then sat down again. He took a long slug of the amber liquid, and then he spoke. The Victoria , he said, was not his ship. ‘I served on her sister, Indomitable . From ’thirty-nine. Then shortly before VJ Day we came under attack. We had six Albacores, four Swordfish and God knows what else up there trying to cover us, men on all the guns, but nothing hit them. I knew from the start we were done.

‘My nephew was a pilot. Robert Hart. Twenty-six years old. My younger sister Molly’s boy . . . He was a . . . We were close. He was a good chap.’

They were briefly interrupted by a knock on the door. A flash of irritation briefly illuminated Highfield’s features. He rose and walked heavily across the floor. He opened the door, glanced at the papers that were handed to him and nodded at the young telegraphist. ‘Very good,’ he muttered.

Frances, still lost in the captain’s previous words, barely noticed.

The captain sat down again, dropping the papers beside him on the desk. There was a long silence.

‘Was he . . . shot down?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, after another slug of his drink. ‘No. I think he would have preferred that. One of the bombs dropped into number-two hold and blew out several decks, from the officers’ berths to the centre engine room. I lost sixteen men in that first explosion.’

Frances could imagine the scene on board, her nose scenting the smoke and oil, the screams of trapped and burning men in her ears. ‘Including your nephew.’

‘No . . . no, that’s the problem. I was too late getting them out, you see? I’d been blown off my feet, and I was a bit dazed. I didn’t realise how close the explosion had been to the ammunition stores.

‘The fire cracked several of the internal pipes. It ran along the tiller flat, the steering-gear store and the admiral’s store and came up again under the ammunition conveyor. Fifteen minutes after the first, they caught and blew out half the innards of the ship.’ He shook his head. ‘It was deafening . . . deafening. I thought the heavens themselves had cracked open. I should have had more men down there, checking the hatches were closed, stopping the fire.’

‘You might have lost more.’

‘Fifty-eight, all told. My nephew had been on the control platform.’ He hesitated. ‘I couldn’t get to him.’

Frances sat very still. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘They made me get off,’ he said, his words coming thick and fast now as if they had waited too long. ‘She was going down, and I had my men – those who could still stand – in the boats. The seas were eerily calm, and I could see the boats all sitting there below me, almost still, like lily-pads on a pond, all smeared with blood and oil as the men hauled in the injured from the water. It was so hot. Those of us still aboard were spraying ourselves with the hoses, just to try to stay on the ship. And while we were trying to reach our injured men, while bits of the ship were cracking open and burning, the bloody Japanese kept circling. Not firing any more, just circling above us, like vultures, as if they were enjoying watching us suffer.’

He took a gulp of his drink.

‘I was still trying to find him when they ordered me off.’ He dropped his head. ‘Two destroyers came alongside to help us. Finally saw off the Japanese. I was ordered off. And all my men sat there and watched as I let the ship go down, knowing that there were probably men alive down there, injured men. Perhaps even Hart.’

He paused. ‘None of them said a word to me. They just . . . stared.’

Frances closed her eyes. She had heard similar stories, knew the scars they caused. There was nothing she could say to comfort him.

They listened to the Tannoy calling the ladies to a display of feltwork in the forward lounge. Frances noted, with surprise, that at some point it had become completely dark outside.

‘Not much of a way to end a career, is it?’

She heard the break in his voice. ‘Captain,’ she said, ‘the only people who still have all the answers are those who have never been faced with the questions.’

Outside his rooms the deck light stuttered into life, throwing a cold neon glow through the window. There was a brief burst of conversation as several men left the squadron office and a pipe called repetitively ‘stand by to receive gash barge alongside’.

Captain Highfield stared at his feet, then at her, digesting the truth of what she had said. He had a long slug of his drink, his eyes not leaving hers as he finished it. ‘Sister Mackenzie,’ he said, as he put his glass on the table, ‘tell me about your husband.’

Nicol had stood outside the cinema projection room for almost three-quarters of an hour. Had he been allowed in to view the film, he would have been unwilling to watch The Best Years of Our Lives , even with its happy endings for those servicemen returning home. His attention was focused on the other end of the corridor.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Jones-the-Welsh had said, as he dried himself in the mess. ‘I heard she was being put off. The next thing captain’s saying it’s all a bloody misunderstanding. It was not, I can tell you. You saw her, didn’t you, Duckworth? We both recognised her. Don’t understand it.’ He rubbed briskly under his arms.

‘I know why,’ said another marine. ‘She’s in there having a drink with the skipper.’

‘What?’

‘In his rooms. The old weather-guesser just took him in the long-range reports, and there she is, curled up with him on the settee having a drink.’

‘The sly old dog,’ Jones said.

‘She’s not silly, eh?’

‘Highfield? He couldn’t get a bag-off in a brothel with a fiver sticking out of his ear.’

‘It’s one rule for us and another for them, that’s for sure,’ said Duckworth, bitterly. ‘Can you imagine them letting us bring a brass back to the mess?’

‘You must be mistaken.’ Nicol had spoken before he realised what he was saying. The words hung heavy in the ensuing silence. ‘She wouldn’t be in the captain’s rooms.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I mean, there’s no reason for her to be there.’

‘Taylor knows what he saw. I can tell you something else. It’s not the first time, either. He reckons it’s the third time this week he’s seen her in there.’

‘Third time, eh? C’mon, Nicol, old boy. You know the reason as well as I do.’ Jones’s braying voice had exploded into laughter. ‘How’d you like that, boys? Sixty years old and our skipper’s finally discovered the joys of the flesh!’

Finally, he heard voices. As he stood back against the pipes, the captain’s lobby door opened. The air was punched silently from his lungs as he saw the slim figure step out lightly and turn to face the captain. He didn’t have to look long to confirm who it was: her image, every last detail, was now as deeply imprinted on his soul as if it had been etched there.

‘Thank you,’ Highfield was saying. ‘I don’t really know what else to say. I’m not usually given to . . .’

She shook her head, as if whatever she had bestowed upon him was nothing. Then she smoothed her hair. He found himself stepping back into the shadows. I’m not given to . . . to what? Nicol’s breath lodged in his chest and his mind went blank. This was not how he had felt when his wife had revealed her affair. This was worse.