Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

The women, many of whom were fizzing with nervous anticipation, watched, nudging and whispering to each other. Around the edges, the men stood, their arms behind them, backs to the walls. Ratings, officers, marines, engineers: all in dress uniform in honour of the occasion. For some, Highfield realised, it would be the last time they wore it. He glanced down at his own, knowing it would not be long before he would say the same.

‘I can’t – I can’t pretend this has been the easiest cargo I have ever had to transport,’ he said. ‘I can’t pretend I even relished the prospect of it – although I know some of the men did. But I can tell you this, as a “lifer”, as some of us naval folk are known, it has been the most . . . educational.

‘Now I won’t bore you with a lengthy speech about the difficulties of the course you have chosen. I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of that.’ He nodded towards the welfare officer and heard a polite ripple of laughter. ‘But I will say that you, like all of us, will probably find the next twelve months the most challenging – and hopefully rewarding – of your lives. So what I wanted to tell you is this: you are not alone.’

He looked around at the hushed, expectant faces. Under the harsh lights of the hangar deck the gilt buttons of his uniform shone.

‘Those of us who have always served are going to have to find new ways of living. Those of us who have found ourselves profoundly changed by the experience of war will have to find new ways of dealing with those around us. Those who have suffered are going to have to find ways of forgiving. We are returning to a country that is likely to be unfamiliar to us. We, too, may find ourselves strangers in that land. So yes, brides, you face a great challenge. But I want to tell you that it has been both a pleasure and a privilege to be part of your journey. We are proud to claim you as our own. And I hope that when you look back, in happiness, to the early years of your time in Britain, you think of this as not simply the journey to your new life but the start of it.’

Few would have noticed that during some of this speech he seemed to be speaking to one woman in particular, that when he had said, ‘You are not alone,’ his gaze might have rested on her a little longer than on anyone else. But it was irrelevant. There was a brief silence, and then the women clapped, a few calling out until gradually the applause and cheering had ignited the entire room.

Captain Highfield took his seat, having nodded gratefully at the blur of faces. It had not come solely from the women below him, he observed, trying not to smile as much as he wanted. It had come from the men. ‘What did you think?’ he murmured to the woman beside him, his chest still puffed with pride.

‘Very nice, Captain.’

‘Not a great one for speeches, generally,’ he said, ‘but in this case I thought it appropriate.’

‘I don’t think anyone here would disagree. Your words were . . . beautifully chosen.’

‘Have the girls stopped staring at you yet?’ He spoke without looking at her, so that from the other tables it might appear that he was simply thanking the steward for his plate of food.

‘No,’ said Frances, taking a forkful of fish. ‘But it’s quite all right, Captain.’ She didn’t need to add: I’m used to it.

Captain Highfield glanced at Dobson, two seats down, who was evidently not yet used to it. Having squinted at sea for almost forty years, Highfield’s sight was not as good as it had been. But even he could discern the words emanating from the XO’s downturned mouth, the expression of disapproval on his face. ‘Making a mockery of the ship, he is,’ he was muttering furiously into his damask napkin. ‘It’s as if he’s set out to turn us all into a laughing-stock.’

The lieutenant beside him noticed Highfield staring at them, and coloured.

Highfield felt the ship lift under him as it broke another wave.

‘Glass of cordial, Sister Mackenzie? You sure you wouldn’t like anything stronger?’ He waited until it had ridden out, then lifted his glass in salute.

It would only be for twenty minutes. The engine was running much better, or at least as well as she was ever going to. It was two whole pounds. And Davy Plummer was buggered if he was going to sit down there by himself in the engine room while every matelot from here to the Radio Direction Finder office watched girls parade in their swimsuits.

Besides, he was leaving the Navy once they got back to Blighty. What were they going to make him do if they found him off duty for once? Make him swim home?

Davy Plummer checked the temperature gauges that needed to be checked, ran a cloth over the more problematic pipes, stubbed out his cigarette underfoot and, with a swift glance behind him, ran two at a time up the steps on to the gangway and towards the exit hatch.

The votes were in and Avice Radley had lost. The judging panel, which comprised Dr Duxbury, two of the women’s service officers and the chaplain, all agreed that they had wanted to give the prize to Mrs Radley (Dr Duxbury had been particularly impressed by her rendition a week earlier of ‘Shenandoah’) but felt that, given her extremely lacklustre performance on the final night, her marked disinclination to smile and her frankly perplexing answer to the question, ‘What do you most want to do when you finally get to England?’ (Irene Carter, ‘Make the acquaintance of my mother-in-law’; Ivy Tuttle, ‘Raise money for the war orphans’; Avice Radley, ‘I don’t know’) and her immediate disappearance after it, there was only one choice for overall winner.

Irene Carter wore her hand-sewn sash with the cooing, tearful delight of a new mother. It had been, she announced, the finest trip she had ever undertaken. She felt, frankly, as if she had made at least six hundred new friends. And she hoped they would all find the happiness in England she was sure they deserved. She couldn’t begin to thank the crew enough for their kindness, their efficiency. She was sure the whole room would agree that the captain’s words had been a real inspiration. It was when she started thanking her former neighbours in Sydney by name that Captain Highfield intervened and announced that if the officers and men would like to clear the tables to the sides of the room, the Royal Marines Band would provide music for a little dancing. (‘Dancing!’ chirruped Dr Duxbury, and several women moved swiftly away from him.)

Davy Plummer, standing near the back of the bandstand, glanced in disgust at the handwritten betting slip Foster had given him not two days earlier, screwed it up and thrust it deep into the pocket of his overall. Bloody women. For all those fancy odds, that one couldn’t have looked any worse with a paper bag over her head. He was about to return to the engine room when he saw two brides standing in the corner. They whispered something behind their hands.

‘Never seen a working man before?’ he said, holding out the sides of his overalls.

‘We were wondering if you were going to dance,’ said the smaller, blonder girl, ‘but whether you could do it without getting us all oily.’

‘Ladies, you have no idea what a stoker can do with his hands.’ Davy Plummer stepped forward, his betting slip forgotten.

He was, after all, an optimist by nature.

The crowning ceremony was due at a quarter to ten. That gave Frances almost fifteen minutes to nip along the passageway and pick up the photographs of the Australian General Hospital that Captain Highfield had asked to view. Her photograph album was in her trunk down in the hold but she always kept a few of her favourite snaps – the first ward tent, the dance in Port Moresby, Alfred, in a book by her bed. She ran lightly along the corridor that led from the hangar to the dormitories, occasionally touching the wall to keep her balance.