Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

Afterwards she thought she had probably known even before she got there. It was the only other place Maudie knew on the ship, the only other place she must have thought she might find Margaret. She stood in the doorway, staring at the girls gathered by the sinks. She followed their eyes to the little dog lying pressed against the back of the door, several dark streaks on the tiled wall where she must have tried to scrabble her way out.

Margaret stepped forward and fell to her knees on the damp floor. A great sob escaped her. The dog’s limbs were stiff, the body cold. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’

Margaret’s face crumpled like a child’s. She gathered the little dog’s body into her arms. ‘Oh, Maudie, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

She stayed there for some minutes, kissing the wet hair, trying to will the body into life, knowing that it was hopeless.

She did not actually cry, those watching reported, just sat, holding the dog, as if absorbing some great pain.

Eventually, at the point where the anxious glances around her became whispers, she peeled off her cardigan and folded the dog into it. Then, with a grunt, one hand on the smudged wall, she got to her feet. She held the bundle close to her, as one would hold a baby.

‘Would you . . . would you like me to fetch someone?’ A woman laid a hand on her arm.

She didn’t seem to hear.

Crying bitterly, Margaret walked back along the passageway, clasping her swaddled burden. Those who were not preoccupied with their own smoked belongings peered into it, curious about this baby’s identity.

An uneasy hush had descended on the ship. Those women returning to their cabins did not chatter with relief, even though the worst damage to anyone’s belongings had been a coating of soot. The night had shown them the precariousness of their position, and it had shaken them. The voyage was no longer an adventure. There was not one who wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by an ache to be home. Whatever that turned out to be.

The WSO placed a hand under her arm as Frances lifted herself on to the bed, surprised by how tired that small act made her feel. The woman pulled a blanket over her, then made to adjust the other round her shoulders. The marine removed his own supporting arm, and let go of her hand with a hint of reluctance. She caught his eye and her exhaustion briefly disappeared.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, to the WSO. ‘Thank you, but really I am. I’d be just as good in my own bunk.’

‘Dr Duxbury says anyone who’s been in the water needs to spend a few hours under observation. You might have hypothermia.’

‘I can assure you I haven’t.’

‘Orders are orders. You’ll probably be out by teatime.’ The WSO moved to Avice’s bed, tucking in her blankets in a brisk, maternal gesture that reminded Frances suddenly of the hospital at Morotai. But they were in a side room off the infirmary, some kind of detergent store, Frances guessed, from the boxes around them and the pervasive smell of bleach. There were charts on the walls, with lists of supplies, and locked cabinets containing items that might be flammable. Frances shivered.

‘Sorry about the room,’ the WSO was saying. ‘We need the infirmary for the men who inhaled smoke, and we couldn’t have you mixing. This was the only place we could put you two. Only for a few hours, though, eh?’

The marine, inches from her bed, was staring at her. Frances felt the warmth of his eyes and savoured it. She could still feel the imprint of his arm round her as he half walked, half carried her back on board, his head so close to hers that, if she had inclined her neck a little further, she could have felt his skin against hers.

‘Now, Mrs Radley, are you comfortable?’

‘Fine,’ Avice said, into her pillow.

‘Good. I’ve got to pop next door and get the men comfortable, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ve brought you some nice clean clothes to change into. I’ll put them just here.’ She placed the carefully folded pile on a small cabinet. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies could do with a cup of tea. Marine, would you do the honours? It’s chaos downstairs and I don’t want to have to fight my way to the galley.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

She felt his hand, the brief squeeze, and for a second she forgot about this room, about Avice, the fire. She was on a lifeboat, her eyes locked on to this man’s, saying everything she had ever wanted to say, everything she had never believed she would want to say, without uttering a word.

‘I’ll take a look at those cuts later,’ she murmured to him, and fought the urge to touch his face. She imagined how his skin would feel under her fingertips, the tenderness with which she would care for the bruised flesh.

He glanced behind him as he walked towards the door. Smiled when he saw she was still watching him, one hand raised unconsciously to her hair.

‘I don’t suppose you particularly want to be stuck with me, do you?’ As he closed the door, Avice’s voice cut into the silence.

Reluctantly, Frances brought her thoughts to the woman in front of her. ‘I don’t mind who I’m with,’ she replied coolly.

It was as if their hours in the lifeboat had never happened, as if Avice, uncomfortable at having been rescued by this woman, was now determined to restore the distance between them.

‘I’ve got a stomach-ache. This bodice is too tight. Will you help me out of it?’

Avice slid slowly out of her bed, her hair separated into pale, salted fronds. Frances helped her out of the ruined party dress, the stiff girdle and brassière, with impersonal care. It was only as she helped Avice back on to the bed that she saw the mark spreading slowly across the back of the peach silk robe. She stooped to pick up the soiled dress and saw further evidence. She waited until Avice had lain down, then stood stiffly beside her. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding.’

In the little room, piled high with boxes, they examined the robe in silence. Avice took it off and stared at the ruby stain, which was even now making its way on to the sheet. She saw in Frances’s face what it meant. There was no visible change in her demeanour. She accepted the clean towel that Frances fetched without comment.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Frances, a pebble of discomfort lodged inside her. ‘It – it may have been the shock of the water.’ She had been prepared for Avice to scream at her, that she might relish the chance to add this lost child to Frances’s list of supposed sins. But she said nothing, just acceded to Frances’s quiet requests to lie still, put this towel there, take a painkiller or two.

Finally she spoke. ‘Just as well, really,’ she said. ‘Poor little bastard.’

There was a brief, shocked silence, as if even she was surprised by her choice of words.

Frances’s eyes widened.

Avice shook her head. Then suddenly, lurching up and forward like somebody choking, she began to wail. Racking sobs filled the little room and she sank back on to the narrow bed, her face buried in the sheet, the muffled noise passing through her as if with seismic tremors.

Frances dropped the dress, clambered quietly on to Avice’s bed and sat beside her, stunned. She stayed there for some time until, unable to bear the terrible sound any longer, she put her arms round the girl and held her. Avice neither pushed her away nor leant in to her. It was as if she was so locked into her own private unhappiness that she did not know Frances was there.

‘It will be all right,’ Frances said, not knowing if she could justify her words. ‘It will be all right.’

It was some time before the sobbing subsided. Frances fetched more painkillers from the dispensary and a sedative, in case it proved necessary. When she returned, Avice was lying back against the wall, a pillow propped under her. She wiped her eyes, then gestured to Frances to pass her her dress, from which she pulled a piece of tattered, damp paper. ‘Here, you can read this properly now,’ she said.