Jojo Moyes - Ship of Brides

‘Mackenzie? No, no, he . . . he died some time ago. Back in the Pacific. Odd decision, really, to leave Australia with nothing to come to. Still, that’s the war for you.’ He sniffed the air, as if he could detect the proximity of land.

Widowed?

‘Look at that. Hardly worth going to sleep now. Here, Nicol, come and have a drink with me.’

Widowed? The word held a glorious resonance. He wanted to shout, ‘She’s a widow!’ Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she told anyone? ‘Nicol? What do you fancy? Glass of Scotch?’

‘Sir?’ He glanced towards the hatch, desperate suddenly to get back to her cabin, to tell her what he knew. Why didn’t I tell her the truth? he thought. She might have confided in me. He understood suddenly that she had probably believed her status as a married woman offered her the only protection she had ever had.

‘Your devotion to duty is admirable, man, but just this once I’m ordering you. Let your hair down a little.’

Nicol felt himself lean towards the hatch. ‘Sir, I really—’

‘Come on, Marine, indulge me.’ He waited, until he was sure Nicol was heading towards his cabin. Then he glanced at him, a rare, sly conspiracy in his smile. ‘Besides, how will that little dog get any rest if it’s always listening to you shuffling around outside the door?’

As he turned in, Highfield wagged an admonishing finger. ‘Not a lot gets past me, Nicol. I might be about to be pensioned off, but I’ll tell you this – there’s not much goes on on this ship that I don’t know about.’

By the time he leaves the captain’s rooms it is too late to wake her. He does not mind now: he knows he has time. His stomach full of whisky, and his mind still ringing with that word, he has all the time in the world. He squints against the too-bright blue of the skies as he heads across the flight deck, slows along the hangar deck, and then, as he reaches the women’s area, he stops, savouring the dawn silence, the sound of the gulls crying from Plymouth Sound, the sound of home.

He stares at the door, loving that rectangular slab of metal as he has never loved anything. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he turns, places his hands behind his back, and stands outside, his feet planted on the smoke-damaged floor, blinking slowly, head a little muzzy from the drink and cigars.

He is the only marine who will, tomorrow morning, be wearing an unpressed, unpolished uniform. He is the only marine to be disobeying orders by being in close, illegal proximity to the brides.

He is the only marine on duty the entire length of the hangar deck, and there is a look of something proud and proprietorial, mixed with unutterable relief on his face.

25

Australian brides – 655 of them – of British sailors stepped into England last night when the 23,000-ton aircraft carrier Victorious anchored at Plymouth. They brought with them these stories:

ADVENTURE – Mrs Irene Skinner, aged 23, descendant of the Rev. Samuel Marsden, who settled in Australia in 1794, said: ‘We may settle in Newfoundland, in England or in Australia, or in fact anywhere where we will find adventure and contentment.’

ROMANCE – Mrs Gwen Clinton, aged 24, whose husband lives in Wembley, spoke of her marriage: ‘He was billeted with me in Sydney. I was fascinated by him, and that was the end of it.’

PESSIMISM – Mrs Norma Clifford, 23-year-old wife of a naval engineer: ‘They tell me you cannot get any shoes at all in England.’ She brought 19 pairs with her.

Daily Mail, 7 August 1946

Plymouth

‘I’m not coming out. I tell you – I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Come on, Miriam. Don’t be daft.’

‘I tell you, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve had another look at my photographs and I’ve decided I don’t like the look of him.’

Margaret sat on the edge of her bunk, listening to the urgent exchange coming from the next cabin. The women had been shouting at each other for almost half an hour now; the unfortunate Miriam appeared to have bolted herself in, and none of the others who shared the room, all of whom had been queuing for the bathroom at the time, could get dressed.

As some of the WSOs had predicted, it was chaos. Around the unfortunate inhabitants of 3F, brides ran up and down the corridors, shrieking over mislaid belongings or missing friends. There had been an endless stream of piped instructions to the men, all in preparation for disembarkation, while the air was filled with the sound of seamen calling to each other as they performed last-minute tasks. The WSOs were already congregating at the gangplank, ready for their final duties: to confirm that each bride had been checked off, was in possession of all her cases, that she would be passed into safe hands.

‘Brides’ second sitting, last call for the canteen, last call for the canteen.’ The Tannoy hissed and clicked off.

Insulated from all the activity, and without Avice and Frances, the dormitory was silent. Margaret glanced down at her outfit; she could only squeeze into one of her dresses now, and it was straining at the seams. She rubbed at a little oil mark, knowing it would do no good.

‘Just pass me my slip, then, Miriam, will you? We can’t stand out here all morning.’

‘I’m not opening the door.’ The girl’s voice was hysterical.

‘It’s a bit late for that. What are you planning to do? Flap your arms and fly home?’

Her small suitcase, neatly packed, stood at the end of her bunk. Margaret smoothed the blanket beside it where Maudie had lain and took a deep, wavering breath. This was the first morning she had not been able to eat even a piece of dry toast. She felt sick with nerves.

‘I don’t care! I’m not coming out.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Look, get that marine there. He’ll help. Hey! You!’

Margaret sat still, conscious of a shuffling against her door. Puzzled, she opened it and stepped back as the marine fell into the cabin, in a heavy tumble of limbs.

‘Hello,’ said Margaret, as he tried to push himself upright.

‘Excuse me.’ A woman padded up to Margaret’s door, her hair in a towelling turban. She addressed Nicol: ‘Miriam Arbiter’s locked herself in our cabin. We can’t get at our clothes.’

The marine rubbed his head. It was obvious to Margaret that he was barely awake. She sniffed, noting with some surprise the faint whiff of alcohol that emanated from him, then bent down a little, to make sure he was who she thought he was.

‘We’re meant to be ready to go ashore in less than an hour, and we can’t even get at our things. You’ll have to fetch someone.’

Suddenly he seemed to register where he was. ‘I need to speak to Frances.’ He scrambled to his feet.

‘She’s not here.’

He looked startled. ‘What?’

‘She’s not here.’

‘How have I missed her?’

‘Look, Marine, please can you sort this out? I need to set my hair or it’ll never be dry in time.’ The girl in the doorway pointed at her watch.

‘She came back last night and then she went again.’

‘Where is she?’ He grasped Margaret’s wrist. His face was alive with anxiety, as if he had only just worked out how close they all were to dispersing. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Maggie.’

‘I don’t know.’ Then she understood something that had been nagging at her for weeks. ‘I guess I thought she might be with you.’

Avice stood in the infirmary bathroom, applying a final coat of lipstick. Her eyelashes, under two layers of block mascara, widened her marble-blue eyes. Her skin, which had been ghostly pale, was now apparently glowing with health. It was always important to look one’s best, especially at an occasion, and that was the marvellous thing about cosmetics. No one would know what awful things were going on inside one, given some pressed powder, rouge and a good lipstick. No one would know that one still felt a little shaky, even if there were mauve shadows under one’s eyes. Underneath the dark red two-piece, firmly enclosed by a quality girdle, there was no clue that one’s waist had been even an inch wider than it was now, or if what remained of one’s dreams was still bleeding away into unmentionable wads of cotton padding. No one would need to know if secretly one felt like one had been literally turned inside-out.