Jojo Moyes: Ship of Brides

On the dockside, a brass band played ‘Colonel Bogey’, and a loudhailer tried vainly to direct people away from the edge of the quay. Jostling groups cheered and waved, trying to attract attention, shouting messages that were carried away on the breeze, lost in the general cacophony.

Margaret stood in the queue, her heart thumping, hoping it wouldn’t be too long before she could sit down. The woman in front of her kept jumping up and down in an attempt to see over the others’ heads and had twice barged into her. Normally this would have been enough for Margaret to mutter a salty word or two in her ear, but now her mouth was dry, nervousness rooting her to the spot.

It all seemed so abrupt, so rushed. She had had no chance to say goodbye to anyone, not Tims, not the cook at the flight-deck canteen, not her cabin-mates, both of whom had vanished into thin air. Was this it? she thought. My last links with home, just vanishing on the breeze?

As the first bride reached the bottom of the gangplank a cheer went up, and the air was lit with a battery of flashbulbs. The band struck up ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

‘I’m so nervous I think I’m going to wet myself,’ said the girl next to her.

‘Please let him be there, please let him be there,’ another was muttering into a handkerchief.

‘Wilson, Mrs Carrie.’ The names reeled off, faster now. ‘Your belongings have been cleared by Customs . . .’

What have I done? Margaret thought, staring out at this strange new country. Where was Frances? Avice? For weeks this had been a distant dream, a holy grail to be grasped at in dreams, imagined and reimagined. Now it was here she felt unbalanced, unready. She thought she had never felt more alone in her life.

And suddenly there it was. Spoken twice before she heard it: ‘O’Brien, Mrs Margaret . . . Mrs O’Brien?’

‘Come on, girl,’ said a neighbour, shoving her to the front. ‘Shake a leg. It’s time to get off.’

The captain had just begun to show the Lord Mayor round the bridge when an officer appeared at the door. ‘Bride to see you, sir.’

The mayor, a pudding-shaped man whose chain of office hung from his sloping shoulders like a hammock, had shown an almost irresistible urge to touch everything. ‘Come to say their last goodbyes, eh?’ he remarked.

‘Show her in.’

Highfield thought he had probably known even before he saw her who it would be. She stood in the doorway, flushing as she saw the company he was in. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, faltering. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’

The mayor’s attention was on the dials in front of him, his fingers creeping towards them.

‘XO, look after the Mayor for a moment, would you?’ Ignoring Dobson’s glare, he walked over to the doorway. She was dressed in a pale blue short-sleeved blouse and khaki trousers, her hair pinned at the back of her head. She looked exhausted, and unutterably sad.

‘I just wanted to say goodbye and check that there was nothing else you wanted me to do. I mean, that everything is okay.’

‘All fine,’ he said, glancing down at his leg. ‘I think we can say you’re dismissed now, Sister Mackenzie.’

She gazed down at the dockside below them, teeming with people.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

‘I’ll be fine, Captain.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ He realised he wanted to say more to this quiet, enigmatic woman. He wanted to talk to her again, to hear more about her time in service, to have her explain the circumstances of her marriage. He had friends in high places: he wanted to ensure that she would find a good job. That her skills would not be wasted. There was no guarantee, after all, that any of these girls would be appreciated.

But in front of his men, he could say nothing. Nothing that would be considered appropriate, anyway.

She stepped forward and they shook hands, the captain acutely conscious of the other men’s curious glances. ‘Thank you . . . for everything,’ he said quietly.

‘The pleasure was all mine, sir. Just glad to have been able to help.’

‘If there is ever . . . any way, in which I might help you, I’d be delighted if you would allow me . . .’

She smiled at him, the sadness briefly lifting from her eyes, and then, with a shake of her head, which told him he could not be the answer, she was gone.

Margaret stood in front of her husband, stunned briefly into muteness by the immutable fact of him. The sheer handsomeness of him in his civilian clothes. The redness of his hair. The broad, spatulate tips of his fingers. The way he was staring at her belly. She pushed back a strand of hair and wished suddenly that she had made the effort to set it. She tried to speak, then found she did not know what to say.

Joe looked at her for what seemed an eternity. She was shocked at how unfamiliar he appeared, here, in this strange place. As if this new environment had made him alien. Self-consciousness made her look down. Panicked and curiously ashamed, she felt paralysed. Then he stepped forward with a huge grin. ‘Bloody hell, woman, you look like a whale.’ He threw his arms round her, saying her name over and over, hugging her so tightly that the baby kicked in protest, which made him jump back in surprise.

‘Would you credit that, Mother? A kick like a mule, she said, and she wasn’t wrong. How about that?’ He rested his hand on her belly, then took hers. He gazed into her face. ‘Ah, Jesus, Maggie, it’s good to see you.’

He enclosed her in his arms again, then reluctantly released her, and Margaret found herself clinging to his hand, as if it were a lifeline in this new country. It was then that she saw the woman standing with him, a couple of steps back, a headscarf tied round her head, her handbag clutched under her bosom as if she did not want to interfere. As Margaret attempted self-consciously to straighten her too-tight dress, all fingers and thumbs, the woman stepped forward, a smile breaking over her face. ‘Margaret, dear. I’m so glad to meet you. Look at you – you must be exhausted.’

There was the briefest pause and then, as Margaret struggled for words, Mrs O’Brien stepped forward to fold her into her chest. ‘How brave you are,’ she said into her hair. ‘All this way . . . away from your family . . . Well, don’t you worry. We’ll look after you now. You hear me? We’re all going to get along grand.’

She felt those hands patting her back, smelt the faint, maternal smell of lavender, rosewater and baking. Margaret did not know who was more surprised, she or Joe, when she burst into tears.

The marine captain grabbed him as he was trying the door to the infirmary. Nicol pulled away from the tight grip on his shoulder. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been, Marine?’ His face was furious.

‘I’ve been – I’ve been looking for someone, sir.’ Nicol had exhausted most of the ship: the only conceivable place remaining was the flight deck.

‘Look at the state of you! What the hell’s happened to you, man? Prod A, that’s what it was. All men on the flight deck. Not a bloody great hole where you should have been.’

‘I’m sorry, sir—’

‘Sorry? Sorry? What the bloody hell would happen if everyone decided not to turn up, eh? Look at you! You smell like a bloody brewery.’

From outside, he heard another dull cheer. Outside. He had to get outside on to the decks. There, he could check with one of the WSOs whether Frances had left the ship. For all he knew she might, at this very moment, be preparing to step off.

‘I’m shocked at you, Nicol. You of all people—’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I’ve got to go.’

The marine captain’s mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. ‘Go? You’ve got to go?’

‘Urgent business, sir.’ And then he ducked under the man’s arm, the apoplectic voice still ringing in his ears as he took the steps three at a time.