The Ship of Brides(100)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Then she closed her eyes, very tightly.

In the centre engine room, somewhere below the hangar deck, the number-two oil spray, the high-pressure feed pump that transferred fuel to the boiler, succumbed to what might have been age, stress, or perhaps the bloodymindedness of a ship that knows she is about to be decommissioned and, split. A tiny fault line, perhaps less than two centimetres long, which allowed the pressurised fuel to bubble out, dark and seething, like spittle in the corner of a drunk’s mouth. And then to atomise.

It is impossible to see the hot spots in a ship’s engine, the places where small areas of metal, weakened by fractures or the strain on its joints, reach terrible internal temperatures. If they cannot be detected by the many gauges around the engine room, or by the treacherous act of feeling for them through rags, one discovers them by chance – conclusively when fuel leaks on to them.

Unseen and unheard by the humans who relied upon it, the Victoria’s centre engine hammered energetically forward, unseen, too red, too hot. The fuel hung briefly in the air in tiny, unseen droplets. Then the exhaust duct, inches from the cracked fuel pipe, glinted, like malice in a devilish eye, ignited and, with a sudden whumph! took its chance.

Fool. Bloody fool. Nicol slowed outside the oilskin store. One more night until she left for good, one more in which he could have told her a little of what she meant to him, and instead he had acted like a pompous fool. A jealous adolescent. And in doing so he had shown himself to be no better than any of the other judgemental fools on this leaking old ship. He could have said a thousand things to her, smiled at her, shown her a little understanding. She would have known then. If nothing else, she would have known. As bad as the rest of them, she had told him. The worst of what he had always suspected of himself.

‘Blast it,’ he said, and slammed his fist into the wall.

‘Something bothering you, Marine?’

Tims was blocking the passageway, overalls thick with oil and grease, something more inflammatory illuminating his expression. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said softly. ‘Run out of people to discipline?’

Nicol glanced at his bleeding knuckles. ‘Get on with your work, Tims.’ Bile rose in him.

‘Get on with your work? Who d’you think you are? Commander?’

Nicol glanced behind him at the empty corridor. No one was visible on G Deck; those not on duty were all in the hangar area, enjoying the dance. He wondered, briefly, how long Tims had been standing there.

‘Your ladyfriend bothering you, is she? Not giving it up, like you thought?’

Nicol took a deep breath. He lit a cigarette, extinguished the match between finger and thumb and thrust it into his pocket.

‘Got an itch you can’t scratch?’

‘You might think you’re a big man on this ship, Tims, but in a couple of days’ time you’ll just be another unemployed matelot like the rest of them. A nothing.’ He tried to keep his voice calm, but he could still hear in it the vibration of barely suppressed rage.

Tims stood back on his heels, crossed his huge forearms across his chest. ‘Perhaps you’re not her type.’ He lifted his chin, as if a thought had occurred to him. ‘Oh, sorry, I forgot. Everyone’s her type, provided they’ve got two bob . . .’

The first punch Tims seemed to expect and ducked away. The second was blocked by the stoker’s own blinding upper cut. It caught Nicol unawares, exploding under his chin so that he crashed backwards into the wall.

‘Think your little whore will still find you pretty now, Marine?’ The words came at him like another blow, cutting through the sound of the engines, the distant hum of the band, the disconsolate clank of the lashings swinging against the side. The blood in his ears. ‘Perhaps she just didn’t think you were man enough for her, with your prissy uniforms, always following orders.’

He felt the stoker’s breath on his skin, could smell the oil on him. ‘Did she tell you how she likes it, did she? Did she tell you she liked to feel my hands on them titties, liked to—’

With a roar, Nicol threw himself at Tims and brought them both crashing down. He pummelled blindly at the flesh before him, not even sure what his fists were connecting with. He felt the man wrench his body underneath him, saw the great fist come round as it caught him again. But he could not stop now, even if he felt himself in danger. He hardly felt the blows that rained down upon him. A blood mist had descended, and all the anger of the past six weeks, of the past six years, forced their way out of him through his fists and his strength, and curses flew through his clenched teeth. Something similar – perhaps his humiliation in front of a woman, perhaps the inequities of twenty years’ service – seemed to provide the motor for Tims’s own assault, so that in their welter of blood and blows and punches neither man registered the siren, despite the proximity of the Tannoy above their heads.

‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’ came the urgent, piped instruction. ‘Standing Sea Emergency Party, close up at Section Base Two. All marines to the boat deck.’

The Queen of the Victoria contestants were being led from the stage, their polished smiles vanished from their faces, Irene Carter clutching her winner’s sash round her like a lifejacket. Margaret glimpsed them briefly as, wedged in the sea of bodies, she found herself moving towards the door. Behind them, the tables stood abandoned, apple charlotte and fruit salad on the plates, glasses half empty. Around her, the women’s voices had risen in nervous excitement, swelling to a little crescendo of fear with every new piped instruction. She held one hand protectively across her belly and made her way towards the starboard side exit. It was like fighting against a particularly strong current.

A voice shouted from somewhere ahead, ‘Quickly, ladies, please. Those with surnames N to Z gather at Muster Station B, all others to Muster Station A. Just keep moving now.’

Margaret had made her way to the edge of the crowd when the women’s service officer caught her arm.

‘This way, madam.’ She held out her arms, pointing forward, a physical barrier to the starboard exit.

‘I have to pop downstairs.’ Margaret cursed under her breath as someone elbowed her in the back.

‘Nobody is allowed downstairs. Muster stations only.’

Margaret felt the crush of bodies pushing past her, smelt the mingling of several hundred brands of scent and setting lotion. ‘Look, it’s very important. I have to fetch something.’

The woman looked at her as if she was a fool. ‘There is a fire on board,’ she said. ‘There is absolutely no going downstairs. Captain’s orders.’