The Ship of Brides(108)
Author: Jojo Moyes

He took a sip, plainly not wanting to have to consider this new problem on top of everything else. ‘It could cause all sorts of trouble. The man doesn’t know his own mind.’

‘He knows he loves her. It would make him happy. And, besides, what can she do? She can’t stay in nursing now everyone knows. She can’t stay in Australia.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s a big place.’

‘Someone found her here, didn’t they?’

‘I don’t know . . .’

Matron leant over the desk. ‘She’s a good nurse, Charles. A good girl. Think what she’s done for your men. Think of Petersen and Mills. Think of O’Halloran and those wretched sores.’

‘I know.’

‘What harm? The boy’s got no money, has he? You said he had no family to speak of.’ Her voice dropped a little. ‘You know as well as I do how ill he is.’

‘And you know I’ve tried jolly hard to discourage this kind of thing. All that bloody paperwork for a start.’

‘You’re on good terms with the Dutch. You’ve told me yourself. They’ll sign whatever you hand them.’

‘You’re convinced that this is a sensible idea?’

‘It would bring him some happiness and give her a lifeline. She’d be entitled to go to England. She’ll make a superb nurse over there. What harm can that do?’

Charles Baillie sighed deeply. He put down his glass on the desk and turned to the woman opposite. ‘It’s hard to refuse you anything, Audrey.’

She smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knows the battle is won. ‘I’ll do what I have to do,’ she said.

The chaplain was a pragmatic man. Weary of the pain and suffering he had seen, he had been easily persuaded to help. The young nurse, a favourite of his, was a perfect illustration of the redemptive powers of marriage, he told himself. And if it enabled the poor soul beside her to be even partly lifted from the horrors of his last weeks, he felt pretty sure his God would understand. When the matron had thanked him, he had replied that he thought the Almighty was more of a pragmatist than any of them knew.

Congratulating themselves on their solution, and with perhaps the faintest curiosity as to how their plan would be received by its subjects, the three sat in the matron’s office long enough to celebrate their good sense with another drink. For medicinal purposes, of course, the matron said with a grin, remarking on the pallor of Captain Baillie’s face. She couldn’t stand to see a man with a pale face: she always wanted to check them for blood disorders.

‘Only problem with my blood is there’s not enough whisky in it,’ he muttered.

They toasted Sister Luke, her future husband, the end of the war and Churchill for good measure. Shortly after ten o’clock they walked out into the tented ward, a little more erect, a little less relaxed, as they stood before their charges.

‘She’s in B Ward,’ said the sister, who was reading a letter at the night desk.

‘With Corporal Mackenzie,’ said the matron, turning to Captain Baillie not a little triumphantly. It would work out well for everyone. ‘There, you see?’

They walked through the sandy pathway between the beds, careful not to wake those men already sleeping, then pushed back the curtain to enter the next ward, Captain Baillie pausing to slap, with a curse, the mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck. Then they stopped.

Sister Luke glanced up as she heard them enter. She looked at them with wide, unreadable eyes. She was leaning over Alfred ‘Chalkie’ Mackenzie’s bed, three-quarters of which was still covered by a mosquito net. She was pulling a white Navy-issue sheet over his face.

Avice was sleeping when the marine returned with two new, still-hot cups of tea. He knocked twice and entered, watching his feet as he crossed the little room. He placed the two mugs on the table between the beds. He had been half hoping that the WSO would be with them.

Frances had been standing over Avice and jumped, evidently having not expected to see him. A little colour rose to her cheeks. He thought she looked exhausted. A few hours ago he might have given in to the urge to touch her. Now, having heard her words, he knew he would not. He moved back towards the door and stood, legs apart, shoulders square, as if to reaffirm something to himself.

‘I – I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d been called off to do something else.’

‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

‘Dr Duxbury’s given me the all-clear. I’m just getting my things together so I can go back. Avice will probably spend tonight in here. I may come back to make sure she’s okay. They’re a bit overstretched.’

‘She all right?’

‘She’ll get there,’ Frances said. ‘I was going to find Maggie. How is she?’

‘Not too good. The dog . . .’

‘Oh.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, no. And she’s all by herself?’

‘I’m sure she’d be glad of your company.’ She still hadn’t changed her clothes and he ached to wipe the dark smudge from her cheek. His hand tightened behind him.

She stepped forward, glanced back at the sleeping Avice. ‘I thought about what you said,’ she said, her voice low and conspiratorial, ‘that the war has made us all do things we’re not proud of. Until you said that, I had always thought I was the only one . . .’

He had not anticipated this. He took a step backwards, not trusting himself to speak, half wanting to cry to her not to go on. Half desperate to hear her words.

‘I know we haven’t always been able to speak . . . honestly. That it’s . . . complicated, and that other loyalties might not always . . .’ She tailed off, and her eyes flashed up at him. ‘But I wanted to thank you for that. You’ve . . . I’ll always be glad you told me. I’ll always be so grateful that we met each other.’ The last words were rushed, as if she had had to force them out while she still had the courage to say them.

He felt suddenly small, wretched. ‘Yes. Well,’ he said, when he could form words, ‘it’s always nice to have made a friend.’ He felt mean even opening his mouth as he added, ‘Ma’am.’

There was a little pause.

‘Ma’am?’ she repeated.

The shy smile had disappeared; a movement so delicate he thought only he could have detected it. I have no choice, he wanted to shout at her. It is for you I’m doing this.