The Ship of Brides(113)
Author: Jojo Moyes

They stood there for some time in companionable silence. Nicol’s thoughts churned like the seas, his skin prickling when he thought of the woman below. What should I have done? he asked himself, over and over. What should I do?

Highfield stepped a little closer to him. He pulled a cigar box from his pocket and offered one to Nicol. ‘Here. Celebration,’ he said. ‘My last night as a captain. My last night after forty-three years in the Navy.’

Nicol took the cigar and allowed the older man to light it, his hand braced against the sea breeze. ‘You’ll miss it. Out here.’

‘No, I won’t.’

Perplexed, Nicol turned to him.

‘I’m going to go straight back out,’ Highfield said. ‘See if I can crew merchant ships, that kind of thing. I’m told there’s plenty of demand. I don’t know, Nicol. These girls have made me think. If they can do it . . .’ He shrugged.

‘You don’t feel . . . like you’ve earned your time on land, sir?’

The captain exhaled. ‘I’m not sure, Nicol, that I’d know how to be on land. Not for any length of time.’

Somewhere beneath their feet, the riveted metal plates that made up Victoria’s flight deck groaned, signalling some distant tectonic shift. The two men gazed across the repainted surface, the sectioned-off areas where her innards lay exposed to the night sky. Their thoughts drifted to the engine, whose laboured efforts were apparent in the juddering, the broken trails of foam that should have been a continuous, sweeping line in the water. The ship knew. They both felt it.

Captain Highfield drew on his cigar. He was in his shirt, but he didn’t seem to feel the cold. ‘Did you know she served in the Pacific?’

‘Victoria?’

‘Your charge. Sister Mackenzie.’

‘Sir.’ What was she doing now? Was she thinking of him? Unconsciously he raised his hand to his face where she had touched it. He had hardly heard what the captain was saying.

‘Brave woman. Brave the lot of them, really. Think about it. This time tomorrow they’ll know which way their future lies . . .’

With that man, the man Nicol wanted to hate, wanted to disparage for the mere fact that he had a claim to her. But the way she had described him – how could he hate the gentle, affectionate soldier? How could he despise a man who had managed, from a sickbed, to be more of a husband than he himself had ever been . . . ?

Nicol’s head felt feverish, despite the chill night air. He thought he might have to leave, to be alone somewhere. Anywhere.

‘Sir, I—’

‘Poor girl. She’s the second one on board, you know.’

His skin was burning. He had a sudden urge to dive into that cool water.

‘Second what, sir?’

‘Widow. Had a telegram yesterday for one of the girls on B Deck. Husband’s plane went down in Suffolk. Training flight, would you believe?’

‘Mrs Mackenzie’s husband was killed?’ Nicol froze. He felt a stab of guilt, as if he had willed this to happen.

‘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.