The Ship of Brides(114)
Author: Jojo Moyes

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.

There, she thought, as she stared at her reflection. I look – I look . . .

He would not be there to meet her. She knew this as surely as she believed that now, finally, she knew him. He would wait until he had heard from her, until he knew which way the land lay. If she said yes, he would fall on her with protestations of eternal love. He would probably spend years telling her how much he loved her, how he adored her, how anyone else (she could not bring herself to use the words ‘his wife’) meant nothing to him. If she told him she didn’t want him, she suspected he would grieve for a few days, then probably consider himself to have had a lucky escape. She pictured him now, at the kitchen table, his mind already on this ship, bad-tempered and distant with this uncomprehending Englishwoman. A woman who, if she knew Ian as well as Avice did, would choose not to ask too many questions as to the cause of his foul mood.

The WSO, for whom the word ‘brisk’ might have been coined, stuck her head round the door. ‘You all right, Mrs Radley? I’ve arranged for your small suitcase to be taken up to the boat deck for you so you won’t have to carry anything.’ She smiled brightly. ‘There, now. Don’t you look a hundred per cent better than yesterday? Everything all right?’ She nodded towards Avice’s stomach and lowered her voice discreetly, even though they were the only people in the room: ‘Did you have any more undergarments you wanted me to fetch from the laundry room?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Avice. After everything else she had been forced to endure, she was not prepared to suffer the indignity of discussing her underwear with a stranger. ‘I’ll be ready in two minutes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’