The Ship of Brides(117)
Author: Jojo Moyes

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.

Avice saw them before they saw her. She stood beneath the gun turret, her hat pinned tightly to her head so that it wouldn’t blow away, and watched the little group below. Her mother was wearing the hat with the huge turquoise feather in it. It looked curiously ostentatious among all the tweeds, dull browns and greys. Her father, his own hat wedged low on his brow as he preferred it, kept glancing around him. She knew who he was looking for. In the mêlée of naval uniforms, he would be wondering how on earth they would ever find him. She barely noticed her surroundings, the scenery behind the dockyard. What was the point when she knew now that she would not be staying?

‘Radley. Mrs Avice Radley.’

Avice took a deep breath, brushed the front of her jacket and made her way slowly to the bottom of the gangplank, her back as straight as that of a model, her chin held high as she tried to disguise the awkwardness in her walk.

‘There she is! There she is!’ She heard her mother’s squawk of excitement. ‘Avice, darling! Look! Look! We’re here!’

In front of her, where the gangplank met the dockside, a bride whom Avice recognised from the dressmaking lectures was ambushed at the bottom of the steps and swept into the arms of a soldier. She dropped her bag and the hat she had been holding in her left hand, and was locked to him for an interminable length of time, her hands clutching his hair, his face pressed to hers, as they occasionally broke off to touch noses and murmur each other’s name. Unable to get past them, Avice had to stand there, trapped on the gangplank, trying to look away as the couple were passionately reacquainted.

‘Avice!’ Her mother was bobbing up and down on the other side of them like a brightly coloured cork. ‘There she is, Wilf! Look at our girl!’

Finally, the soldier realised he was holding up the other brides, uttered a half-hearted apology, then swept his girl off to the side. You know how it is, he had grinned.

Oh, yes, Avice replied. I know how it is.

Her mother ran the last few steps to meet her, her face tearful with happiness. ‘Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you! How about this, eh? Nice surprise?’

Her father moved forward and held her. ‘Your mother hasn’t stopped fretting since you left. Couldn’t bear the thought of you two on bad terms on opposite sides of the world. How’s that for devotion, eh, Princess?’

There was such love and pride on both their faces. Avice realised, with horror, that if they carried on her face would crumple.

Deanna stepped forward. She was wearing a new cerise suit. ‘Which one was the prostitute? Mummy nearly came out in hives when she got Mrs Carter’s letter.’

‘Where’s Ian?’ Her mother was peering into the faces of the men in naval uniform. ‘Do you think he’s brought his family?’

‘You’d better not have lost my shoes,’ said Deanna, under her breath. ‘I want them out of your case before you disappear.’

‘He won’t be here,’ Avice said.

‘He’s never been sent off already. I thought the men were going to be allowed to meet you!’ Her mother’s gloved hand pressed to her face. ‘Well, thank goodness we came, Wilf. Don’t you think?’

‘Is his family coming to meet you anyway? We’ve heard nothing from them.’ Her father took her arm. ‘I’ve brought them a wireless. Top of the range.’

Avice stopped, set her face as straight as she could. ‘He’s not coming, Dad. He’s never coming. There’s been . . . there’s been a change of plan.’

There was a short silence. Her father turned to her. Avice thought she might have heard a snort of delight from her sister. ‘What do you mean? You’re not telling me I’ve just spent four hundred dollars on flights when there’s no bloody celebration going to take place? Have you any idea how much this trip has cost—’

‘Wilf!’ Her mother turned back to her daughter. ‘Avice, darling—’

‘I’m not going to talk about it here, on a dockside full of people.’

Her parents exchanged a glance. Deanna was unable to disguise her pleasure at this unexpected turn of events. It was as if she were impressed by the scale of Avice’s personal catastrophe.

As the four of them stood on the quay, the crowds milling around them, a distant loud-hailer called for someone, please, to come to the harbourmaster’s office to reclaim a small child. She was wearing a red coat and said her name was Molly. They had no further information.

Avice stared back at the ship. A bride was running recklessly down the gangplank in high heels. When she reached the bottom she launched herself into the arms of an officer, who lifted her off the ground, twirling her round and round in his arms. She could see he was an officer from his uniform. She had always been good on uniforms. Don’t say anything else, Avice willed them, biting her lip. Don’t say one more word. Or I’m going to stand here and howl so loudly that the whole of Plymouth will be brought to a halt.

Her mother adjusted her hat, pulled her fur a little closer round her shoulders, then took Avice’s arm and tucked it into the crook of her own. Perhaps understanding, perhaps seeing something in her daughter’s expression, she chose not to look her full in the face. When she spoke, there was a faint but definite break in her voice. ‘Well, dear, when you’re ready we’ll have a little chat at the hotel.’ She began to walk. ‘It’s a very nice hotel, you know. Beautiful-sized rooms. We’ve got our own lounge area attached to the bedrooms and views all the way to Cornwall . . .’

Frances walked slowly down the gangplank, her suitcase in her right hand, the other trailing lightly down the handrail. She was, she thought, invisible in this crowd of cheering, embracing people. As she drew closer to the dockside, she saw faces she recognised from the past six weeks, wreathed in smiles, contorted in emotional tears, pressed in passion to their husbands and, just for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like to be one of those girls for whom there was an embrace at the end of the gangplank, for whom there was not one but several pairs of welcoming arms to claim her.