The Ship of Brides(19)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Her father peered at her. ‘You all right, girl? You’ve gone awful pale.’

‘I can’t, Dad,’ she whispered.

‘I can’t hear you, girl. What’s the matter?’

‘Dad, I don’t feel good,’ she said.

Her father stepped forward and took her arm. ‘What is it? Do you need to sit down?’

‘No . . . It’s the crowds. I’m feeling a bit faint. Tell them they’ve got to get me aboard.’ She closed her eyes. She heard her father bark at Daniel, and him sprinting off.

Several minutes later, two naval officers were standing beside her. ‘Are you all right, madam?’

‘I just need to get aboard.’

‘Right. Have you been—’

‘Look, you can see I’m expecting. I feel faint. The baby’s pressing on my bladder and I’m afraid of embarrassing myself. I can’t stay in this crowd a minute longer.’ Desperation had made her tearful, and it embarrassed them, she could tell.

‘This isn’t like her,’ her father was saying, his voice concerned. ‘She’s a strong lass. Never seen her come over faint before.’

‘We’ve had a few already,’ said one of the officers. ‘It’s all this commotion. We’ll get her aboard. Give us your bags, madam.’

She let go of her bag and the food parcel, the brown paper now softened with the sweat of her hands.

‘She going to be okay? You got a doctor aboard?’ Her father hovered by them, his face drawn.

‘Yes, sir. Please don’t worry.’ She felt him pause beside her. ‘Sorry, sir. You can’t come any further.’

One of the officers had reached for her basket. ‘Want me to take this for you?’

‘No,’ she snapped, pulling it to her. ‘No, thank you,’ she added, and tried to smile. ‘It’s got all my papers and things in it. Be terrible if I lost it.’

He grinned at her. ‘You’re probably right, madam. Today’s not the day to lose anything.’

They had each supported her under an elbow and were now propelling her towards the ship. Unlike the Victoria itself, she noted absently, the gangplank looked tired, its wooden struts half rotten from years of feet and seawater. ‘’Bye then, Maggie,’ her father called.

‘Dad.’ Suddenly it seemed too hurried. She wasn’t sure if she was ready after all. She tried to blow a kiss with her free hand in an attempt to convey something of what she felt.

‘Dan? Daniel? Where is he?’ Her father had spun round to locate the boy. He waved his hand for her to wait, to hang on, but the crowd was pushing against the barrier and he was already being swallowed into it.

‘I haven’t said goodbye properly.’

‘Bloody boy.’ Her father was almost in tears. ‘Dan! I know he wants to say goodbye. Look, don’t take any notice of all that—’

‘We should really get you aboard, Madam,’ said the officer beside her.

She looked at him, then at the Customs shed. Her feet were on the gangplank now. She could feel the pressure of her suitcase on her leg as the officer stood behind her, impatient to move on.

‘I can’t see him, love,’ Murray called. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘Tell him it’s okay, Dad. I understand.’ She could see that her father was blinking hard.

‘You’ll be sorry!’ A young navvy, cap pulled low over his head, grinned at her slyly.

‘You take care,’ her father yelled. ‘You hear me? You take care of yourself.’ Then his voice, his face and the top of his battered hat were lost in the mêlée.

The executive officer, or XO as he was known to the men, had tried three times to get his attention. Bloody man kept standing there, bobbing up and down, like a child begging permission to visit the little boys’ room.

Dobson. Always a little more informal than the occasion deserved. Captain Highfield, already in a foul mood, was determined to ignore him. He turned away, rang down to the Engine Control Room.

The damp was making his leg ache. He rested it briefly by placing his full weight on the other in a lopsided stance unusual to him. He was a stocky man, whose ramrod-straight posture had become ingrained over years of service – and led to countless irreverent imitations below decks.

‘Hawkins, let me know about the port outer engine. Is it still locked?’

‘I’ve got two men down there at the moment, sir. We’re hoping to free it up in the next twenty minutes or so.’

Captain Highfield exhaled. ‘Do your best, man. Otherwise we’re going to need another two tugs to get us clear, and that’s not going to look too clever today, is it?’

‘Not quite the image we want to give the old colonials when we’re running off with their daughters.’

‘Bridge, wheelhouse, Coxswain at the wheel.’

‘Very good, Coxswain. Stand by to steer one-two-zero.’ Captain Highfield stood up from the voice-pipe.

‘What?’

Dobson hesitated. ‘I . . . was just agreeing with you, sir. Not the kind of image we want to project.’

‘Yes, well, not something you need to worry about, Dobson. What was it you wanted?’

From the bridge, the whole harbour was visible: the huge, teeming crowds that stretched as far as the dry docks, the bunting strung below, and, one by one, the women who made their way slowly up the gangplank, waving as they came. Highfield had groaned inwardly at every one.

‘I came to talk to you about the mess report, sir. We’re still missing a few.’

Captain Highfield glanced at his watch. ‘At this hour? How many?’

Dobson consulted his list. ‘At this moment, sir, almost half a dozen.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Captain Highfield slammed his hand down on the dial. The slipping off was turning into a farce. ‘What on earth were the men doing last night?’

‘Sounds like there was something of a shindig at one of the drinking clubs, sir. We’ve had a few back been caught scrapping, a few who were frankly incapable. One man missed the gangplank and fell into the soup. Lucky we had Jones and Morris on watch, sir, or we might have lost him altogether. And then there are the six still absent.’

Highfield stared out of the bridge. ‘Bloody shambles,’ he said. Those around him knew that the ferocity in his voice did not relate entirely to the missing men. ‘Six hundred flapping girls can make their way aboard on time, but not England’s finest. Bloody embarrassment, the lot of them.’