The Ship of Brides(20)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘There’s something else. Four of the brides are in with the Red Cross already.’

‘What? They’ve only been on board five minutes.’

‘Didn’t listen when we said they’d need to duck through the hatches. Too excited, I suppose.’ He smacked his forehead, mirroring the most common injury on board ship. ‘One’s a stitches job.’

‘Can’t the surgeon see to it?’

‘Ah. He’s – erm – one of those missing.’

There was a lengthy silence. The men around him were silent and expectant.

‘Twenty minutes,’ Highfield said eventually. ‘Just till we get the port outer engine working again. After that you can tell the mess men to start offloading their belongings. I won’t have this ship held up. Not today of all days.’

Avice leant on the rail, one hand keeping her new hat in place. Astride a gun turret, Jean was making a spectacle of herself. The dark-haired girl had become hysterical, and after yelling until she was hoarse at anyone who would listen, now had her arms slung over two ratings, as if she were drunk and leaning on them for support. Perhaps she was drunk: with that kind of girl little would have surprised Avice. It was why she had been rather careful to disassociate herself the moment they had come aboard half an hour earlier.

She looked down at the pleats on her new suit, satisfied by how superior her outfit was compared with those of the girls around her. Her parents, who had been unable to see her off, had sent a telegram and some money, and her mother had arranged for the suit to be delivered that morning to the hotel. Avice had been worried about what to wear, unsure of the etiquette for such an occasion. Now, with a clear view of at least a hundred other girls, hardly any of whom seemed to have dressed for the occasion, she wondered why she had fretted.

The ship was shabby. Avice had had her picture taken, been interviewed by the Bulletin for its society pages, and someone whom she had been pretty sure was the captain had shaken her hand, but it didn’t alter the fact that the Victoria was rusting in places, and bore no more resemblance to the Queen Mary than Jean did to her namesake Jean Harlow. As Avice had made her way up the rickety gangplank, her nostrils had curled at the faint but definite aroma of boiled cabbage, which reinforced the second-class nature of her transport.

Still, no one could accuse Avice of lack of fibre. Oh, no. She straightened her shoulders and forced herself to think about what she was heading to. In six weeks, she would discover what her new life held. She would get to know his parents, take tea at the Rectory, meet the ladies of the quaint English village where they lived, perhaps the odd duke or duchess. She would be introduced to his friends, those outside the RAF, who had known him as a child. She would begin to make their home.

She would finally be Mrs Ian Radley, rather than just Avice – or, as her mother put it, ‘Oh, Avice . . .’ – who might be married but, as far as her family was concerned, seemed no more deserving of respect or adult consideration than she had been as a child.

‘Watch her!’

Avice glanced down to the deck below: Jean had just slipped off the side of the gun turret. She was hanging, giggling, from the trouser pocket of one of the ratings, her slip and a good deal of leg exposed to anyone who cared to look. She was about to say something, when she realised that the deck was vibrating gently under her feet: the engines must have started, not that they could be heard in the din. She looked over the edge and saw, with a start, that the gangplank had been hauled up. There was a swell of noise, and a short distance away a winch was hoisting up several sailors who had apparently missed their opportunity to get aboard by normal means. They were laughing and cheering, covered with lipstick kisses. Possibly even drunk.

Disgraceful, thought Avice, smiling despite herself as they were dumped unceremoniously on the flight deck above. Around them, small tugs bossed and bullied the vast ship, negotiating its slow release from the harbour. The women were chattering excitedly, waving with greater urgency, their voices lifting as each tried to make sure their message was heard over the hubbub.

‘Mum!’ a voice below Avice yelled, increasingly hysterically. ‘Mum! Mum!’

Someone beside her was praying, then broke off to exclaim to herself: ‘I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!’

The crowd, a sea of Australian flags and the odd Union Jack, frothed and bubbled as people pushed towards the edge of the quay, bobbing above their neighbours to be seen by those aboard. Several placards were held aloft: ‘God Speed, Audrey’, ‘Good Luck from the Dockyard Workers of Garden Island’. She found herself gazing around the port, then at the hills beyond. Is this it? she thought suddenly, her breath catching in her throat. My last view of Australia? Then, with a lurch, the streamers snapped, their cobwebby strands releasing the ship from the rails of the dockside and, with an audible groan, she lurched away from the quay, sinking a few degrees as she slipped anchor.

There was a collective gasp. The engines began to power. A girl shrieked and over the din the band, now clearly visible on the quayside, struck up with ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

A few items were hurled from the ship’s berth and fell short, sending up small splashes of futility. The thin ribbon of blue water widened beneath them, then became an expanse. The ship, as if oblivious to the madness around it, glided, surprisingly quickly, away from the harbour.

‘You’ll be sorry!’ came a solitary cry, over the music. It sounded like a joke. ‘You’ll all be sorry!’

It was at this point that the ship’s passengers descended briefly into silence. Then, breaking it, the first of the girls began to cry.

Murray Donleavy placed his arm round his sobbing son, and sat silently as the crowds melted away, the sound of grieving women becoming more distinct. Finally, only a few huddles of people remained, staring out as the ship gradually merged with the horizon. It was getting chilly and the boy was shivering. He took off his jacket and threw it about Daniel’s shoulders, then hauled the boy against him for warmth.

Every now and then Daniel raised his head as if he wanted to speak, but was unable to find words and sank back into silent weeping, his face thrust into his hands as if the tears were a cause of shame.

‘Nothing to be sorry for, boy,’ he murmured. ‘It’s been a tough day.’

Theirs was one of the few vehicles remaining, sitting in a sea of muddied streamers and discarded sweet wrappers. Murray walked round to the driver’s side of the pickup, then halted when he noticed that his son was standing still and staring at him. ‘You all right now?’