The Ship of Brides(22)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Do you fancy going to one of these lectures?’ Jean shouted, chewing gum as they made their way past the projection room. ‘There’s one on the strains of marrying a foreigner next week.’ Her voice, as it had all morning, carried over the noisy vibrations of the engines and the repeated piped calls, summoning Petty Officer Gardner or special sea dutymen to the commander’s office.

Avice pretended not to hear her.

‘I quite fancy the one on common difficulties in the first year,’ Jean went on. ‘Except our first year has been dead easy so far. He wasn’t even there.’

‘The ship’s company of HMS Victoria will do their best to make your passage to the United Kingdom an enjoyable one . . . At the same time you must remember you are not in a liner, but are privileged to be a passenger in one of His Majesty’s ships. Life on board must be governed by service rules and customs.’

Margaret stood on the flight deck, three deep in the rows of brides, some of whom were giggling with nerves as they listened to the captain. He moved, she thought, as if someone had sewn his sleeves to the body of his jacket.

The sea, sparkling blue, was benign and calm, and the deck – the size of a two-acre field, hardly moved. Margaret cast surreptitious glances along its shining length, sniffing the salted air, feeling the breeze-blown sea mist on her skin, enjoying her first sense of space and freedom since they had slipped anchor the previous day. She had thought she might be a little frightened once they could no longer see land but instead she relished the sheer size of the ocean and wondered – with curiosity, not terror – what lay beneath the surface.

At each end of the deck, reflected in shallow, prismed puddles of seawater and aircraft fuel, the aeroplanes stood tethered, their gleaming noses pointing upwards as if hankering for flight. Between them, at the base of the tower known as the ‘island’, groups of men in overalls stood watching.

‘Every person aboard one of His Majesty’s ships is subject to the Naval Discipline Act, which means no spirits, wine or beer, and that gambling in any form is forbidden. There is to be no smoking near the aircraft at any time. Most importantly, do not get in the way of or distract men who are on duty. You are allowed nearly everywhere on the ship except the men’s living spaces, but work must not be interrupted.’

At this some of the girls glanced around and one of the ratings winked. A giggle rippled through the female ranks. Margaret shifted her weight to her other foot and sighed.

Jean, one of the girls allocated to share her cabin, had nipped into the space in front of her two minutes after the captain had started talking, and stood, one leg bent under her, biting her nails. She had been buoyant that morning, chattering away from daybreak about her excitement, about the ship, her new shoes. Anything that came to mind had spewed out, unfiltered, to the ears of her new companions. Now, faced with the captain’s stern manner and his litany of possible misdemeanours, she was looking temporarily wobbly, her excitement giving way to trepidation.

‘You may have heard from other brides that they had the chance to disembark at various ports on their journey. It must be remembered that in a troopship you will probably get no leave. There may be a chance to land at Colombo and possibly at Bombay, if the international situation allows, but this cannot be looked upon as certain. I would add that persons failing to return to the ship by the stated time are liable to be left behind.’

The captain’s gaze travelled along them. There was nothing speculative in it.

‘If there is a general complaint about some matter, the duty women’s service officer should be informed, and she will bring the matter to the notice of one of the lieutenant commanders. Meanwhile, the following spaces are out of bounds to women: ratings’ living spaces and messes, officers’ cabins and messes, below the level of the hangar deck, one deck above the flight deck, gun positions and galleries, and inside boats.

‘A more comprehensive guide, in booklet form, will be distributed to each of you later this afternoon. I’d like you all to read it and ensure you follow its regulations to the letter. I cannot emphasise strongly enough how grave the consequences will be for those who choose to disobey them.’

A silence descended on the deck, as he allowed the weight of his words to resonate. Margaret felt her cheeks flush as she thought of her cabin on the hangar deck below. A little way along, a woman was crying.

‘Eight women’s service officers are on board to advise, help and assist you on the journey.’ Here, he indicated the women standing by the Corsairs, each looking almost as grim and self-important as the captain himself. ‘Each WSO has a group of cabins under her special care and will always be available to help you.’ He fixed the women in front of him with a stern gaze. ‘The WSOs will also go rounds during the night.’

‘That’s my evening’s entertainment buggered,’ whispered the girl beside Margaret, and was met by a muffled snort of laughter.

‘Just as women are not allowed in naval personnel’s quarters, the ship’s company is not allowed in the women’s quarters and living spaces, except as required for duty. I would remind you of my previous statement, that the duty women’s service officers will go rounds during the night.’

‘And naughty girls will have to walk the plank.’ There was another surreptitious but clear outbreak of giggling, a pressure valve loosening.

‘Lord knows what he takes us for,’ said the girl beside Margaret, fiddling with a brooch.

The captain appeared to be at the end of his interminable speech. He looked down at a note attached to his booklets, apparently determining whether or not to continue. After a moment or two, he raised his head. ‘I have also been asked to tell you that . . . a small hairdressing salon . . .’ here the captain’s jaw tightened ‘. . . has been created in the after end of the lounge adjacent to B Cabin. It will be staffed by volunteers from among the passengers, if anyone would . . . like to offer their services.’

He stared at his papers, then fixed them all with a look that might have been cold or simply weary resignation.

‘Friendly soul,’ said Margaret, under her breath, as the group dispersed.

‘I feel like I’m back at school,’ murmured Jean, in front of her, ‘but with fewer places to smoke.’

Highfield looked at the women in front of him, nudging, whispering, fidgeting, not even capable of standing still for long enough to hear him list the rules and regulations that would govern their lives for the next six weeks. Even in this last twenty-four hours, he had watched every new outrage, every new example of why this had been a catastrophic idea, and wanted to telegraph McManus to say, ‘See? Didn’t I tell you this would happen?’ Half of them were hysterical, and didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry. The other half were already clogging up the place, getting lost below decks, forgetting to duck and injuring their heads, getting in the way of his men, or even stopping him to demand, as one had this morning, where she might find the canteen with the ice-cream. To top it all, he had walked along the upper gallery earlier this morning and found himself in a fine mist, not of aircraft fuel but of perfume. Perfume! They might as well tie their undergarments in place of the ship’s pennant and be done with it.