The Ship of Brides(27)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Well researched, Mrs Mackenzie.’

‘So . . . it’s not even that I’d like to occupy my time usefully, Doctor. I would appreciate the chance to gain a little more experience . . . I’m a good learner,’ she added, when he didn’t speak.

There was a brief silence. She looked at him, but was discomfited by the intensity of his gaze.

‘Do you sing?’ he said eventually.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sing, Mrs Mackenzie. You know, show tunes, hymns, opera.’ He began to hum something she didn’t know.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.

‘Pity.’ He wrinkled his nose, then slapped his hand on the desk. ‘I thought we might get some of the girls together and put on a show. What a perfect opportunity, eh?’

The brown bottle, she saw, was empty. She still could not make out what was written on the label, but now the scent of what it had contained burst softly on to the air with his every utterance.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure that would be a . . . a useful idea, Doctor. But I really wondered whether we could just discuss—’

‘“Long ago and far away” . . . Do you know “Showboat”?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Pity. “Old Man River” . . .’ He closed his eyes and continued to sing.

She sat, her hands clasped in her lap, unsure whether or not to interrupt. ‘Doctor?’

His singing segued into a low melodic humming. His head was thrown back.

‘Doctor? Do you have any idea of when you might like me to start?’

‘“He just keeps rollin’ . . .”’ He opened an eye. Continued to the end of the line. ‘Mrs Mackenzie?’

‘I can start today, if you’d like. If you’d find it . . . useful. I have my uniform in my dormitory. I kept it deliberately in my small bag.’

He had stopped singing. He smiled broadly. She wondered if he would be like this every day. She’d have to start secretly counting bottles, as she had with Dr Arbuthnot.

‘You know what I’m going to say to you, Frances? May I call you Frances?’ He was pointing at her now with his bottle. He looked as if he was enjoying his moment of possible munificence. ‘I’m going to tell you to go away.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He laughed. ‘That got you, didn’t it? No, Frances Mackenzie. You’ve been serving your country and mine for five years. You deserve a little break. I’m going to prescribe a six-week holiday.’

‘But I want to work,’ she said.

‘No buts, Mrs Mackenzie. The war’s over. In a few short weeks you’re going to be engaged in the hardest job of your career. You’ll be raising children before you know it and, believe me, those sick soldiers will look like a holiday then. That’s the real work. Take it from someone who knows. Three boys and a girl. Each one a little dynamo.’ He counted them off on his fingers, then shook his head, as if lost in distant appreciation of his offspring.

‘That’s the only work I want you interested in from now on. Real women’s work. So, much as I enjoy the company of an attractive young woman, right now I’m going to insist you enjoy your last days of freedom. Get your hair done. Watch some movies. Make yourself look pretty for that old man of yours.’

She was staring at him.

‘So go. Go on – now.’

It took her several seconds to grasp that she had been dismissed. He waved away her offered hand.

‘And enjoy yourself! Come and sing a few tunes! “Make way for tomorrow . . .”’

She could hear him singing the entire length of the gangway.

That evening the marine arrived at a minute before nine thirty. A slim man with dark, slicked hair, who moved with the economy of someone used to making himself invisible, he positioned himself at the entrance to their dormitory, placed his feet a little more than eighteen inches apart and stood with his back to the door, eyes focused on nothing. He was responsible for watching over the two cabins on each side of theirs, and the five above. Other marines were posted at similar intervals by the others.

‘Trust us to have one actually outside our door,’ muttered Margaret.

The brides had been lying on their bunks reading or writing, and Avice had been painting her nails with a polish she had bought at the PX shop in the wardroom lounge. It was not a particularly pretty shade, but she had felt she needed a treat to help her through what was already proving a testing journey.

Hearing his footfall, able to see a sliver of his body through the half-open door, they glanced at each other. Almost unconsciously, Margaret looked down at her sleeping dog. They waited in case he uttered some greeting or perhaps an instruction, but he just stood there.

At a quarter to ten Jean stepped outside with her cigarettes, and offered him one. When he refused, she lit one for herself and began to ask him questions: where was the cinema? Did the men get the same food as the brides? Did he like mashed potato? He answered monosyllabically, smiling only once when she asked him what he did when he needed to visit the dunny. (‘Oh, Jean,’ muttered Avice, behind the door.) ‘I’m trained not to,’ he said drily. ‘So, where do you sleep?’ she asked coquettishly, leaning against one of the pipes that ran up the wall.

‘My mess, ma’am.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Official secret,’ he said.

‘Don’t come the raw prawn,’ said Jean.

The marine looked straight ahead.

‘I’m only curious . . .’ She stepped closer to him, peering into his face. ‘Oh, come on, I’ve had toy soldiers that talked more than you.’

‘Ma’am.’

She apparently assessed her remaining firepower. Conventional weapons were going to be ineffective. ‘Actually,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette, ‘I wanted to ask you something . . . but it’s a bit embarrassing.’

The marine looked wary. As well he might, thought Avice.

Jean traced a pattern on the floor with her toe of her shoe. ‘Please don’t tell anyone, but I keep getting lost,’ she said. ‘I’d like to walk around but I’ve got lost twice already, and it’s made me a bit of a joke with the other girls. So I don’t really like to ask them. I even missed dinner because I couldn’t find the canteen.’

The marine had relaxed a little. He was intent, listening.

‘It’s because I’m sixteen, you see. I didn’t do too good at school. Reading and stuff. And I can’t . . .’ she let her voice drop to a whisper ‘. . . I can’t understand the map. The one of the ship. You couldn’t explain it to me, could you?’