The Ship of Brides(28)
Author: Jojo Moyes

The marine hesitated, then nodded. ‘There’s one pinned up on that noticeboard. Want me to talk you through it?’ His voice was low, resonant, as if he was about to break into song.

‘Oh, would you?’ said Jean, a heartbreaking smile on her face.

‘Golly, Moses, she’s brilliant,’ said Margaret, who was listening from behind the door. When Margaret and Avice looked out the pair were standing in front of the map, fifteen or so feet along the gangway. Margaret, carrying an oversized washbag, gave them a merry wave as she hurried along in her dressing-gown. The marine saluted her, then turned back to Jean to explain how she might use the map to get from the hangar deck to, for example, the laundry. Jean was apparently concentrating intently on whatever he had to say.

‘It’s not ideal,’ said Margaret afterwards, sitting down heavily on her bunk as the dog plodded round the dormitory, sniffing at the floor. ‘It’s not like a proper walk for her. I mean, she’s used to fields.’

Avice stifled the urge to remark that she should have thought of that beforehand. She was now smoothing cold cream into her face in front of her little travelling mirror. The sea air was meant to do terrible things to one’s skin, and she was darned if she was going to meet Ian looking like a strip of Bombay duck.

The door opened.

‘Great,’ said Margaret, as Jean came in, grinning, and closed it behind her. ‘You were great, Jean.’

Jean simpered. ‘Well, girls, you’ve either got it—’ She stopped. ‘Blimey, Avice, you look like a haddock with your mouth like that.’

Avice closed it.

‘I’m ever so grateful, Jean,’ Margaret told her. ‘I didn’t think he was going to move. I mean, that bit about not being able to read was a masterstroke.’

‘What?’

‘I’d never have come up with it. You must really be able to think on your feet.’

Jean gave her an odd look. ‘No thinking about it, mate.’ She directed her next words at the floor. ‘Can’t read a word. ’Cept my name. Never have.’

There was an awkward silence. Avice tried to gauge if this was another of Jean’s jokes, but she wasn’t laughing.

Jean broke the silence. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’ She stood up, flapping her hands.

There was a second’s grace, then a putrid smell explained her outburst.

Margaret winced. ‘Sorry, ladies. I said she was clean. I never said she wasn’t windy.’

Jean burst out laughing, and even Frances managed a rueful smile.

Avice raised her eyes to heaven and thought, trying to keep bitterness from her heart, of the Queen Mary.

It was on the second night that homesickness struck. Margaret lay awake in the darkened cabin, listening to the odd creak and sniff as her travelling companions shifted on their bunks, her exhaustion swept away paradoxically by the opportunity to sleep. She had thought she was fine: the strangeness of it all and the excitement of leaving the harbour had conspired to stop her thinking too hard about her new environment. Now, picturing the ship in the middle of the ocean, heading out into the inky blackness, she was gripped by an irrational terror, a childlike desire to turn round and run for the familiar safety of the only house in which she had ever spent a night. Her brothers would be going to bed now: she could picture them round the kitchen table – they had barely used the parlour since her mother had died – their long legs stretched out as they listened to the wireless, played cards or, in Daniel’s case, read a comic, perhaps with Colm leaning over his shoulder. Dad would be in his chair, hands tucked behind his head, the frayed patches showing at his elbows, eyes closed as if in preparation for sleep, occasionally nodding. Letty would be sewing, or polishing something, perhaps sitting in the chair her mother had once occupied.

Letty, whom she had treated so shabbily.

She was overwhelmed by the thought of never seeing any of them again, and bit down on her fingers, hoping that physical pain might force away the image.

She took a deep breath, reached out and felt Maude Gonne under the blanket, tucked into the restricted area where her thigh met her belly. She shouldn’t have brought the little dog: it had been selfish. She hadn’t thought of how miserable she would be, stuck inside this noisy, stuffy cabin for twenty-four hours a day. Even Margaret was finding it difficult, and she could go to the other decks at will. I’m sorry, she told the dog silently. I promise I’ll make it up to you when we get to England. A tear trickled down her cheek.

Outside, the marine shifted position on the metallic floor and murmured a quiet greeting to someone passing. She heard his shirt brush against the door. In the distance, several sets of heavy footfalls tramped down the metal stairs. Above her, Jean murmured to herself, perhaps in sleep, and Avice pulled the blanket further over her rollered hair.

Margaret had never shared a room in her life; it had been one of the few advantages of growing up female in the Donleavy household. Now the little dormitory, without the door open, without light or a breath of air, felt stifling. She swung her legs over the side of the bunk and sat there for a minute. I can’t do this, she told herself, dragging her oversized nightdress over her knees. I’ve got to pull it together. She thought of Joe, his expression warm and faintly mocking. ‘Get a grip, old girl,’ he said, and she closed her eyes, trying to remind herself of why she was making this journey.

‘Margaret?’ Jean’s voice cut into the darkness. ‘You going somewhere?’

‘No,’ said Margaret, sliding her feet back under the covers. ‘No, just . . .’ She couldn’t explain. ‘Just having trouble getting to sleep.’

‘Me too.’

Her voice had sounded uncharacteristically small. Margaret felt a swell of pity for her. She was barely more than a child. ‘Want to come down here for a bit?’ she whispered.

She could just make out Jean’s slender limbs climbing rapidly down the ladder, and then the girl slid in at the other end of her bunk. ‘No room at the top end.’ She giggled and, despite herself, Margaret giggled back. ‘Don’t let that baby kick me. And don’t let that dog slip its nose up my drawers.’

They lay quietly for a few minutes, Margaret unable to work out whether she found Jean’s skin against hers comforting or unsettling. Jean fidgeted for a while, legs twitching impatiently, and Margaret felt Maude Gonne lift her head in enquiry.

‘What’s your husband’s name?’ Jean asked eventually.