The Ship of Brides(36)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘You’re not leaving me here,’ said Jean, and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk.

‘Are you sure?’ said Margaret. ‘It’s pretty rough outside.’

‘Better than puking my guts up in the company of Miss Prim,’ she said, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figure of Avice in the bunk opposite. A long silk robe in shell pink hung from it. ‘I’ll come with you. I’m not missing out if there’s a party. It’ll be the closest thing I’ve had to a laugh since we set off.’

If Margaret had thought the brides’ cabins cramped, little had prepared her for the sheer numbers of men who could be crowded into a single mess area, not much bigger than a working-man’s parlour. The first indicator was the odour: the musk that had characterised her brothers’ rooms at home had been condensed, amplified, until it met them in an unsavoury blast even outside the door. It was the smell of male bodies in permanent too-close contact, washed and unwashed, of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes and unlaundered linen and things that neither Frances nor Margaret wanted to think about. It was little surprise: four floors down, bang on the waterline, it was unlikely the mess had ever enjoyed more than the faintest whisper of fresh air. Directly above the starboard engine room, it was also in a state of almost constant vibration, the noise juddering away below their feet with an awesome, leviathan constancy.

‘I think we should go back,’ said Frances. She had dragged her feet all the way there, had anticipated trouble at the end of every passageway. Margaret had ended up clutching her sleeve, determined that the girl was going to have a good time, just once, if it killed her.

‘Past the officers’ bathrooms, right? Do you think those are the bathrooms?’

‘I’m not looking to see,’ said Jean. In the minutes between sneaking out of their dormitory and coming down the stairs she had recovered her colour. Behind her, Frances stumbled, and tried to catch her balance as the ship pitched again.

‘Here it is,’ said Margaret. ‘Hello?’ she called, and knocked tentatively, unsure if she would be heard above the din. ‘Is Dennis there?’

There was the briefest silence, then an outburst of catcalling and whistling. A cry of ‘Chaffer up, lads, we’ve got visitors.’ Then, after several minutes, in which Margaret and Frances wondered whether to leave, and Jean attempted unsuccessfully to peep through the inch-wide illuminated gap, the door swung open. A sweet-smelling Dennis, wearing a pressed shirt and clutching a bottle of amber liquid, waved his arm in the manner of someone proposing a grand entry.

‘Ladies,’ he said, stooping to address them, ‘welcome to the real engine of the Victoria.’

Thirty-two men were billeted in the stokers’ mess, and even with only half of that number present, the women found themselves in a proximity to the opposite sex that in normal circumstances would have left them awaiting imminent betrothal. Frances spent the first half an hour pressed up against the only spare six inches of wall, apparently too terrified, faced with the presence of several semi-dressed males, to sit down. Jean was giggling and blushing, saying, ‘Saucy!’ in a scolding voice whenever she couldn’t think of anything sensible to say, which was often. Margaret was perhaps the least perturbed: her condition and her ease in the company of large numbers of men enabled them to treat her like an honorary sister. Within an hour, she had not only won several hands of cards, but had answered several queries about the best things to write in letters to sweethearts, how to handle interfering mothers-in-law and, on one occasion, which tie to wear for a civilian event. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes and the occasional curse – followed by an apology, as a concession to the presence of ladies. In the far corner, a rake-thin man with slicked red hair played a trumpet quietly. He was ignored, which made Margaret think this was probably a nightly occurrence.

‘You ladies want a drink?’ said Dennis, leaning over them with a couple of tumblers. They had quickly established that he did not operate by the normal rules of the ship. Alcohol, smokes, a sub till payday – all of these flowed either to or from him like water. Frances, who had been persuaded to sit down beside Margaret, shook her head. She was apparently immune to the men’s admiring looks, and had spent so much time staring at her shoes that Margaret felt guilty for having insisted she come. Jean, meanwhile, had drunk two tumblers already and was getting sillier by the second.

‘Steady now, Jean,’ Margaret whispered. ‘Remember how sick you were earlier.’

‘Davy here says it will settle my stomach,’ said Jean, prodding the man beside her.

‘Sittle yer stummick?’ One of the ratings, Jackson, had found their accents fascinating, and had made a point of parroting whatever they said.

‘You don’t want to believe anything this lot tell you,’ said Margaret, raising her eyebrows. ‘Settle your stomach, indeed.’

‘That what your Joe told you, was it?’ said Dennis, pointing at hers, to the sound of ribald laughter.

There were bars on the walls to support the hammocks, and rows of lockers, their owners identified by postcards or hand-drawn lettering. On what little wall space remained, pictures of scantily clad starlets jostled for elbow room with grainy, less glamorous shots of wives and girlfriends, beaming children, a nicotine-stained reminder of other, wider worlds far from here. Around them, those men not playing cards at the wooden tables lay in their hammocks, writing letters, sleeping, smoking, reading or just watching – simply enjoying the presence of women. Most had covered themselves, out of deference, and many had proffered boiled sweets, cigarettes, or even photographs of their sweethearts for admiration. Despite the close confines, there was no undercurrent of threat as there had been in the days when Dad brought all those blokes back from the pub. The men were hospitable, friendly and only mildly flirtatious. Margaret thought she understood; having spent months away from those they loved, just having someone there as a reminder of world away from war and men and fighting was enough. She had felt it herself when she had seen men in the same uniform that Joe wore.

‘Frances? You sure you won’t play a hand?’ Margaret had won again. Dennis had whistled and thrown down his cards, threatening dire revenge on the next occasion they met. There seemed no doubt in his mind that there would be another.

‘No. Thank you.’

‘You’d be great at it.’ She would. Her face was almost entirely impassive; her neat, slightly sharpened features revealed none of the discomfort that Margaret knew she felt. Several times now she had mentioned that Frances was a nurse, and several times Frances had rebuffed any attempt to get her to talk about her time in service. There was just enough grace in her manner to prevent the suggestion of rudeness. But only just.