The Ship of Brides(38)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Oh, come on, Jean.’

Margaret had peeped round the corner to where their dormitory was, and saw thankfully that the marines were not on duty. ‘Quick! We might only have a minute.’

It was then that the woman had stepped out of the darkness.

‘Oh!’ Frances gasped.

Margaret felt herself flush.

‘What’s going on, ladies?’

The officer came towards them at a trot, her bosom arriving shortly before she did. She was one of the WSOs, a short, auburn-haired woman who had directed them earlier to the laundry. There was something almost indecent in her haste, as if she had been waiting for some misdemeanour to take place. ‘What’s going on? You know brides are not allowed out of their dormitories at this time of night.’

Margaret felt her tongue swell to fill her mouth.

‘Our friend is ill,’ said Frances, coolly. ‘She needed to go to the bathroom, and we weren’t sure she would manage by herself.’

As if in corroboration, the deck lifted under them, sending all four staggering against the wall. As she slipped to her knees Jean swore, then belched.

‘Seasickness, is it?’

‘Terrible,’ said Margaret, heaving Jean up.

‘Well, I’m not sure—’

‘I’m a nurse,’ interrupted Frances. That thin little voice could hold a surprising amount of authority, Margaret thought. ‘I decided it would be more hygienic if she was ill away from the bunks. We’ve got another inside,’ she said, pointing towards their door.

The woman stared at Jean, whose head was hanging down. ‘Are you sure it’s just seasickness?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve examined her and she’s fine otherwise.’

The woman’s expression was guarded.

‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Frances, ‘when I was serving on the hospital ship Ariadne.’ She had emphasised ‘serving’. She held out a hand. ‘Sister Frances Mackenzie.’

The woman had been outmanoeuvred. She was bothered by it, Margaret could tell, not least because she was not sure how it had happened.

‘Yes. Well . . .’ she said. She did not take Frances’s hand, but left it in mid-air. The apparent ease with which Frances eventually lowered hers made Margaret wonder briefly how many times the gesture had been refused.

‘Well, I’ll ask you to return to your bunks, ladies, and not to come out again unless it’s an emergency. You know we don’t have our marine guard tonight, and there’s meant to be a strict curfew in place.’

‘I’m sure we’ll be fine now,’ said Frances.

‘Orders, you know,’ said the officer.

‘Yes, we know,’ replied Frances.

Margaret made as if to move, but Frances was waiting for the woman to go.

Of course, Margaret thought. The dog.

The woman broke. She walked on, casting one brief, uneasy backwards look at them as she headed unsteadily towards the canteen.

9

Rounds of all weather decks, galleries and gun positions were carried out frequently, and at irregular periods after dark. All women had to be in their bunks by 11p.m. and the duty woman officer went round to see that no women were missing . . . These measures were the best that could be devised and although by no means perfect, at any rate, acted as a deterrent to bad behaviour and broke up many petting parties before their logical conclusion.

Captain John Campbell Annesley, quoted in

HMS Victorious, Neil McCart

Seven days

The sound of the bugle echoed tinnily through the Tannoy, and bounced down the walls of B Deck. Beneath it several men grimaced, and at least one put his hands over his ears – delayed, tentative movements, which were testament to eight unofficial ‘parties’ alleged to have taken place during the previous nights. Of the fifteen men lined up outside the Captain’s office, eleven awaited summary trial for some related misdemeanor and the remainder were up for offences dating back to the last shore leave. Normally such disciplinary matters would take place when the ship was not a day or two out of dock, but the extraordinary nature of its cargo, and the unusual level of offences meant that, to some extent at least, normal service on board HMS Victoria had not yet been resumed.

The master-at-arms stood squarely in front of one of the younger boys who was being supported under each arm by two pustulent mates. He shot out a broad, pudgy finger, and chucked the offender under the chin, frowning as he caught a whiff of his breath. ‘I don’t know what your mother would say to you, my old flower, if she could see you in this state, but I’ve got a good idea.’ He turned to the boys. ‘He your mate?’

‘Sir.’

‘How’d he get like this?’

The boys, for they were not much more, looked at their feet. ‘Dunno, sir.’

‘Scotch mist, is it? As opposed to just Scotch?’

‘Dunno, sir.’

‘Dunno, sir,’ the man repeated, fixing them with a well-practised glare. ‘I bet you don’t.’

Henry Nicol, Marine, stepped back against the wall. The young dabber beside him was wringing his cap in bruised, bloodied hands. He breathed out, bracing himself against the movement of the ship. They were out of the worst of the Bight, now, but it could still catch the unwary.

‘Soames, eh?’

The younger man nodded unhappily at the master-at-arms. ‘Sir.’

‘What’s he in for, Nicol?’

‘Quarrels and disturbances, sir. And drunkenness.’

‘Not like you, Soames.’

‘No, sir.’

The older man shook his head. ‘You speaking for him, are you, Nicol?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Make sure you get some sleep afterwards. You’re on watch again tonight. You look bloody awful.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘Soames, it’s a bad business. Use your loaf next time, not your fists.’

The master-at-arms moved slowly on to the next man – conduct to the prejudice of good order, drugs/alcohol – and Soames slumped against the wall.

‘You’re all for it,’ the master-at-arms said. ‘It’s the captain today, not the executive officer, and I can tell you he’s not in the best of moods.’

‘I’m going to get it, aren’t I?’ Soames groaned.

In normal circumstances Nicol might have disputed this, might have been reassuring, upbeat. But with one hand still resting against the letter in his trouser pocket, he had neither the energy nor the desire to make someone else feel better. He had put off opening it for days, guessing, dreading the nature of its contents. Now, seven days after they had left Sydney, he knew.