The Ship of Brides(41)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Dear Deanna,

I hope you, Mother and Father are all well. I’m not sure when I will be able to post this, but I thought I would write and let you know a little of our voyage. It is all terribly exciting. I often think how much you would enjoy being here, and how surprising are the conditions we travel in, given my reservations.

I have made three delightful new friends: Margaret, whose father owns a large estate not far from Sydney; Frances, who is terribly elegant and has been doing admirable things in nursing; and Jean. They are all so much more interesting than our old crowd. One girl here has brought fifteen pairs of shoes with her! I am very relieved that I was able to go shopping before I came on board. It is so nice to have new things, isn’t it?

My accommodation is situated in the largest part of the boat, a short distance from the part known as the bridge and the captain’s ‘sea cabin’. We are told there may well be some cocktail parties once we get to Gibraltar as it is entirely possible that several governors are coming aboard, so that is something to look forward to.

The staff really cannot do enough for us. Every day they lay on new entertainments to keep us girls busy; needlework, dancing, all the latest films. I am off to watch National Velvet this afternoon. I don’t believe it has reached Melbourne yet but, believe me, you must go when it does. The girls who have already seen it say Elizabeth Taylor is perfectly wonderful. The sailors are charming, and helpful, and are always bringing one little things to eat. And, Deanna, you would die for the food. It’s as if no one had ever heard of rationing. Not quite the powdered egg we had all feared! So you can tell Mother and Father they do not need to worry in the slightest.

There is a fully fitted hair salon at the far end of the ship. After I finish writing I think I might take a look. Perhaps I might even offer some help! Remember how Mrs Johnson always said no one could set hair like me? I shall have to find a decent salon as soon as I reach London. I shall, of course, let you know all about London. I am hoping to hear from Ian before we meet, as to the plans for our little holiday there.

As I said, I hope my letter finds you all well, and please do pass on my happy news to the old crowd. Oh, yes, your little recital will have taken place by the time you get this. I trust it went well. I’ll write again when I’m not so busy!

Your loving sister

Avice

Avice was sitting in the small canteen on the flight deck, staring out of the salt-spattered window at the seagulls swooping alongside the ship and the bright skies beyond. For the half-hour it had taken her to write her letter, she had almost begun to believe in the version of the voyage she had created. So much so, in fact, that she had felt rather deflated when she signed off to find herself back in this rusting waterborne hangar, surrounded not by cocktail parties and adorable new friends but by the scarred noses of the aeroplanes on the deck, the shuffling, incoherent boys in their grubby overalls, the brine and salt, the smells of fried food, oil and rust.

‘Cup of tea, Avice?’ Margaret was leaning over her, that huge belly almost resting on the wood-topped table. ‘I’m going to get some. You never know, it might settle your stomach.’

‘No. Thank you.’ Avice swallowed, then allowed herself to imagine the taste. An immediate wave of nausea confirmed her refusal. She was still having trouble coping with the pervasive droplets of jet fuel that seemed to follow her everywhere, clung to her clothes and in her nostrils. It didn’t matter how much perfume she applied, she still felt she must smell like a mechanic.

‘You’ve got to have something.’

‘I’ll have a glass of water. Perhaps a dry cracker, if they’ve got some.’

‘Poor old you, eh? Not many get it so bad.’

There were three puddles in the middle of the floor. They reflected the light from the windows.

‘I’m sure I’ll get over it soon enough.’ Avice made sure to smile brightly. Very few troubles in life couldn’t be lessened by a nice smile – that was what her mother always said.

‘I was like that in my early months with this.’ Margaret patted her bump. ‘Couldn’t even keep down dry toast. I was really miserable. I’m surprised I didn’t get as seasick as you and Jean.’

‘Would you mind if we talked about something else?’

Margaret laughed. ‘Sure thing. Sorry, Ave. I’ll go and get the tea.’

Ave. If Avice had been feeling less awful, she would have corrected her: there was nothing worse than an abbreviated name. But Margaret had already waddled off towards the counter, leaving her with Frances, an even more uncomfortable proposition.

Over the past few days, Avice had decided there was something profoundly discomfiting about Frances. There was something watchful about her, as if even as she sat there in silence she was judging you. Even when she was being nice, bringing pills to make Avice feel less sick, checking that she wasn’t too dehydrated, there was something reserved in her demeanour, as if there were elements of Avice that meant she did not want to engage too closely with her. As if she were something special!

Margaret had told her that Frances had been turned down when she offered to work in the infirmary. The less generous-spirited part of Avice wondered what the Navy had felt was not fitting about the girl; the other thought how much easier life would have been without her hanging around all day, with her awkward conversation and serious face. She glanced at the tables of other girls, most of whom were chatting away as if they had known each other for years. They had settled into little cliques now, tight bands already impenetrable to outsiders. Avice, gazing at one particularly happy group, fought the urge to appeal to them, to demonstrate that she was not with this strange, severe girl by choice. But that, of course, would have been rude.

‘Have you anything planned for this afternoon?’

Frances had been studying a copy of Daily Ship News. She looked up sharply with the guarded expression that made Avice want to yell, ‘It isn’t a trick question, you know.’ Her pale red hair was pulled into a tight chignon. If she had been anyone else, Avice would have offered to do her something more flattering. She’d be pretty if she brightened herself up a little.

‘No,’ said Frances. Then, when the ensuing silence threatened to overwhelm them both, ‘I thought I might just sit here for a while.’

‘Oh. Well, I suppose the weather’s improved, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought the lecture sounded rather dull today,’ said Avice. She abhorred a conversational vacuum.