The Ship of Brides(44)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She had been sitting there for almost twenty minutes when she saw the captain. He had stepped out of the same door she’d closed behind her, his rank clearly visible in his white cap and his curiously accentuated upright posture. She recoiled at first, and manoeuvred herself so that she was protected by the shadows, already anticipating the choleric shout ‘Hey! You!’ that would bring about her disgrace. She watched him close the door carefully so that it did not slam. Then, with the same furtive air as, presumably, she had displayed, he stepped forward and began, increasingly obviously to limp towards the starboard side of the ship and a point just out of sight of the bridge. He stopped by one of the larger aeroplanes, his uniform spotlit by the moonlight, and reached out as if to support himself on a wing strut. Then, as she held her breath, he bent and rubbed his leg.

He stood there for some minutes, his weight on one leg, shoulders slumped, staring out to sea. Then he straightened his shoulders and walked back to the hatch. By the time he reached it, his limp was no longer perceptible.

Afterwards, she could not articulate what it was about this brief scene that she had found comforting – whether it was the sea itself, her ability to carve out twenty minutes’ freedom unnoticed, or the small suggestion of humanity contained in the captain’s limp, a reminder of men’s fallibility, their capacity to conceal their hurt, to suffer – but as she came back down the stairs she had found herself somehow less conscious of the glances of those who passed, with a little of her confidence restored to her.

She would not normally have asked a man for a cigarette. She would not have allowed herself to be drawn into conversation. She would certainly not have begun one. But she felt so much better. The sky had been so beautiful. And there was something so melancholy about his face.

He was leaning against the wall beside their door, cigarette cupped between thumb and forefinger, eyes fixed on a point on the floor in front of him. His hair had flopped forward and his shoulders were hunched, as if he was lost in some less-than-happy thought. As he caught sight of her he pinched out the cigarette and dropped it into his pocket. She thought he might have flushed. Afterwards, she remembered feeling mildly shocked: up to that point, he had seemed a kind of automaton. Like so many marines. She had hardly considered there might be room for something as human as embarrassment, or even guilt, behind the mask. ‘Please don’t bother,’ she said. ‘Not on my account.’

He shrugged. ‘Not meant to, really, on duty.’

‘Still.’

He had thanked her gruffly, not quite meeting her eye.

And for some reason, instead of disappearing into the cabin, she had stood there, her cardigan round her shoulders and, unexpectedly even to herself, asked whether she might have one too. ‘I don’t feel like going in yet,’ she explained. Then, self-conscious, she had stood beside him, already regretting her decision.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack, and handed it to her wordlessly. Then he lit it, his hand briefly touching hers as it cupped the flame. Frances tried not to flinch, then wondered how quickly she could smoke it without making herself dizzy and disappear. He had plainly not wanted company. She, of all people, should have seen it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll just have a few puffs.’

‘Take your time.’

Twice she found herself in the unusual position of smiling, an instinctive, conciliatory gesture. His, in answer, was fleeting. They stood, one on each side of the door frame, looking at their feet, the safety notice, the fire extinguisher until the silence became uncomfortable.

She looked sideways at his sleeve. ‘What rank are you?’

‘Corporal.’

‘Your stripes are upside-down.’

‘Three-badge marine.’

She took a deep drag of her cigarette. She was already nearly a third of the way down it. ‘I thought three stripes meant sergeant.’

‘Not if they’re upside-down.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘They’re for long service. Good conduct.’ His eyes flickered over them, as if he had rarely considered them. ‘Stopping fights, that kind of thing. I suppose it’s a way of rewarding someone who doesn’t want promotion.’

Two ratings walked along the passageway. As they passed Frances, their gaze flicked from her to the marine and back again. She waited until they’d gone, their footsteps echoing. A moment later the brief rise and fall in the sound of chatter told of the opening and closing of a cabin door.

‘Why didn’t you want promotion?’

‘Don’t know.’ Possibly he realised this had sounded a little abrupt, because he went on, ‘Perhaps I never saw myself as sergeant material.’

His face seemed frozen into disappointment, she thought, and his eyes, while not unfriendly, told of his discomfort with casual conversation. She knew that look: she wore it habitually too.

His gaze briefly met hers and slid away. ‘Perhaps I never wanted the responsibility.’

It was then that she spotted the photograph. He must have been looking at it before she came. A black and white picture, a little smaller than a man’s wallet, tucked into his right hand between finger and thumb. ‘Yours?’ she said, nodding towards his hand.

He lifted it, and looked at it as if for the first time. ‘Yes.’

‘Boy and girl?’

‘Two boys.’

She apologised, and they smiled awkwardly. ‘My youngest needed a haircut.’ He handed it to her. She took it, held it under the light and studied the beaming faces, unsure what she was meant to say. ‘They look nice.’

‘Picture’s eighteen months old. They’ll have grown some.’

She nodded, as if he had shared with her some piece of parental wisdom.

‘You?’

‘Oh. No . . .’ She handed back the picture. ‘No.’

They stood in silence again.

‘You miss them?’

‘Every day.’ Then his voice hardened. ‘They probably don’t even remember what I look like.’

She did not know what to say: whatever she was intruding on would not be eased by a cigarette and a few minutes of small-talk. She felt suddenly that engaging him in conversation had been rash and misjudged. His job was to stand outside their door. He had no choice if she chose to talk to him. He would not want to be bothered by women at all hours.

‘I’ll leave you,’ she said, quietly, then added, ‘Thank you for the cigarette.’ She trod it out, then bent down to pick up the butt. She was afraid to take it into the cabin – what would she do with it in the dark? But if she put it into her pocket it might burn through the fabric. He had failed to notice her predicament, but as she hesitated by the door he turned. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a hand. The palm was weathered, leathery with years of salt and hard work.