The Ship of Brides(53)
Author: Jojo Moyes

On the other side of the steel door a woman murmured in sleep, her voice rising as if in a question. Then silence.

Nicol stared at his watch, adjusted the previous day as they entered another time zone. My hours are speeding towards nothing, he thought. No home, no sons, no heroic return. I have given up my best years and watched my friends freeze, drown and burn. I have given up my innocence, my friends their lives, so that I might grieve for what I was never sure I even wanted. At least, until it was too late.

Nicol leant back, hardened his mind against the familiar thoughts, trying to dislodge the huge weight that had settled upon him, that pulled on his heart and lungs. Willing the last hour to pass faster. Willing the dawn to come.

‘Off caps!’

The paymaster failed to look up as the seaman stepped forward, swivelled his cap from his head and laid it on the table before him. The two men at his side were flicking through drawers of banknotes, passing each other handwritten slips.

‘Andrews, sir. Air mechanic, first class. Seven two two one nine seven two. Sir.’

As the younger man stood expectantly before him, the paymaster flipped pages, then ran his finger swiftly down his accounts book. ‘Three pounds twelve shillings.’

‘Three pounds twelve shillings,’ repeated the paymaster’s assistant, beside him.

The mechanic cleared his throat. ‘Sir – with respect, sir – that’s less than we were getting before Australia, sir.’

The paymaster wore the expression of one who had heard every complaint, every financial try-on not once but several thousand times. ‘We were serving in the Pacific, Andrews. You were getting extra pay for operating in a war zone. Would you like us to organise a couple of kamikaze guests to warrant your extra two shillings?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No . . . Don’t spend it all ashore. And steer clear of those women. Don’t want a queue outside the sick bay in two days’ time, do we, lads?’

The money was counted, pushed across the table. The cap was replaced on the mechanic’s head and he walked off, a little pink, counting the notes between keen fingers.

‘Off caps!’

‘Nicol.’

Lost in the gentle rhythm of the line that snaked along what remained of the hangar deck, he heard his name spoken twice before he registered it. He was bleary from another night of lost sleep and deep in unwelcome thoughts.

Tims, a broad, taut figure, stood beside him, smoking, for several seconds before he spoke again. Nicol knew him as a bluff man, one of those larger-than-life sorts who liked to be thought of as a ‘mess character’. There were rumours that he was involved in money-lending, and those who fell foul of him often became terribly accident prone. Nicol had tended instinctively to steer clear of him, recognising that with someone like Tims it was often better not to get too close or, indeed, know too much. One neither wanted to make an enemy of him nor find oneself indebted to him. These men, with their strange charisma, their intricately built power bases, were to be found on every ship. It was, he supposed, inevitable in a self-contained world that relied on silence and hierarchy.

Now, however, Tims was subdued; when he spoke, his words were careful and considered. There might be a bit of bad blood between the seamen and the stokers, he said. There had been an incident with a woman a couple of nights ago. He had shaken his head as he said this, as if even he could not believe the foolishness of the Aussie girls. Things, he said, had got a little out of hand.

Such a bald admission was out of character. And at first Nicol wondered if he was asking him obliquely to make an arrest. But before he had a chance to ask why this should be of any more than passing interest to him, Tims spoke again: ‘It’s your lot who were involved.’

Your lot. What a strange, almost familial intimacy the phrase suggested. Nicol had felt a flush of incomprehension that the reserved bride who had chatted with him that evening might have been the cause of some kind of drunken fracas. That was women for you, he thought bitterly. Unable to stay faithful – sober, even – for a six-week voyage.

Then Tims, a bloodsoaked bandage visible round his knuckles, explained further. It had not been the tall girl, Frances, but the young silly one Nicol had spoken to on his first watch. The one who was always giggling. Jean.

He was somehow less shocked and, although disturbed by what he heard, felt something that might have been relief. Frances hadn’t seemed the type. Too awkward in company. Too self-conscious. He supposed he wanted to believe that there were still good women out there. Women who knew how to behave.

Women who understood the notion of loyalty.

‘I need you to do us a favour, Marine. I can’t go along there, obviously.’ Here Tims jerked a thumb towards the cabins. ‘Just make sure Maggie’s all right, will you? The one who’s expecting. She’s a nice girl, and she was a bit shocked. What with her condition and all . . . Well, I don’t like to think of her being troubled.’

‘She’ll go to the sick bay if she’s shook up, surely.’

Tims grimaced. ‘To see that idiot? He’s been drunk as a skunk every day he’s been on board so far. I wouldn’t trust him with a splinter.’ Tims stubbed out his cigarette. ‘No. I think it would be a good idea if you kept an eye on her. And if anyone says anything, the girls were in their bunks all night. Right?’

It was not the norm for a marine to be addressed in such a way by a stoker. And something in Tims’s tone might normally have caused Nicol to bristle. But he suspected this unusual confidence was prompted by chivalry, perhaps even genuine concern, and he let it go. ‘No problem,’ he said.

Now he thought back, there had been some subtle change in atmosphere that evening. From the other side of the door he had heard none of the usual intermittent conversation, but instead urgent whispering. At one point, there had been the sound of crying, a brief argument. The tall girl had been out three times ‘for water’ and barely muttered a hello. He had assumed it was one of those bouts of feminine hysteria. They had been warned that such things could happen once they were on board, especially with the women unused to living at close quarters.

‘I tell you,’ Tims was saying, ‘Thompson’s lucky I didn’t get to that spanner first.’

‘Spanner?’ He glanced behind him.

‘One of the girls had it. The tall one. By all accounts it was her who got the bastard off. Gave him a good crack on the shoulder, then tried to stove his head in for good measure.’ Tims laughed humourlessly. ‘You’ve got to hand it to these Aussie girls, they’re not short of balls. You couldn’t imagine an English girl doing the same, could you?’ He took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Then again, I suppose you wouldn’t get an English girl heading below decks with a load of foreign johnnies.’