The Ship of Brides(57)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Right,’ said Margaret, firmly. ‘Here, give us your envelope. I’ll write out your ABCs.’

Frances had arrived back at the table. Avice glanced up from her letters at Frances’s hand. ‘Only one?’ she said loudly. She failed to keep the smile off her face.

Frances was unperturbed. ‘It’s from one of my old patients,’ she said, with shy pleasure. ‘He’s home and walking again.’

‘How lovely,’ said Margaret, patting her arm.

‘Nothing from your husband?’

‘Avice . . .’ said Margaret, warningly.

‘Well, I’m only asking.’

There was a brief silence.

Margaret made as if to speak, then couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps he was overcome at the thought of seeing you again,’ she said. Avice raised her eyebrows, stood up and strolled away.

Having failed to elicit a reply from you to any of my correspondence, I am writing out of courtesy to let you know that I have applied for a divorce, on grounds of three years’ desertion. While you and I know this might not be quite correct, I am hoping you will not contest. Anton is paying for the children’s and my passage to America, so that we can join him there. We leave Southampton on the 25th. I would have liked us to do this in a civilised manner, for the children’s sake as much as anything, but you are obviously determined to show me the same lack of concern as you have displayed the whole time you have been gone.

Where is your humanity? Perhaps there is nothing left of you underneath your rules and regulations. I know things must have been hard for you. I know you have probably seen and coped with no end of horrors. But we, here, are living. We would have been your lifeline if you had let us.

Now I feel no guilt in choosing life, a better life, for me and my children . . .

‘What’s the matter, Nicol? You look a bit pale. Got a Not Wanted Don’t Come?’ Jones-the-Welsh was lying on his hammock, flicking through a dozen or so letters. They would be from a dozen or so women.

Nicol stared, unseeing, at his. Crumpled it into his pocket. ‘No,’ he said, then coughed to stop his voice cracking. ‘No . . . just a bit of news from home.’

A few of the men around him exchanged glances. ‘No one ill?’ said Jones.

‘No,’ said Nicol. His tone halted further enquiries.

‘Well, you look terrible. In fact, you’ve looked like buggery for weeks. Working middle watch does that to you, doesn’t it, lads? You know what you need, man?’ Here he punched Nicol’s arm. ‘You need a bit of R and R. You’re off tonight, right? Come ashore with us.’

‘Ah . . . I think I’ll just sleep.’

‘It’s called leave, man. Believe it or not, Nicol, even you are meant to go off duty occasionally.’

‘I’ll stay here. Got a bit of make and mend to catch up on.’

‘Sorry, man, can’t have it. You’ve got a pocket full of dosh and a face like a smacked arse. Dr Jones here says the only cure is to lighten the pair of them. Get a couple of hours’ kip now. Then you’re coming out with us. And we’re going to get absolutely pissed.’

Nicol began to refuse, then felt inexplicably relieved by Jones’s good-natured bullying. The thought of standing outside that metal door, alone with his thoughts at another dawn, was too much. ‘Okay,’ he said, strung up his hammock and hopped lithely into it. ‘You’re on. Wake me up half an hour before you want to head off.’

They had eaten together – less, Margaret suspected, out of any great desire on Avice’s part to share her meals with them but because Irene and her friends had made it clear, by their whispers and cold stares, that she was no longer welcome in their set. She had watched Avice preparing to bounce over to their table and announce her news until she realised they were being discussed – not in a good way. She had deflated a little, her eyes darting to them at every peal of laughter. Then she had smoothed her hair and sat down opposite Margaret. ‘You know,’ she said lightly, ‘I’ve just remembered what I couldn’t stand about that Irene Carter. She’s terribly rude. I can’t imagine what I ever saw in her.’

‘It’s nice for us all to eat together for a change,’ Margaret said equably, ignoring Frances’s silence.

‘Nice not to have Avice puking anyway,’ said Jean.

‘Did they make a mistake with your post, Frances,’ said Avice, ‘or did you really get just one letter?’

‘Do you know what, Avice?’ said Margaret, loudly. She pushed away her plate. ‘We had a lovely chat earlier about how our husbands proposed to us. I bet you’d love to tell us how Ian proposed to you, wouldn’t you?’

Margaret caught Frances’s look. It might have been of gratitude or something else entirely.

‘Have I not told you? Really? Oh, it was the best day of my life. Well, next to our wedding, of course. That’s always a girl’s best day, isn’t it? And in our case we couldn’t have the kind of wedding I might normally have expected – with my family’s position in society and all . . . No, it had to be a bit more intimate. But, oh, Ian’s proposal. Oh, yes . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘Do you know? It still comes back to me so vividly, almost like a scent . . .’

‘A bit like Margaret’s, then,’ said Jean.

‘I knew he was the one as soon as I saw him. And he says the same about me. Oh, girls, he’s so sweet. And it’s been so long since we spoke – I can’t bear it. He’s the most romantic man alive. I didn’t think I’d marry into the services, you see. I wasn’t one of those uniform-hunters, always fluttering her eyelashes at anything in whites. But I was helping out at one of the tea dances – perhaps you had something similar where you were? – and I saw him and that was it. I knew I had to be Mrs Radley.’

‘So what did he do?’ said Jean, lighting a cigarette.

‘Well, he was terribly gentlemanly. We knew we loved each other – he told me he was actually obsessed with me at one point – can you imagine? – but he was worried about whether I could cope with being a services wife. I mean, what with all the separations and insecurity . . . He told me he didn’t know if it was fair to put me through that. But I told him, “I may look like a delicate flower” – that’s what my father used to call me, his little jasmine blossom – “but I’m actually quite strong. Really. I’m very determined.” And I think even Ian recognised that in the end.’