The Ship of Brides(62)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘Joe?’

In the little room tucked beneath the bridge, the handful of chosen brides, some accompanied by friends, nudged each other. The radio room was too small for so many people, and they stood stiffly, arms pressed close to their sides, a few fanning themselves with magazines, their faces shining in the heavy heat. Outside the sky had blackened, and somewhere, many miles away, the objects of their desire floated in the darkness.

‘Mags?’ The voice was distant, crackly. But, from Margaret’s expression, definitely his.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath, the sound a child might make when confronted by a Christmas tree. Margaret had been first up and it was as if until the brides heard this evidence it had been impossible to believe in the proximity of their men, that they might be able, after months of silence, to exchange a few precious words. Now they beamed at each other, as if their joy was contagious.

Margaret put out a hand to the microphone. Then, after a brief, embarrassed smile, ‘Joe, it’s me. How are you?’

‘I’m grand, love. Are you keeping well? Are they looking after you?’ The disembodied voice broke into the silence.

Margaret closed her hand round the microphone. ‘I’m fine. Me and Joe Junior both. It – it’s good to hear you,’ she faltered, evidently conscious that just as she was surrounded by strangers it was likely he was too. None of the women wanted to embarrass their men in front of their mates or superiors.

‘Are they feeding you well?’ came the voice, and the occupants of the radio room laughed. Margaret’s eyes flicked towards the captain, who stood back, arms crossed. He was smiling benignly. ‘They’re looking after us just fine.’

‘Good. You . . . watch out in this heat. Make sure you drink lots of water.’

‘Oh, I am.’

‘I’ve got to go, sweetheart, give the next fellow a turn. But you take care now.’

‘You too.’ Margaret moved in to the microphone, as if she could somehow get closer to him.

‘I’ll see you in Plymouth. Not long now.’

Margaret’s voice broke. ‘Not long at all,’ she said. ‘’Bye, Joe.’

As she turned from the microphone, she sagged and Frances stepped forward to hold her, alarmed by the tears coursing down Margaret’s cheeks. It had been a pretty mean exchange, she thought. She should have been allowed a few more minutes at least and perhaps some privacy, so that she could say what she felt. There was so much Margaret had needed to say to Joe, Frances thought, about freedom, being a wife, motherhood.

But when Frances looked at her now, Margaret’s smile was bright enough to illuminate the darkness. ‘Oh, Frances, that was wonderful,’ she whispered.

Frances heard the raw love in Margaret’s voice, the evidence of so much gained from so little. And she held her friend for a minute, her mind both blank and racing, as Margaret tried in whispers to revisit what they had said to each other, exclaiming that her mind had gone blank – that in hearing his voice, she had had no idea what to say. ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? Oh, Frances, I hope you get the chance to talk to your man soon. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Did you hear Joe? Isn’t he the best?’

All eyes were on the dark girl in the blue dress who had burst into noisy tears at the sound of her husband’s voice and was being comforted by the Red Cross officer. So it was only the captain who caught the expression of the tall girl in the corner, who had been jokingly introduced to him as ‘unofficial midwife’. He didn’t like to look too hard at any of the women, didn’t want things to be misconstrued. But there was something compelling about her erect stance. And in her eyes, which reflected shock, as if she had discovered some great loss. He felt, unaccountably, as if they mirrored his own.

Nicol walked along the lower gallery, past the ordnance spares and gun room, past the hangar where normally one might find several aircraft and attendant trunks of spare parts, instead of rows of doors. Most were propped open in the vain hope of attracting a stray breeze, and from behind them emanated the sounds of murmuring women, cards flipping on to makeshift tables or magazine pages turning. Careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, he moved along them and ran silently up the stairs, conscious that tonight even that small exertion caused his skin to stick to his shorts. Nodding at the chaplain, he moved along the half-lit gangway towards the lobby, trying to make himself inconspicuous as he passed the captain’s rooms. Finally, with a quick glance to left and right, he opened the hatch door beside the lieutenant commander’s office and emerged on to the unlit deck.

He had been told where to find her. He had knocked on the door rather awkwardly (it felt like an intrusion, even speaking into this feminine lair) to tell them what had been decided. To get them, like the others, to prepare. Perhaps he had told them early because he wanted them to have the best spot. They had laughed, incredulous. Made him say it twice before they would believe it. Then, with Avice and Jean galvanised into action, Margaret, still glowing from her radio contact, had whispered confirmation to him of what he already suspected.

The sky was mostly covered with cloud, revealing only a handful of stars, so it was several minutes before he saw her. At first he had thought it a wasted journey, had prepared to turn and leave. Strictly speaking, he should not have been away from his post. But then a shadow shifted, and as a cloud slid back to bathe the deck in moonlight, he found he could just make out her angular shape under the furthest Corsair, her arms wrapped round her knees.

He stood still for a moment, wondering if she had seen him and whether the mere act of him having located her would make her uncomfortable. Then, as he drew closer and she turned to him, he felt a rush of relief. As if her presence there could reassure him of something. Constancy, he supposed. Perhaps even some strange sense of goodness. He thought suddenly of Thompson, of his bloodied face when he was stretchered back on board several days previously. He must have got into a brawl during his shore leave, his mess man said. Stupid boy, ending up on his own. They had drummed it into them from their earliest days that in new territory they should stick together.

Nicol saw that she had been crying. He watched her draw her hand across her eyes, her shoulders straighten, and his pleasure in seeing her was clouded by awkwardness. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Your friend told me I might find you here.’

She made as if to stand, but he gestured that she should stay where she was.