The Ship of Brides(65)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘A good few. Captain lost his nephew.’

She turned to where the captain had stood below the bridge, hours earlier, immaculate in his tropical rig, consulting a chart. ‘Everyone has lost someone,’ she said, almost to herself.

He had asked her about the prisoners-of-war, and had listened to her litany of injuries, of those patients she had cared for and lost. He didn’t ask her how she had coped. Those who had lived through it rarely did, she remarked. It was unimportant, once you had experienced the fierce gratitude of simply being alive.

‘Quite a thing to choose to do,’ he said.

‘Do you really think any of us had a choice?’

It was at that moment, as he looked at her pale, serious face, heard in her reply the determination not to glean even the smallest advantage from other people’s suffering that he knew his feelings for her could no longer be considered appropriate. ‘I – I – no . . .’ The shock of this knowledge drove his voice from him, and he shook his head mutely. He found his thoughts suddenly, inappropriately, drawn to his last shore leave, and he felt exposed, flooded with shame.

‘We all have to find some way,’ she said, ‘of atoning.’

You? he wanted to say incredulously. You didn’t start this war. You were not responsible for the damage, the torn limbs, the suffering. You are one of the good things. You are one of the reasons we all kept going. You, of all people, of all these women lying here, have nothing to atone for.

Perhaps it was the strangeness of the hour, or that her bare shoulders, in the encroaching light, glowed like something ethereal. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had not exchanged for what seemed like years a single word that was not smothered with uniformed bluff and bravery. He wanted to crack open like the dawn in front of her, to reveal himself, faults and all, and be absolved by her warmth and understanding. He wanted to scream at her husband – no doubt some stupid, wisecracking engineer, who, even as they spoke, might be straightening his trousers as he crept out of some Far-Eastern brothel, exchanging sly winks with his messmates – ‘Do you know what you’ve got? Do you understand?’

He thought briefly, insanely, that he might try to put at least some of this into words. And then, at the corner of his eye, Captain Highfield appeared on the bridge. Following his gaze, she turned and watched as the captain consulted two officers. He gestured towards the aircraft, then straightened up as they talked to him rapidly. From their raised voices, something seemed to be up.

He drew back reluctantly from Frances. ‘I’d better go and find out what’s going on,’ he said. He held the warmth of her answering smile close to him for the twenty-four strides it took to join the others.

Several minutes later he returned. ‘They’re going over the side,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The planes. Captain’s decided we all need more room. He’s just got permission from London to put them overboard.’

‘But there’s nothing wrong with them!’

His voice bubbled uncharacteristically. The long night had caught him, choked him, and now, releasing him, left him emotional. ‘The bigwigs who oversee the Lend-lease Agreement are okay with it. But he’s . . . he’s not the kind of captain to make decisions like that.’ He shook his head, disbelieving.

‘But he’s right,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s over. Let the sea take them.’

And as dawn broke, touching the near naked bodies with its cold blue light, a few of the girls woke, pulling their sheets round them, watching mutely with sleep-filled eyes as silently, one by one, the aircraft were wheeled to the edge by pairs of engineers. Accompanied by the minimum of instruction, so as not to wake those sleeping, the planes faced the skies for the last time, wings folded upwards, some still scarred and scorched from airborne victories. They waited patiently while their last details were read out and checked off. Then they teetered on the edge, spending the shortest moment in mid-air before they disappeared on their concluding flight, the splash of each impact surprisingly muted as they drifted down, silently shifting against the currents of the Indian Ocean, down, down towards a final, gentle landing on some unknown unseen sea bed.

13

My brother brought back an English bride. Before they landed, she was lauded up to the skies as being beautiful, accomplished, helpful and brilliant . . .; but instead of that we found an ugly, brown-necked, red-complexioned, lazy hussy who had not a good word to say about anyone or anything in this country . . . Speaking personally it was a sorry day for me when an imported minx landed in our family.

Letter to Melbourne’s Truth newspaper, 1919

Twenty-two days

Dear Mum,

This is a hard letter to write. I guess I’ve put off writing it for as long as I could. But you probably know without me having to explain what it is I want to tell you I have done, and how I’ve carried it round ever since. I’m not proud of myself, Mum. I gave myself all sorts of reasons to convince myself I was doing the right thing. But I’m not sure who I thought I was protecting – you or myself . . .

My dearest love,

It’s very strange trying to compose this letter, knowing that in all likelihood by the time you get it we will already be in each other’s arms. But this voyage is starting to stretch, and I feel increasingly desperate, stuck out here in the middle of the ocean, to maintain some kind of contact. To at least talk to you, even though you might not be able to listen. I suppose some of these brides are more self-sufficient than I am, able to cope with endless days of absent time. But to me, every minute I spend without you is far too long, and infinitely worthless . . .

Sometimes the unspoken conversations taking place on the Victoria became clamorous. Now, half-way through the voyage, the weight of these one-sided exchanges hung heavy in the air as brides reread and composed correspondence, trying to express their longing, confiding their fears to their families or chiding their men for lack of emotion. In Cabin 3G two brides sat side by side on their bunks, each buried in thought as they committed their own pens to the tissue-thin Navy-issue writing-paper.

Occasionally, through the partially open door, the sound of passing footsteps was accompanied by a burst of laughter or a murmured conversation, punctuated by discreet exclamations of surprise. The heat of the previous days had broken a little with the arrival of a short storm in the early hours of that morning, and the inhabitants of the brides’ cabins had become active again: many were out enjoying the fresher air. None of which was heard apparently by the remaining occupants of Cabin 3G, both of whom were lost in a one-sided conversation with persons far from the confines of the Victoria.