The Ship of Brides(72)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ said Avice, when the silence became oppressive. ‘You don’t need to look at me like that.’

Margaret wiped her eyes and made her way heavily inside. ‘It’s just bloody sad,’ she said.

Frances said nothing.

She had not been a beautiful girl, or even a particularly pleasant one. But Captain Highfield found that in the days that followed he could not get Jean Castleforth’s face out of his mind. It had been uncomfortably like dealing with a POW, the putting ashore, the handing over into safe custody. The look of impotent fury, despair, and, finally, sullen resignation on her face.

Several times he had asked himself whether he had done the right thing. The brides had been so adamant, and the nurse’s tones of quiet outrage haunted him still: ‘You have done her a great disservice.’ But what else could he have done? The WSO had been certain of what she’d seen. He had to trust his company – the same company he had warned that he would tolerate no such misbehaviour. And, as the officer had said, if the husband no longer wanted her, what business was it of theirs?

And yet those two faces – the tall thin girl with her vehement accusation, and the raw grief on the face of the little one – made him wonder how much they were asking of these women, to travel so far on a promise based on so little. To put them in the face of such temptation. That was if it had been temptation at all . . .

The removal of the girl – the second to be taken off in such circumstances – had cast a pall over the ship. He could tell the brides felt more insecure than ever. They cast sidelong glances at him as he moved along the decks on his rounds, huddled into doorways as if fearful he might consign them to the same fate. The chaplain had attempted to address the women’s fears with a few carefully chosen words during devotions but that had only added to their heightened anxiety. The women’s officers, meanwhile, were ostracised. The brides, having heard of Jean’s treatment, had chosen to express their contempt in various ways, some more vocal than others, and now several of the women’s officers had come to him in tears.

Several weeks ago he would have told them all to pull themselves together. Now he felt bleak sympathy. This was not misbehaviour: the brides were not on some great adventure. They were essentially powerless. And such powerlessness could invoke unusual emotions both in those who experienced it and the onlookers.

Besides, he had other concerns. The ship, as if she had heard of her own planned fate, had suffered a series of breakdowns. The rudder had jammed, necessitating an emergency switch to steam steering, for the third time in the past ten days. The water shortage continued, with the engineers unable to work out why the desalination pumps kept breaking down. He was supposed to pick up a further fourteen civilian passengers at Aden, including the governor of Gibraltar and his wife who had been visiting the port, for passage back to their residence, and was not sure how he was going to cater for them all. And he was finding it increasingly hard to disguise his limp. Dobson had asked him pointedly if he was ‘quite all right’ the previous day and he had been forced to put his full weight on it even though it throbbed so hard he had had to bite the inside of his cheek to contain himself. He had considered going to the infirmary and seeing if there was something he could take; he held the keys, after all. But he had no idea what medicine he should use, and the prospect of doing further damage to it made him wince. Three more weeks, he told himself. Three more weeks, if I can hang on that long.

And that, in the end, was why he decided to hold the dance. A good captain did everything in his power to ensure the happiness and well-being of his passengers. A bit of music and some carefully monitored mixing would do everyone good. And he, of all people, understood the need for a diversion.

Maude Gonne was not well. Perhaps it was the subdued mood of the little cabin, which seemed empty without Jean’s effervescent presence, that had drawn her down. Perhaps it was simply the effect of several weeks of poor food and confinement in the heat. She had little appetite and was listless. She was barely interested in her trips to the bathroom or late-night flits around the deck, no longer sniffing the unfamiliar salt air from under whatever disguise they chose to carry her. She had lost weight and felt damningly light, her frame insubstantial.

Frances sat on her bunk, one hand gently stroking the little dog’s head as she wheezed her way into sleep, milky eyes half closed. Occasionally, perhaps remembering Frances’s presence, she would wag her tail as if politely affirming her gratitude. She was a sweet old dog.

Margaret blamed herself. She should never have brought her, she had told Frances. She should have thought about the heat, the perpetual confinement, and left her in the only home she knew, with her dad’s dogs and endless green spaces where she was happy. Frances knew that Margaret’s uncharacteristic neurosis echoed the silent undercurrent of her thoughts: If she couldn’t even look after a little dog properly, then what hope . . . ?

‘Let’s take her for a walk upstairs,’ she said.

‘What?’ Margaret shifted on her bunk.

‘We’ll pop her in your basket and put a scarf over the top. There’s a gun turret a bit further on from the bathroom where no one ever goes. Why don’t we sit out there for a bit and Maudie can enjoy some proper daytime fresh air?’

She could tell that Margaret was nervous about the idea, but she had few other options.

‘Look, do you want me to take her?’ Frances said, seeing how exhausted Margaret was. Discomfort meant she hadn’t slept properly for days.

‘Would you? I could do with a nap.’

‘I’ll keep her out as long as I can.’

She walked swiftly down to C Deck, conscious that if she looked confident in what she was doing no one was likely to stop her. Several brides were now undertaking duties on the ship, clerical work, and cooking. Some had even joined the recently formed Brides’ Painting Party, and the sight of a woman on a deck previously considered the domain of service personnel was not as irregular as it might have been two weeks previously.

She opened the little hatch, then ducked, stepped out and propped it open behind her. The day was bright, the heat balmy but not oppressive. A gentle breeze lifted the silk scarf on Frances’s basket and swiftly a small black nose poked out, twitching.

‘There you go, old girl,’ Frances murmured. ‘See if that helps.’

Several minutes later, Maude Gonne had eaten a biscuit and a scrap of bacon, the first morsels in which she had shown interest for two days.