The Ship of Brides(73)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She sat there with the dog on her lap for almost an hour, watching the waves rush by beneath her, listening to snatches of conversation and occasional laughter from the flight deck above, punctuated by the odd summons from the Tannoy. Although her clothes, unwashed for several days, felt stale and, occasionally, the movement of her body sent up scents that made her long for a bath, she knew she would miss this ship. Its noises had become familiar enough to be comforting. She wasn’t even sure whether, like everyone else, she wanted to disembark at Aden.

She had not seen the marine in two days.

Another marine had been on duty the previous evenings, and even though she had spent an unusual amount of time wandering the length of the ship, he had failed to materialise. She wondered, briefly, if he was ill and felt anxious about the prospect of him being treated by Dr Duxbury. Then she told herself to stop being ridiculous: it was probably for the best that she hadn’t seen him. She had felt disturbed enough by Jean’s removal without an impossible schoolgirl crush.

But almost an hour later, as she prepared to step inside, she found herself leaping back. His face was pale where many of his colleagues now sported Pacific tans, his eyes still shadowed, betraying sleepless nights, but it was him. The easy movement of his shoulders, square in his khaki uniform, suggested a strength she had not seen when he was immobile outside the door. He was holding a kitbag on his shoulder and she was paralysed by the thought that he might be preparing to disembark.

Not sure what she was doing, Frances slid back against the wall, her hand to her chest, listening for his steps as he moved past her down the gangway. He was several paces beyond her when they slowed. Frances, inexplicably holding her breath, realised that he was going to stop. The door opened a little, his head came round, a couple of feet from hers, and he smiled. It was a genuine smile, one which seemed to rub the angles from his face. ‘You all right?’ he said.

She had no words to explain her hiding-place. She was aware that she had blushed and made as if to say something, then nodded.

He gave her a searching look, then glanced down at the basket. ‘That who I think it is?’ he murmured. The sound of his voice made her skin prickle.

‘She’s not too well,’ she replied. ‘I thought she needed fresh air.’

‘Make sure you stay well away from D Deck. There’s inspections going on and all sorts.’ He glanced behind him, as if to make sure no one else was around. ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ he said. ‘It didn’t seem right.’

‘It wasn’t,’ she said. ‘None of it was her fault. She’s only a child.’

‘Well, the Navy can be an unforgiving host.’ He reached out and touched her arm lightly. ‘You okay, though?’ She blushed again, and he tried to correct himself. ‘I mean the rest of you? You’re all right?’

‘Oh, we’re fine,’ she said.

‘You don’t need anything? Extra drinking water? More crackers?’

There were three lines at the corners of his eyes. When he spoke, they deepened, testament to years of salt air, perhaps, or of squinting at the sky.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ she asked, pointing to his bag. Anything to stop herself staring at him.

‘Me? No . . . It’s just my good uniform.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m off again tonight,’ he said. He smiled at her, as if this were something good. ‘For the dance?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You haven’t heard? There’s a dance on the flight deck tonight. Captain’s orders.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, more loudly than she’d intended. ‘Oh! Good!’

‘I hope they turn the water on for a bit first.’ He grinned. ‘You girls will all run a mile faced with the scent of a thousand sweaty matelots.’

She glanced down at her creased trousers, but his attention had switched to a distant figure.

‘I’ll see you up there,’ he said, his marine mask back in place. With a nod that could almost have been a salute, he was gone.

The Royal Marines Band sat on their makeshift pedestal outside the deck canteen, a little way distant of the ship’s island, and struck up with ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. The Victoria’s engines were shut down for repairs and she floated serene and immobile in the placid waters. On the deck, several hundred brides in their finest dresses – at least, the finest to which they had been allowed access – were whirling around, some with the men and others, giggling, with each other. Around the island, tables and chairs had been brought up from the dining area, and were occupied by those unable or unwilling to keep dancing. Above them, in the Indian sky, the stars glittered like ballroom lights, bathing the seas with silver.

It could have been – if one bent one’s imagination a little and ignored the presence of the guns, the scarred deck, the rickety tables and chairs – any of the grand ballrooms of Europe. The captain had felt an unlikely joy in the spectacle, feeling it (sentimentally, he had to admit) no less than the old girl deserved in her final voyage. A bit of pomp and finery. A bit of a do.

The men, in their best drill uniform, were looking more cheerful than they had done for days, while the brides – mutinous after the temporary closure of the hair salon – had also perked up considerably, thanks to the introduction of emergency salt-water showers. It had been good for them all to have an excuse to dress up a bit, he thought. Even the men liked parading in their good tropical kit.

They sat in now well-established huddles or chatted in groups, the men temporarily unconcerned by the lack of defining rank structure. What the hell? Highfield had thought, when he was asked by one of the women’s service officers if he wanted to enforce ‘proper’ separation. This voyage was already something extraordinary.

‘How long does the Victoria take to refuel, Captain Highfield?’

Beside him sat one of the passengers, a little Wren to whom Dobson had introduced him half an hour earlier. She was small, dark and intensely serious, and had quizzed him so lengthily about the specifications of his ship that he had been tempted to ask her if she was spying for the Japanese. But he hadn’t. Somehow she hadn’t looked the type to have a sense of humour.

‘Do you know? I don’t think I could tell you offhand,’ he lied.

‘A little longer than your boys do,’ muttered Dr Duxbury, and laughed.

In thanks for their fortitude over the water situation, Captain Highfield had promised everyone extra ‘sippers’ of rum. Just to warm up the evening a little, he had announced, to cheers. He suspected, however, that Dr Duxbury had somehow obtained more than his allotted share.