The Ship of Brides(8)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Margaret, meanwhile, had risen from her chair and was flicking through the letters that lay on the sideboard beside Letty’s bag. ‘Bloody hell!’ she exclaimed.

‘Margaret!’

‘Sorry, Letty. Look! Look, Dad, it’s for me! From the Navy!’

Her father motioned for her to bring it over. He turned the envelope in his broad hands, noting the official stamp, the return address. ‘Want me to open it?’

‘He’s not dead, is he?’ Daniel yelped as Colm’s hand caught him a sharp blow to the back of the head.

‘Don’t be even more of a mongrel than you already are.’

‘You don’t think he’s dead, do you?’ Margaret reached out to steady herself, her normally high colour draining away.

‘Course he’s not dead,’ her father said. ‘They send you a wire for that.’

‘They might have wanted to save on postage but—’ Daniel shot backwards on his chair to avoid an energetic kick from his elder brother.

‘I was going to wait until you’d all finished eating,’ Letty said, and was ignored.

‘Go on, then, Mags. What are you waiting for?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the girl, apparently now in an agony of indecision.

‘Go on, we’re all here.’ Her father reached out a comforting hand and laid it on her back.

She looked at him, then down at the letter, which she now held. Her brothers were on their feet, standing tightly around her. Letty, watching from the sink, felt superfluous, as if she were an outsider. To hide her own discomfort she busied herself scrubbing a pan, her broad fingers reddening in the scalding water.

Margaret ripped open the letter, and began to read it, murmuring the words under her breath, a habit she had held since childhood. Then she gave a little moan, and Letty whirled round to see her sit down heavily on a chair that one of her brothers had pushed out for her. She looked at her father, apparently grief-stricken.

‘You all right, girl?’ His face was creased with anxiety.

‘I’m going, Dad,’ she croaked.

‘What? To Ireland?’ said Daniel, snatching the letter.

‘No. To England. They’ve got me aboard a ship. Oh, my God, Dad.’

‘Margaret!’ Letty admonished her, but no one heard.

‘Mags is going to England!’ Her older brother read the letter. ‘She’s really going! They’ve actually managed to squeeze her on!’

‘Less of your cheek,’ said Margaret, but her heart wasn’t in it.

‘“Due to the change in status of another war bride, we can offer you a passage on the—” What does that spell? “Will leave from Sydney” blah-blah-blah.’

‘Change in status? What do you suppose happened to that poor soul, then?’ Niall scoffed.

‘It’s possible the husband might have been married already. It happens, you know.’

‘Letty!’ Murray protested.

‘Well, it’s true, Murray. All sorts has happened. You only have to read the papers. I’ve heard of girls who’ve gone all the way to America to be told they’re not wanted. Some with . . .’ She tailed off.

‘Joe’s not like that,’ said Murray. ‘We all know he’s not like that.’

‘Besides,’ said Colm cheerfully, ‘when he married Mags I told him if he ever let her down I’d hunt him down and kill him.’

‘You did that too?’ said Niall, surprised.

‘God,’ said Margaret, ignoring her aunt but crossing herself in mute apology. ‘With you lot looking after me it’s a wonder he stuck around at all.’

A hush descended as the import of the letter settled on the occupants of the room. Margaret took her father’s hand and held it tightly, while the others affected not to notice.

‘Does anyone want tea?’ said Letty. A lump had risen in her throat: she had been picturing the kitchen without Margaret in it. There were several subdued murmurs of assent.

‘There’s no guarantee you’re getting a cabin, mind,’ said Niall, still reading.

‘They could store her with the luggage,’ said Liam. ‘She’s tough as old hide.’

‘Is that it?’ said Daniel, who, Letty saw, looked profoundly shocked. ‘I mean, do you go to England and that’s it?’

‘That’s it,’ said Margaret, quietly.

‘But what about us?’ said Daniel, his voice breaking, as if he had not yet taken seriously his sister’s marriage or its possible ramifications. ‘We can’t lose Mum and Mags. I mean, what are we supposed to do?’

Letty made to speak and found she had no words.

Across the table, Murray had been sitting in silence, his hand entwined with his daughter’s. ‘We, son, are to be glad.’

‘What?’

Murray smiled reassuringly at his daughter – a smile that Letty could not believe he truly felt. ‘We are going to be glad, because Margaret is going to be with a good man. A man who’s fought for his country and ours. A man who deserves to be with our Margaret just as much as she deserves him.’

‘Oh, Dad.’ Margaret dabbed at her eyes.

‘And more importantly,’ here his voice rose, as if to stave off interruption, ‘we should be glad as anything because Joe’s grandfather was an Irishman. And that means . . .’ he laid a roughened hand gently on his daughter’s expanded belly ‘. . . this little fellow here is going to set foot, God willing, in God’s own country.’

‘Oh, Murray,’ whispered Letty, her hand pressed to her mouth.

‘Brace yourself, lads,’ muttered Colm to his brothers, and began to pull on his boots, ‘we’re in for an evening of “Oh Danny Boy”.’

They had run out of places to put wet washing. The indoor dryer was loaded to the point where it threatened to pull down the ceiling; damp linen hung from every indoor hook and cable, pegged to hangers hooked over the tops of doors or laid flat on towels on work surfaces. Margaret hauled another wet undershirt from the bucket and handed it to her aunt, who fed the hem into the mangle and began to turn the handle.

‘It’s because nothing dried yesterday,’ Margaret said. ‘I didn’t get the stuff off the line in time so it was soaked again, and I still had lots more to do.’

‘Why don’t you sit down, Maggie?’ Letty said, eyeing her legs. ‘Take the weight off your feet for a minute or two.’