The Ship of Brides(84)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Nicol had paused in the hatch, wondering whether he should turn round. He wasn’t sure what made him stay.

Jones himself had apparently been presented with her but declined. She stuck out because of her shape: ‘Thin as a whippet,’ he said, ‘with no tits to speak of.’ And because she was drunk, he said. He curled his lip, as if he had been offered something distasteful.

The manager had sent her upstairs with one of his mates and she’d fallen up the steps. They had all laughed: there was something comical about the skinny girl with all the makeup, drunk as a skunk, her legs all over the place. Actually, he said, more seriously, ‘I thought she was under age, you know what I’m saying? Didn’t fancy having my collar felt.’

Duckworth, an apparent connoisseur of such things, had agreed.

‘Bloody hell, though. You’d never know now, would you? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’

No, Duckworth had observed. But for them recognising her, no one would have known.

Nicol had begun to pull down his hammock. He had thought he might try for some sleep before his next watch.

‘Now now, Nicol,’ came Jones’s voice from behind him. ‘Hope you’re not thinking about slipping in there for a quickie later. Need to save your money for that missus of yours.’ He had guffawed. ‘Besides, she’s a bit better-looking now. Bit more polish. She’d probably charge you a fortune.’

He had thought he might hit him. Some irrational part of him had wanted to do the same to her. Instead he had pasted a wry smile on his face, feeling even as he did that he was engaged in some sort of betrayal, and disappeared into the wash cubicle.

Night had fallen. Victoria pushed forward in the black waters, oblivious to the time or season, to the moods and vagaries of her inhabitants, her vast engines powering obediently beneath her. Frances lay in her bunk, listening for the now familiar sounds, the last pipes, muttered conversations and faltering footsteps that spoke of the steady settling of the ship’s passengers to sleep, the sniffs and grunts, the slowing of breath that told the same story of the two other women in her cabin. The sounds of silence, of solitude, the sounds that told her she was free once again to breathe. The sounds she seemed to have spent a good portion of her life waiting for.

And outside, just audible to the trained ear, the sound of two feet shifting on the corridor floor.

He arrived at four a.m. She heard him murmuring something to the other marine as they changed guard, the muffled echo of the other man’s steps as he went to some mess, or to sleep. She listened to the man outside as she had for what felt like hundreds of nights before.

Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she rose from her bunk. Unseen by the two sleeping women on each side of her, she tiptoed towards the steel door, her footsteps sure and silent in the dark. Just before she reached it, she stood still, eyes closed as if she were in pain.

Then she stepped forward, and quietly, carefully, laid her face against it. Slowly she rested her entire length, her thighs, her stomach, her chest against it, palms pressed flat on each side of her head, feeling the cool metal through her thin nightgown, its immovable solidity.

If she turned her head, kept her ear pressed against the door, she could almost hear him breathing.

She stood there, in the dark, for some time. A tear rolled down her face and plopped on to her bare foot. It was followed by another.

Outside, apart from the low rumble of the engines, there was silence.

17

Among the 300 different items the Red Cross has put aboard for the use of brides are bed linen, towels, stationery, medical and beauty preparations, and tons of tinned fruit, cream, biscuits, meat and boxes of chocolates. It has also provided 500 canvas folding deck-chairs and a special book on midwifery.

Sydney Morning Herald, 3 July 1946

Twenty-six days

A major port, especially one that had formed an important staging-post for most of the war years, can safely be assumed to have seen most things pass through its gates. Guns, armoury, foodstuffs, silks, spices, troops, traders, holy texts and foul waste had all passed through, eliciting little comment.

Old hands could remember the nightmare roaring of the six white tigers confined to crates en route to the home of an American movie mogul; others the glowing gold dome of a temple for some vainglorious European head of state. More recently, for several weeks the harbour had hummed with a rare fragrance after a crane carrying five thousand bottles of sickly perfume had dropped its cargo on to the dockside.

But the sight of some six hundred women waiting to go ashore at Bombay brought the traffic at Alexandra Lock to a standstill. The women, lining the decks in their brightly coloured summer dresses, waved down with hats and handbags, their voices filled with the energy of three and a half weeks spent at sea. Hundreds of children ran along either side of the dock, their arms stretched upwards, calling to the women to toss down more coins, more coins. Small tugboats, hovering beneath the great bow like satellites, noisily dragged Victoria round, pulling her into position alongside the quay. As the ship glided gracefully into place, many of the women exclaimed loudly at how such a huge ship could fit through the lock; others exclaimed rather more vigorously at the smell, pressing white handkerchiefs to their glowing faces. And all along the quay eyes lifted to the great aircraft-carrier that no longer carried aircraft. Men and women stood in brightly coloured robes and saris, troops, dockyard workers, traders, all paused to watch the Ship of Brides manoeuvre her way in.

‘You must stick together and stay in the main thoroughfares.’ The WSO was struggling to be heard over the clamour of those desperate to disembark. ‘And you must return by twenty-two hundred hours at the latest. Captain Highfield has made it clear he will not tolerate lateness. Do you all understand?’

It was only a matter of months since the Indian sailors’ mutiny at the harbour; they had gone on strike in protest against their living conditions. How this had escalated was still a matter of some debate, but it was indisputable that it had erupted into a fierce gun battle between English troops and the mutineers that had lasted several days. There had been several heated discussions about the wisdom of letting the women ashore but given that they had remained aboard at Colombo and Cochin, it did not seem fair to keep them any longer. The officer held up a clipboard, wiping her face with her free hand. ‘The duty officer will be taking names as each woman returns aboard. Make sure yours is among them.’

The heat was fierce and Margaret clung to the side of the ship, wishing, as the crowd pressed and writhed around her, that she could find somewhere to sit down. Avice, beside her, kept standing on tiptoe, shouting back what she could see, one hand shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight.