The Ship of Brides(85)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘We must do the Gateway of India. Apparently everyone does the Gateway of India. And the Willingdon Club is meant to be lovely, but it’s a few miles out of the city. They’ve got tennis courts and a swimming-pool. Do you think we should get a taxi?’

‘I want to find a nice hotel, and put my feet up for half an hour,’ said Margaret. They had stood watching for almost the two hours it had taken Victoria to drop anchor, and the oppressive temperature had caused Margaret’s ankles to swell.

‘Plenty of time for that, Margaret. Us ladies in the family way must do our best to keep active. Ooh, look! They’re about to let us off.’

There was a queue for the gharries, the little horse-drawn carriages that would take the women to the Red Gate at the entrance to the dock. Those who had already made it down the gangplank were clustered around them, chattering away, checking and rechecking handbags and sunhats, pointing out the distant views of the city.

Through the gate, Margaret could see wide, tree-lined avenues, flanked by large hotels, houses and shops, the pavements and roads thick with movement. The solidity and space made her feel almost giddy after so long at sea, and several times she had found herself swaying, unsure whether it was due to heat or sea-legs.

Two women walked past, balancing oversized baskets of fruit on their heads with the same nonchalant ease as the brides wore their hats. They whispered to each other, covering their mouths and giggling through bejewelled fingers. As Margaret watched, one spied something on the ground. Her back ramrod straight, she stretched out a bare foot, picked up the object with her toes, took it in her hand and pocketed it.

‘Strewth,’ said Margaret, who had not seen her own feet for several weeks now.

‘There’s a dinner-dance at Green’s Hotel, apparently,’ Avice was checking notes in her pocket book. ‘Some of the girls from 8D are heading there later. I said we might meet them for tea. But I’m desperate to go shopping. I feel I’ve bought everything it’s possible to buy from the PX.’

‘I just want a bloody seat,’ Margaret muttered. ‘I don’t care about sightseeing or shopping. I just want dry land and a bloody seat.’

‘Do you really think you should use so much bad language?’ Avice murmured. ‘It’s really not becoming to hear it from someone in . . . your . . .’

It was then, as Avice’s voice tailed away, that Margaret became aware of a shushing. She wondered what had caused it. Following the others’ gaze, she turned to see Frances walking down the gangplank behind them. She was dressed in a pale blue blouse, buttoned to the neck, and khaki trousers. She wore her wide-brimmed sunhat and glasses, but her red-gold hair and long limbs confirmed her identity.

She hesitated at the bottom, conscious perhaps of the quiet. Then, seeing Margaret’s hand held aloft, she made her way through the women to where Margaret and Avice stood. As she moved, girls stepped back from her like parting seas.

‘Changed your mind, then?’ Margaret was conscious of her voice booming into the silence.

‘Yes,’ said Frances.

‘It’d drive you nuts to stay aboard too long, eh?’ Margaret looked at Avice. ‘Especially in heat like this.’

Frances stood very still, her eyes fixed on Margaret. ‘It is pretty close,’ she said.

‘Well, I vote we find some bar or hotel where we can—’

‘She’s not walking around with us.’

‘Avice!’

‘People will talk. And goodness knows what might happen – for all we know her former customers are walking the streets. They might think we’re one of those . . .’

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Frances is perfectly welcome to walk with us.’

Margaret was aware that all the women around them were listening. Bunch of chattering harpies, that was what her dad would have called them. Surely nothing Frances had done, whatever her past, warranted such treatment?

‘You, perhaps,’ said Avice. ‘I’ll find someone else to walk with.’

‘Frances,’ Margaret said, daring any of the women to speak again, ‘you’re welcome to walk with me. I’d be glad of the company.’

It was hard to tell from behind her sunglasses, but Frances appeared to glance sideways at the sea of closed faces.

‘You can help me find somewhere nice to sit down.’

‘Just watch out she doesn’t find somewhere to lie down.’

Frances’s head shot round and her fingers tightened on her handbag.

‘Come on,’ Margaret said, holding out her hand. ‘Let’s hit the old Gateway of India.’

‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Ah, come on! You might never get another chance to see India.’

‘No. Thank you. I – I’ll see you later.’ Before Margaret had a chance to say any more she had disappeared back through the crowd.

The women closed ranks, murmuring in righteous indignation. Margaret watched the distant gangplank, just able to make out the tall thin figure walking slowly up it. She waited until it had vanished inside. ‘That was mean, Avice.’

‘I’m not horrid, Margaret, so you needn’t look at me like that. I’m just honest. I’m not having my one trip ashore ruined by that girl.’ She straightened her hair, then placed a sunhat carefully on her head. ‘Besides, in our condition, I think it’s best if we keep our worries to a minimum. It can’t be good for us.’

The queue had moved on. Avice linked her arm with Margaret’s and walked her swiftly towards a gharry.

Margaret knew she should go to Frances: by even participating in this outing she had condoned Frances’s treatment. But she was desperate to feel land under her feet. And it was so difficult to know what to say.

With only a handful of brides left aboard, the ship had become a maelstrom of focused activity: teams of ratings prowled decks normally closed to men, scrubbing, painting and polishing. Several were on their knees on the flight deck, fighting with foam and wooden brushes to rid the grey concrete of its lingering rainbow puddles of aviation fuel. Small tugs unloaded huge crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, feeding them through hatches into the hold, while on the other side the tankers began to refuel the ship.

In other circumstances, Frances might have enjoyed the sight of the ship at work, fully engaged in its normal course of duties. Now she took in the smirk of the duty officer at the top of the gangplank, the knowing glance he exchanged with his mate as she re-embarked, showing him her station card. She saw the lingering glances of the painting parties, the lowered eyes and muttered greeting of the officer who had previously wished her a cheerful good morning.