The Ship of Brides(87)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Her drink appeared, and she made a point of tipping the waiter in front of Avice. Then, as he departed, she stared out at Victoria, floating serenely in the harbour, and wondered guiltily if Frances was asleep. All its lights were on, giving it a festive appearance, but without either aircraft or people the flight deck looked empty, like a vast, unpopulated plain.

‘Ah! A seat! Mind if we join you?’ Margaret looked round to see Irene Carter, flanked by one of her friends, pulling out the chair opposite. She gave a wide, lipsticked smile that did not stretch to her eyes. Despite the heat she looked cool and brought with her a vague scent of lilies.

‘Irene,’ said Avice, her own smile something of a snarl. ‘How lovely.’

‘We’re exhausted,’ said Irene, throwing her bags under the table and lifting a hand to summon a waiter. He arrived at her side immediately. ‘All those natives following you around. I had to get one of the officers to tell them to leave me alone. I don’t think they know how upsetting they can be.’

‘We saw a man without legs,’ confided her companion, a plump girl with a mournful air.

‘Just sitting out on a rug! Can you imagine?’

‘I think he might have been stuck there,’ the girl said. ‘Perhaps someone put him down and left him.’

‘We’ve hardly noticed. We’ve been so busy shopping, haven’t we, Margaret?’ Avice gestured at her own bags.

‘We have,’ said Margaret.

‘Bought anything nice?’ said Irene. Margaret fancied there was a steely glint in her eye.

‘Oh, nothing you’d be interested in,’ said Avice, her own smile glued in place.

‘Really? I heard you’d bought something for the Queen of the Victoria final.’

‘Natty Johnson saw you in the Army and Navy,’ said the plump girl.

‘That? I don’t suppose I’ll wear it. To be honest, I haven’t given a thought to what I’ll wear.’

Margaret snorted quietly into her drink. Avice had spent the best part of an hour parading in front of the mirror in a variety of outfits. ‘I wish I knew what Irene Carter was wearing,’ she had muttered. ‘I’m going to make sure I knock her into a cocked hat.’ She had spent on three new dresses more money than Margaret’s father would spend on cattle feed in a year.

‘Oh, I dare say I’ll dig something out of my trunk,’ said Irene. ‘It’s only a bit of fun after all, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is.’

Bloody hell, thought Margaret, gazing at Avice’s butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Irene. ‘You know what, Avice? I shall tell all those girls who’ve been whispering that you’re taking it too seriously that they’re quite wrong. There.’ She paused. ‘And that I’ve heard that direct from the horse’s mouth.’ She lifted her drink as if in a toast.

Margaret had to bite her lip hard to stop herself laughing at Avice’s face.

The four women, forced together through lack of spare tables rather than camaraderie, spent the best part of an hour and a half seated together. They ordered a fish curry; Margaret found it delicious but regretted it when indigestion struck. The other brides, however, made a show of fanning their mouths and pronouncing it inedible.

‘I hope it hasn’t done any harm to the baby,’ said Avice, laying a hand on her non-existent bump.

‘I heard your news. Congratulations,’ said Irene. ‘Does your husband know? I’m assuming it is your husband’s,’ she added, then laughed, a tinkling sound, to show she was joking.

‘I believe we’re getting post tomorrow,’ said Avice, whose own graceful smile had gone a little rigid. ‘I imagine he’ll have told everyone by now. We’re having a party when we get to London,’ she said. ‘We felt we rather missed out, with the war, so we’re going to have a do. Probably at the Savoy. And now, of course, it will be a double celebration.’

The Savoy was a good one, Margaret thought. Irene had looked briefly furious.

‘In fact, Irene, perhaps you’d like to come. Mummy and Daddy will be flying from Australia – the new Qantas service? – and I’m sure they’d love to see you. What with you being so new in London, I’m sure you’ll be glad of all the friends you can get.’ Avice leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Always makes you feel better to have at least one date in the social diary, doesn’t it?’

Ka-pow! thought Margaret, who was enjoying herself now. This was far dirtier than anything her brothers had ever done to each other.

‘I shall be delighted to come to your little gathering, if I can,’ said Irene, wiping the corners of her mouth. ‘I’ll have to check what our plans are, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Avice sipped her iced water, a little smile dancing on her lips.

‘But I do think it’s lovely that you’ll have something to take your mind off things.’

Avice raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, this horrid business with you having befriended a prostitute. I mean, who on earth could have known? And so soon after your other little friend was caught fraternising with those grubby engineers.’

‘With her knickers down,’ said the plump girl.

‘Well, yes, that’s one way of putting it,’ said Irene.

‘I hardly—’ Avice began.

Irene’s voice was concerned: ‘It must have been so worrying for you, not knowing if you were going to be tarred with the same brush . . . you know, with what everyone’s been saying about your dormitory and what goes on there. We’ve all so admired your stoicism. No, your little social do is a very good idea. It will quite take your mind off things.’

The afternoon had stretched into evening, and with the fading of the light her thoughts had grown darker. Unable to face the confines of the cabin any longer, she had toyed with the idea of leaving the ship. But she had no one to accompany her, and Bombay seemed to require a certain robustness of spirit that she did not own. She had stepped out and headed for the boat deck, close to where she had sat with Maude Gonne just a week earlier.

Now she stood, while the harbour lights glinted steadily on the inky water, interrupted occasionally by the noisy passage of tugs and barges. A strange conjunction of scents, spices, fuel oil, perfume, rotten meat, expanded in the stilled air so that she was both entranced and repelled by the mere act of breathing. Her thoughts had calmed a little now; she would do what she had always done, she told herself. She would get through. It was only a couple more weeks until she reached England and she had learnt long ago that anything could be endured if you tried hard enough. She would not think of what might have been. The men who had best survived the war, she had long ago observed, had been those able to live one day at a time, those able to count even the smallest of blessings. She had bought herself a packet of cigarettes at the PX. Now she lit one, conscious that it was a self-destructive gesture but savouring the acrid taste. Across the water, voices called to each other and from somewhere further distant Indian music drifted, one long, mournful filigree note.