The Ship of Brides(92)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Her voice had gained strength. The tips of her pale ears had gone pink, the only sign of any underlying lack of composure.

He realised, with some bewilderment, that he felt as if he were the one in the wrong.

He glanced down at the papers that detailed the procedures for putting off brides. ‘Put her off at Port Said,’ the Australian Red Cross supervisor had said. ‘She might have to wait a bit for a boat back. Then again, a lot of them disappear in Egypt.’ Her ‘them’ had contained an unmistakeable note of contempt.

God, it was a mess. A bloody mess. He wished he’d never embarked on the conversation and opened this can of worms. But she had entered the system now. His hands were tied.

Perhaps recognising something in his expression, she got to her feet. Her hair, scraped back from her forehead, emphasised the high, almost Slavic bones of her face, the shadows under her eyes. He wondered briefly whether before she left, she would try to hit him, as the little one had, and then felt guilty for having thought it. ‘Look, Mrs Mackenzie, I—’

‘I know. You’d like me to leave.’

He was struggling for something to say, something that might appropriately convey the right mixture of authority and regret.

She was half-way towards the door, when she said, ‘Do you want me to look at your leg?’

His final words stalled on his lips. He blinked.

‘I’ve seen you limping. When you thought you were alone. You might as well know that I used to sit out on the flight deck at night.’

Highfield was now completely wrongfooted. He found he had moved his leg behind him. ‘I don’t think that’s—’

‘I won’t touch you, if that will make you more comfortable.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my leg.’

‘Then I won’t trouble you.’

They stood across the office from each other. Neither moved. There was nothing in her gaze that spoke of invitation.

‘I’ve not . . . I’ve not mentioned it to anyone,’ he found himself saying.

‘I’m fairly good at keeping secrets,’ she said, her eyes on his face.

He sat down heavily on his chair and drew up his trouser leg. He hadn’t liked to look too closely at it for some days.

She was briefly disarmed. Stood back, then stepped forward and examined it closely. ‘It’s clearly infected.’ She gestured to his leg, as if asking him whether he minded, then placed her hands upon it, tracing the wound’s length, the swollen red skin round it. ‘Is your temperature raised?’

‘I’ve felt better,’ he conceded.

She studied it for several minutes. He realised – with something approaching shame – that he had not flinched when she touched his skin. ‘I think you may have osteomyelitis, an infection that has spread into the bone. This should be drained, and you need penicillin.’

‘Do you have some?’

‘No, but Dr Duxbury should.’

‘I don’t want him involved.’

She expressed no surprise. He wondered if something in all this smacked of madness. He could not rid his mind of her startled expression when she had first seen his leg. And how she had immediately concealed it.

‘You need medical help,’ she said.

‘I don’t want Duxbury told,’ he repeated.

‘Then I’ve given you my professional opinion, Captain, and I respect your right to ignore it.’

She got up and wiped her hands on her trousers. He asked her to wait, then moved past her and opened the door. He summoned the rating from the corridor.

The boy stepped in, his gaze flickering between the captain and the woman before him. ‘Take Mrs Mackenzie here to the dispensary,’ Highfield said. ‘She is to fetch some items.’

She hesitated, apparently waiting for some proviso, some warning. None came.

He held out his hand with the key. When she took it from him, she made sure her fingers did not touch his.

The needle went into his leg, the fine slither of metal sliding mechanically in and out of his flesh as it drew out the foul liquid within. Despite the pain of the procedure, Highfield felt the anxiety that had plagued him start to dissipate.

‘You need another dose of penicillin in about six hours. Then one a day. A double dose to start with to push your system into fighting the infection. And when you get to England you must go straight to your doctor. It’s possible he’ll want you in hospital.’ She returned to the wound. ‘But you’re lucky. I don’t think it’s gangrenous.’

She said this in a quiet, unemotional tone, declining to look at his face for most of it. Finally, she placed the last of the gamgee tissue dressing on his leg, and sat back on her heels so that he could pull down his trouser leg. She wore the same khaki slacks and white shirt that he had seen her in on the day she had accompanied the younger bride to his office.

He sighed with relief at the prospect of a pain-free night. She was gathering together the medical equipment she had brought from the dispensary. ‘You should keep some of this here,’ she said, eyes still on the floor. ‘You’ll need to change that dressing tomorrow.’ She scribbled some instructions on a piece of paper. ‘Keep your leg elevated whenever you’re alone. And try to keep it dry. Especially in the humidity. You can take the painkilling tablets two at a time.’ She put the dressing and tape on his desk, then replaced the lid on his pen.

‘If it starts to worsen you’ll have to see a surgeon. And this time you can’t afford to delay.’

‘I’m going to say there has been a misunderstanding.’ Her head lifted. ‘A case of mistaken identity. If you could spare some time during the rest of the voyage to administer those penicillin injections I would be grateful.’

She stared at him, raised herself to her feet. She looked, perhaps for the first time that day, startled. She swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t do it for that,’ she said. He nodded.

‘I know.’

He stood up, testing his weight gingerly on the injured leg. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘Mrs Mackenzie . . . Sister Mackenzie.’

She stared at it for a minute. Given the astonishing composure she had shown so far, when she took it and looked up, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

19

For others the ordeal left ineradicable scars – the excoriating cold, the fear and the proximity of untimely and senseless death mixed with the sheer degradation of life in a small, weather-battered warship – to kindle a lifelong abhorrence of war.