The Ship of Brides(94)
Author: Jojo Moyes

It was this uncomfortable revelation that forced him to his conclusion, which prompted him to swap his shifts with Emmett and kept him, for the next few days, well away from her.

It was no longer her past that troubled him. It was that she had escaped it.

‘Leading hand was still in his pit at ten to bloody eleven in the morning. You should have heard the captain: “You’re no more fit to be a leading hand than one of those bloody girls downstairs.” You know where he was, don’t you? Master-at-arms reckons he was in the infirmary with the American. Investigating the . . . curative properties of alcohol.’

There was a burst of laughter. He stared up at the picture of the King, which took pride of place on the wall, then took his place next to Jones, preparing to file out of the wardroom. He had received a wire four days after he had sent his own. It said simply, ‘Thank you!’ The exclamation mark, with all it conveyed, had made him wince.

Unexpectedly, the dog began to howl when Margaret opened the door. She placed her hands frantically round Maude Gonne’s muzzle and stumbled for the bed, hissing, ‘Shush! Shush, Maudie! Shush now!’ The dog had barked twice, and Margaret had come as close as she ever had to smacking her. ‘Shut up now!’ she scolded, her eyes fixed on the door. ‘Come on, now, settle down,’ she murmured, and the dog turned tight circles on her bunk. Margaret looked guiltily at her watch, wondering when she could next take her out. Maude Gonne had tried to escape several times now. Like Joe Junior, she thought, the confinement was starting to tell. ‘Come on now,’ she said, her tone soothing. ‘Not much longer, I promise.’

Only then did she realise she was not alone in the dormitory.

Avice was lying motionless on her bunk, facing the wall, her knees drawn up to her stomach.

Margaret stared at her as the dog leapt down and scratched half-heartedly at the door. It was, she calculated, the fourth day that Avice had lain like this. On the few occasions that she had risen for food she had picked at whatever was on her plate, then excused herself. Seasickness, she had said, to enquiries. But the water hadn’t been choppy.

Margaret stepped forward and bent over the prostrate figure, as if she could glean some clue from her face. Once she had done this believing Avice to be asleep, and had felt a mixture of shock and embarrassment when her eyes were wide open. She had wondered whether to talk to Frances: perhaps Avice was suffering from some medical complaint. But given the bad blood between the two women, she didn’t feel it fair on either of them.

Besides, Frances was rarely here now. For reasons no one could explain, she had been helping out in the infirmary, Dr Duxbury having gleefully accepted the responsibility of organising the final of the Queen of the Victoria contest. Otherwise she disappeared for several hours every day, and offered no explanation as to where she had been. Margaret supposed she should be glad to see her so much happier, but she missed her company. Alone, she had had altogether far too much time to think. And, as her dad was fond of saying, that was never a good thing.

‘Avice?’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

She did not reply until the second prompt. ‘Yes,’ she said.

Margaret stood awkwardly in the centre of the little dormitory, her distended body briefly forgotten as she tried to work out what to do for the best. ‘Can I . . . can I get you anything?’

‘No.’

The silence expanded round her. Her mother would have known what to do, she thought. She would have marched up to Avice, taken her in her arms in that confident maternal way of hers, and said, ‘C’mon, now, what’s up?’ And faced with her degree of certainty, Avice would have confessed her anxieties, or her medical problems, or her homesickness or whatever was troubling her.

Except her mother wasn’t there. And Margaret was no more capable of taking Avice in her arms unprompted than she was of rowing this ship all the way to bloody England. ‘I could get you a cup of tea,’ she ventured.

Avice said nothing.

Margaret lay on her bed reading for almost an hour, not feeling able to leave either Avice or the dog, whom she did not trust to keep quiet.

Outside, the faint increase in movement of the ship told of the shift into cooler, rougher waters. Now, after weeks aboard, they were finely attuned to the vibrations of the Victoria, used to the ever-present hum of her engines, able to ignore the incessant piped commands that punctuated every quarter-hour.

She had begun a letter to her father, then discovered she had nothing to say about life on board that she had not already told him. The real events that had taken place she could not conceive of putting on paper, and the rest of it was just waiting. Like living in a corridor, waiting for her new life to begin.

She had written to Daniel instead: a series of questions about the mare, an urgent demand that he should skin as many darn rabbits as he could so that he could get over to England to see her. Daniel had written once, a letter she had received at Bombay. It comprised just a few lines and told her little, other than the state of the cows, the weather, and the plot of a movie he had seen in town, but her heart had eased. She had been forgiven, those few lines told her. If her father had threatened him with the belt to do it he would have put a blank sheet in an envelope rather than comply. There was a sharp rap on the door, and she leapt on her dog, cutting short her bark. Holding her, she broke into a fake coughing fit, trying to emulate the noise. ‘Hold on,’ she said, her broad hand clamped gently but firmly round Maude Gonne’s muzzle. ‘Just coming.’

‘Is Mrs A. Radley there?’

Margaret faced Avice’s bunk. Avice, blinking, sat. Her clothes were crumpled, her face pale and blank. She slid slowly to the floor, lifting a hand to her hair. ‘Avice Radley,’ she said, opening the door a little way.

A young rating stood before her.

‘You’ve had a wire. Come through the radio room this afternoon.’

Margaret dropped the dog behind her and stepped forward to take Avice’s arm. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said involuntarily.

The rating registered the two wide-eyed faces. Then he thrust the piece of paper into Avice’s hand. ‘Don’t look like that, missus – it’s good news.’

‘What?’ said Margaret.

He ignored her. He waited for Avice’s eyes to drop to the paper before he spoke again, his voice thick with mirth. ‘It’s family. Your folks are going to be in Plymouth to meet you off the ship.’

Avice had sobbed for almost twenty minutes, which had initially seemed excessive and had now become alarming. Margaret, her previous reticence forgotten, had climbed on to Avice’s bunk and now sat beside her, trying not to think about the way it creaked ominously under her weight. ‘It’s okay, Avice,’ she kept saying. ‘He’s all right. Ian’s all right. That bloody wire just gave you a bit of a fright.’