The Ship of Brides(99)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Irene Carter wore her hand-sewn sash with the cooing, tearful delight of a new mother. It had been, she announced, the finest trip she had ever undertaken. She felt, frankly, as if she had made at least six hundred new friends. And she hoped they would all find the happiness in England she was sure they deserved. She couldn’t begin to thank the crew enough for their kindness, their efficiency. She was sure the whole room would agree that the captain’s words had been a real inspiration. It was when she started thanking her former neighbours in Sydney by name that Captain Highfield intervened and announced that if the officers and men would like to clear the tables to the sides of the room, the Royal Marines Band would provide music for a little dancing. (‘Dancing!’ chirruped Dr Duxbury, and several women moved swiftly away from him.)

Davy Plummer, standing near the back of the bandstand, glanced in disgust at the handwritten betting slip Foster had given him not two days earlier, screwed it up and thrust it deep into the pocket of his overall. Bloody women. For all those fancy odds, that one couldn’t have looked any worse with a paper bag over her head. He was about to return to the engine room when he saw two brides standing in the corner. They whispered something behind their hands.

‘Never seen a working man before?’ he said, holding out the sides of his overalls.

‘We were wondering if you were going to dance,’ said the smaller, blonder girl, ‘but whether you could do it without getting us all oily.’

‘Ladies, you have no idea what a stoker can do with his hands.’ Davy Plummer stepped forward, his betting slip forgotten.

He was, after all, an optimist by nature.

The crowning ceremony was due at a quarter to ten. That gave Frances almost fifteen minutes to nip along the passageway and pick up the photographs of the Australian General Hospital that Captain Highfield had asked to view. Her photograph album was in her trunk down in the hold but she always kept a few of her favourite snaps – the first ward tent, the dance in Port Moresby, Alfred, in a book by her bed. She ran lightly along the corridor that led from the hangar to the dormitories, occasionally touching the wall to keep her balance.

Then she stopped.

He was standing outside the dormitory, removing a cigarette from a soft packet. He put it into his mouth, glanced sideways at her. The way in which he did this told her that her appearance was no surprise to him.

She had not seen him since he had arrived on the gun turret with Tims. She had had to fight the suspicion that he had avoided her since then, had several times considered asking the younger marine why he had taken over the night watch.

She had pictured him so many times, had taken one side in so many silent conversations, that to see him in the flesh was overwhelming. Even as her feet took her towards him she felt her own reticence return and brushed vaguely at her skirt.

She paused at the door, unsure whether to step inside. He was in his dress uniform, and she was overcome by a flash memory of the night they had danced, in which she had been held against that dark cloth. ‘Want one?’ he said, holding the packet towards her.

She took one. He held the flame towards her so that she didn’t have to bend to him as it lit. She found, as she ducked, that she could not take her eyes off his hands.

‘I saw you at the captain’s table,’ he said eventually.

‘I didn’t see you.’ She had looked. Several times.

‘Wasn’t meant to be there.’

His voice sounded strange. She drew on her cigarette, conscious that however she stood she felt awkward.

‘Quite unusual for him to invite one of the women to join him.’

The temperature of her blood dropped a couple of degrees. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said carefully.

‘I don’t believe he’s done it once this trip.’

‘Is there something you want to say?’

He looked blank.

She forgot her previous awkwardness. ‘Surely what you’re asking is why I, of all people, was seated at the captain’s table?’

He set his jaw. For the briefest moment, she could see how he might have looked as a child. ‘I was just . . . curious. I came to see you the other afternoon. And then I saw you . . . outside the captain’s—’

‘Ah. Now I see. You weren’t asking, just implying.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘So you’ve come to question me over the standard of my conduct?’

‘No, I—’

‘Oh, what will you do, Marine? Report the captain? Or just the whore?’

The word silenced them both. She chewed her lip. He stood alongside her, his shoulders still squared as if he were on duty.

‘Why are you talking like this?’ he asked quietly.

‘Because I’m tired, Marine. I’m tired of having every single one of my actions judged by ignorant people who then find me wanting.’

‘I didn’t judge you.’

‘The hell you didn’t.’ She was suddenly furious. ‘I can’t be bothered to explain myself any more. I can’t be bothered to try to improve anyone’s opinion of me if they can’t be bothered to see—’

‘Frances—’

‘You’re as bad as the rest of them. I thought you were different. I thought you understood something about me, understood what I was made of. God knows why! God knows why I chose to invest you with feelings you were never capable of—’

‘Frances—’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry about what I said. I just saw you . . . and . . . I’m sorry. Really. Things have happened that have made me . . .’ He tailed off. ‘Look, I came to see you because I wanted you to know something. I did things in the war . . . that I’m not proud of. I haven’t always behaved in a way that people – people who don’t know the full circumstances – might consider to be admirable. There’s none of us – not even your husband probably – who can say they did.’

She stared at him.

‘That’s all I wanted to tell you,’ he said.

Her head hurt. She put out a hand to the wall, feeling the floor rise and fall under her feet. ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said quietly. She could not look at him. But she could feel his eyes on her. ‘Goodnight, Marine,’ she said, emphatically.

She waited until she heard his footsteps walking smartly back towards the hangar area. The rocking of the ship’s floor made no difference to their rhythm and she listened to them, metronomic, until the sound of a hatch door closing told her he had gone.