Ship of Brides (12 page)

Behind her, hidden by her size and a carefully folded blanket, Maude Gonne lay sleeping. After the captain’s address, Margaret had raced back to their cabin (Daniel would have said ‘lumbered’) and subdued the little dog’s yelps with stolen biscuits, then smuggled her along to the bathroom to make sure she didn’t disgrace herself. She had only just got back to the bunk when Frances came in, and she had thrust herself on to her bed, a warning hand on the dog’s hidden head, willing her to stay quiet.

It was a problem. She had thought she would be allocated a single cabin – most of the pregnant brides had been. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might have to share.

She wondered whether Frances, on the bunk opposite, could be trusted. She seemed all right, but she had said little that suggested anything at all. And she was a nurse – some of whom got awfully tied up in rules and regulations.

Margaret shifted on her bunk, trying to get comfortable, feeling the engines rumbling beneath her. There was so much she wanted to tell Joe, so much she wanted to convey about the strangeness of it all – of being thrust from her home into a world where girls became hysterical not just about their future but over brands of shampoo or stockings (‘Where did you get those? I’ve been looking everywhere for them!’) and exchanged the kind of intimate confidences that suggested they’d known each other for years, not twenty-four hours.

Mum would have been able to explain it, thought Margaret. She would have been able to speak their language, translate it, and afterwards would have defused its power with a few pithy remarks. If I’d known she was going, she thought, I would have listened harder. I would have treated it all with a little more respect, rather than spending my life trying to live up to the boys. They never told you it wasn’t just a gaping hole of grief but that it went on and on, myriad questions that wouldn’t be answered.

She glanced at her watch. They would be out now, perhaps on the tractor, clearing the saplings at the bottom of the steers’ field, as they had been meaning to do all summer. Colm had joked that spending all these weeks surrounded by women would drive her mad. Dad had said it might teach her a few things. Margaret gazed surreptitiously at the feminine trappings around her, of silk, nylon and floral patterns, of face creams and manicure sets. She hadn’t anticipated that it might leave her feeling alien.

‘You want my pillow?’ Frances had emerged from her novel. She was gesturing towards Margaret’s stomach.

‘No. Thanks.’

‘Go on – you can’t be comfortable.’

It had been the longest sentence she had uttered since introducing herself. Margaret hesitated, then accepted the pillow with thanks and wedged it under her thigh. It was true: the bunks offered all the width and comfort of an ironing-board.

‘When’s it due?’

‘Not for a couple of months or so.’ Margaret sniffed, pushed tentatively at her mattress. ‘It could have been worse, I suppose. They might have given us hammocks.’

The other girl’s smile faltered, as if, having opened the conversation, she was now unsure what else to say. She returned to her book.

Maude Gonne shifted and whined in sleep, her paws scrabbling against Margaret’s back. The noise was disguised by the thrum of the engines and the chatter of girls passing outside the half-open door. But she would have to do something. Maude Gonne couldn’t stay in here for the whole six weeks. Even if she only left to go to the bathroom there were bound to be occasions when the other girls were here. How would she keep her quiet then?

Bugger it, she thought, shifting her belly again. What with the baby moving constantly, and all these women around, night, day and every single minute in between, it was impossible to think straight.

The cabin door was open and Avice stepped in, remembering to duck – she had no intention of meeting Ian with a bruised forehead – and raised a smile for the two girls lying on the bottom bunks. Made of a naval-issue bedroll lying in a raised platform of webbing, they were less than five feet apart, and the women’s small cases, containing the minimum of their belongings, were stacked securely against the temporary sheet-metal wall that divided them from the next cabin.

The entire space was rather smaller than her bathroom at home. There was no concession to the femininity of the passengers: the fabrics were utilitarian at best, the floor uncarpeted, the colour a uniform battleship grey. The only mirrors were in the steamy confines of the shower rooms. Their larger cases, with the main part of their clothes and belongings, were stored in the quarterdeck lockers, which smelt of aircraft fuel and to which they had to beg access from a spectacularly sour WSO, who had already reminded Avice twice – with what Avice felt was obvious envy – that life on board was not a fashion parade.

Avice was desperately disappointed in her travelling companions. Almost everywhere she had been this morning she had seen girls in smarter clothes, with the right sort of look, the kind that spoke to Avice of a social standing not dissimilar to her own. She might have found consolation in their company for the awfulness of the ship. But instead she had been landed with a pregnant farm girl and a surly nurse. (She did so hope she wasn’t going to be one of those superior types, as if the terrible things she had supposedly witnessed made the rest of them shallow for trying to enjoy themselves.) And, of course, there was Jean.

‘Hey there, shipmates.’ Jean scrambled on to the bunk above Margaret, her thin bare limbs like a monkey’s, and lit a cigarette. ‘Avice and me have been checking out the action on board. There’s a cinema up near the bow, on the lower gallery. Anyone fancy coming to the pictures later?’

‘No. Thanks anyway,’ said Frances.

‘Actually, I think I’ll stay here and write some letters.’ Avice had made her way on to her top bunk, holding her skirt down over her thighs with one hand. It took some effort. ‘I’m feeling a little weary.’

‘How ’bout you, Maggie?’ Jean leant over the side of her bunk.

Her head heaving suddenly into view made Margaret jump and contort into a peculiar shape. Avice wondered if this travelling companion was going to prove even odder than she had suspected. Margaret seemed to sense that her reaction had been a little strange: she reached behind her, picked up a magazine and flicked it open with studied nonchalance. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I – I should probably rest.’

‘Yeah. You do that,’ said Jean, hauling herself back into her bunk and taking a long drag on her cigarette. ‘The last thing we want is you dropping it in here.’

Avice was searching for her hairbrush. She had been through her vanity case several times, and climbed down from her bunk to gaze at the others. Now that the excitement of the slipping off had dissipated, and the circumstances in which she was going to have to spend the next six weeks had come into focus, her mood had darkened. She was finding it difficult to keep smiling through. ‘I’m sorry to bother you all, but has anyone seen my brush?’ She thought it rather noble of her not to direct this at Jean.

‘What’s it look like?’

‘Silver. It has my initials on the back. My married ones – AR.’

‘Not up here,’ said Jean. ‘A few things spilt out of our cases when the engines did that juddery thing earlier. Have you looked on the floor?’

Avice knelt down, cursing the inadequate light from the one unshaded overhead bulb. If they’d had a window, she would have been able to see better. In fact, everything would have been more pleasant with a sea view. She was sure some of the girls had got windows. She couldn’t understand why her father hadn’t made it a requirement. She was just stretching her arm under Frances’s bunk when she felt a cold wet touch high on the inside of her thigh. She shrieked and jumped up, smacking the back of her head on Frances’s bunk.

‘What, in heaven’s name—’

Pain shot through the top of her head, making her stumble. She pulled her skirt tight round her legs, twisting round in an effort to see behind her. ‘Who did that? Was it someone’s idea of a joke?’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jean, wide-eyed.

‘Someone goosed me. Someone stuck their cold wet . . .’ Here, words failed Avice, and she gazed round suspiciously, as if perhaps some madman had stowed away when no one was looking. ‘Someone goosed me,’ she repeated.

No one spoke.

Frances was watching her silently, her face impassive.

‘I’m not imagining it,’ Avice told her crossly.

It was then that all eyes fell on Margaret, who was leaning over the edge of her bunk, muttering to herself. Avice, cheeks flushed, heart racing, legs crossed defensively, stared at her.

Margaret looked up at her with a guilty expression. She stood up, went to the door, closed it and sighed. ‘Oh, hell. I need to tell you all something. I’d thought I’d get a cabin to myself because of being . . . like this.’

Avice took a step backwards – which was a difficult manoeuvre in so little space. ‘Like what? Oh, Lord! You’re not one of those . . . deviant types? Oh, my goodness.’

‘Deviant?’ said Margaret.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Pregnant, you eejit! I thought I’d get a cabin to myself because I’m pregnant.’

‘Are you making a nest under your bunk?’ said Jean. ‘My cat did that when she had kittens. Made a terrible mess.’

‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘I was not making a ruddy nest. Look, I’m trying to tell you all something.’ Her cheeks were flushed.

Avice crossed her hands protectively over her chest. ‘Is this your way of apologising?’

Margaret shook her head. ‘It’s not what you think.’ She lowered herself on to her hands and knees and uttered a soft crooning sound. Seconds later, her broad hand emerged from under her bunk. In it she held a small dog. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘meet Maude Gonne.’

Four sets of eyes stared at the dog, who stared back with rheumy disinterest.

‘I knew it! I knew you were up to something!’ crowed Jean, triumphantly. ‘I said to myself, when we were on the flight deck, “That Margaret, she’s as furtive as a fox in long grass eating guts.”’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Avice grimaced. ‘You mean that was what . . . ?’

‘Those cami-knickers really do the job, eh, Avice?’ scoffed Jean.

Frances studied the dog. ‘But you’re not allowed pets on board,’ she said.

‘I know that.’

‘I’m sorry, but you can’t hope to keep it quiet,’ Avice said. ‘And it’ll make the dorm smell.’

There was a lengthy silence as unspoken thoughts hung in the air.

In the end, anxiety overrode Avice’s natural delicacy. ‘We’re on this thing for almost six weeks. Where’s it going to do its business?’

Margaret sat down, ducking to avoid banging her head on the top bunk. The dog settled on her lap. ‘She’s very clean – and I’ve worked it all out. You didn’t notice anything last night, did you? I ran her up and down the end gangway after you’d gone to sleep.’

‘Ran her up and down the gangway?’

‘And cleaned up afterwards. Look, she doesn’t bark. She doesn’t smell. I’ll make sure I keep her “business” well out of your way. But please, please, don’t dob me in. She’s . . . old . . . My mum gave her to me. And . . .’ she blinked furiously ‘. . . look, she’s all I’ve got left of my mum. I couldn’t leave her, okay?’

There was silence as the women exchanged looks. Margaret stared at the floor, flushed with emotion. It was too soon for this level of confidence, she knew it, and so did they. ‘It’s just for a few weeks, and it’s real important to me.’

There was another lengthy silence. The nurse looked at her shoes. ‘If you want to try to keep her in here, I don’t mind.’

‘Nor me,’ said Jean. ‘Long as she doesn’t chew up my shoes. She’s quite sweet. For a rat.’

Avice knew she couldn’t be the only one to complain: it would make her seem heartless. ‘What about the Royal Marines?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘The ones they’re posting outside our doors from tomorrow night. Didn’t you hear that WSO? You won’t be able to get her out.’

‘A marine? For what?’

‘He’s coming at nine thirty. I suppose it’s to stop the men below coming up and ravishing us,’ said Jean. ‘Think about it – a thousand desperate men lying just a few feet below us. They could storm the doors if they wanted to and—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Avice’s hand flew to her throat.

‘Then again,’ said Jean, grinning lasciviously, ‘it might be to keep us lot in.’

‘Well, I’ll have to get her out before the marine comes.’

‘Gangway’s too busy,’ said Jean.

‘Perhaps we should just tell someone,’ said Avice. ‘I’m sure they’d understand. And perhaps they’ll have . . . facilities for this kind of thing. A room they can put her in. She’d probably be much happier with a bit of space to run around, wouldn’t she?’ It wasn’t just the dogginess that bothered her, she realised, it was the sense that someone was getting away with something. They had all had their luggage weighed to the last ounce, their food parcels restricted, and had been made to leave behind their favourite belongings. And this girl had had the gall to bypass it all.

‘No,’ said Margaret, her face darkening. ‘You heard the captain this morning. We’re still way too close to home. They’d put her off in a boat and send her back to Sydney and that would be the last I ever saw of her. I can’t take the risk. Not yet, anyway.’

‘We’ll keep it quiet,’ said Jean, stroking the little dog’s head. Avice thought that Jean would have been up for anything that smacked of subverting authority. ‘Won’t we, girls? It’ll be a gas. I’m going to sneak her a bit of dinner later.’

‘Avice?’ said Margaret. It was as if, Avice thought afterwards, she had already been earmarked as a killjoy.

‘I won’t say a word,’ she said, her voice strained. ‘Just keep her well away from me. And if you do get discovered, make sure you tell them it was nothing to do with us.’

6

Among the ship’s complement were about thirty-five to forty Royal Marines, their smartness in appearance and manner was usually in direct contrast to us ‘matelots’, and was the subject of some amused wonderment on our part . . . The brass buttons and spit and polished boots shone, they were so fastidious in their appearance.