Ship of Brides (40 page)

‘I just want a bloody seat,’ Margaret muttered. ‘I don’t care about sightseeing or shopping. I just want dry land and a bloody seat.’

‘Do you really think you should use so much bad language?’ Avice murmured. ‘It’s really not becoming to hear it from someone in . . . your . . .’

It was then, as Avice’s voice tailed away, that Margaret became aware of a shushing. She wondered what had caused it. Following the others’ gaze, she turned to see Frances walking down the gangplank behind them. She was dressed in a pale blue blouse, buttoned to the neck, and khaki trousers. She wore her wide-brimmed sunhat and glasses, but her red-gold hair and long limbs confirmed her identity.

She hesitated at the bottom, conscious perhaps of the quiet. Then, seeing Margaret’s hand held aloft, she made her way through the women to where Margaret and Avice stood. As she moved, girls stepped back from her like parting seas.

‘Changed your mind, then?’ Margaret was conscious of her voice booming into the silence.

‘Yes,’ said Frances.

‘It’d drive you nuts to stay aboard too long, eh?’ Margaret looked at Avice. ‘Especially in heat like this.’

Frances stood very still, her eyes fixed on Margaret. ‘It is pretty close,’ she said.

‘Well, I vote we find some bar or hotel where we can—’

‘She’s not walking around with us.’

‘Avice!’

‘People will talk. And goodness knows what might happen – for all we know her former customers are walking the streets. They might think we’re one of those . . .’

‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Frances is perfectly welcome to walk with us.’

Margaret was aware that all the women around them were listening. Bunch of chattering harpies, that was what her dad would have called them. Surely nothing Frances had done, whatever her past, warranted such treatment?

‘You, perhaps,’ said Avice. ‘I’ll find someone else to walk with.’

‘Frances,’ Margaret said, daring any of the women to speak again, ‘you’re welcome to walk with me. I’d be glad of the company.’

It was hard to tell from behind her sunglasses, but Frances appeared to glance sideways at the sea of closed faces.

‘You can help me find somewhere nice to sit down.’

‘Just watch out she doesn’t find somewhere to lie down.’

Frances’s head shot round and her fingers tightened on her handbag.

‘Come on,’ Margaret said, holding out her hand. ‘Let’s hit the old Gateway of India.’

‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Ah, come on! You might never get another chance to see India.’

‘No. Thank you. I – I’ll see you later.’ Before Margaret had a chance to say any more she had disappeared back through the crowd.

The women closed ranks, murmuring in righteous indignation. Margaret watched the distant gangplank, just able to make out the tall thin figure walking slowly up it. She waited until it had vanished inside. ‘That was mean, Avice.’

‘I’m not horrid, Margaret, so you needn’t look at me like that. I’m just honest. I’m not having my one trip ashore ruined by that girl.’ She straightened her hair, then placed a sunhat carefully on her head. ‘Besides, in our condition, I think it’s best if we keep our worries to a minimum. It can’t be good for us.’

The queue had moved on. Avice linked her arm with Margaret’s and walked her swiftly towards a gharry.

Margaret knew she should go to Frances: by even participating in this outing she had condoned Frances’s treatment. But she was desperate to feel land under her feet. And it was so difficult to know what to say.

With only a handful of brides left aboard, the ship had become a maelstrom of focused activity: teams of ratings prowled decks normally closed to men, scrubbing, painting and polishing. Several were on their knees on the flight deck, fighting with foam and wooden brushes to rid the grey concrete of its lingering rainbow puddles of aviation fuel. Small tugs unloaded huge crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, feeding them through hatches into the hold, while on the other side the tankers began to refuel the ship.

In other circumstances, Frances might have enjoyed the sight of the ship at work, fully engaged in its normal course of duties. Now she took in the smirk of the duty officer at the top of the gangplank, the knowing glance he exchanged with his mate as she re-embarked, showing him her station card. She saw the lingering glances of the painting parties, the lowered eyes and muttered greeting of the officer who had previously wished her a cheerful good morning.

Over the last few days she had wondered at how it was possible to feel so lonely in a ship so full of people.

She was a few steps away from the little dormitory when she saw him. She had told herself that her previous outings around the ship had been to give herself some fresh air; to make herself leave the sweaty confines of the cabin. Now, as she recognised the man walking towards her, she knew she had not been honest with herself.

She glanced down at her clothes, unconsciously checking herself as she had once done while on duty, feeling her skin prickle with a mixture of anxiety and anticipation. She was unsure of what she could possibly say to him. She knew he would have to say something now: they were too close for him not to.

They stopped. Looked at each other for just the briefest moment, then stared at their feet.

‘Going ashore?’ He indicated the harbour.

She could see nothing on his face, no clue. Should I be grateful for the mere fact that he has spoken to me at all? she wondered. ‘No . . . I – I decided to stay here.’

‘Enjoy the peace and quiet.’

‘Something like that.’

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to talk to her but was too gentlemanly to hurt her feelings.

‘Well . . . as much peace as you can find with . . . with this . . .’ He gestured to where a party of engineers were repairing some piece of equipment high up, joking noisily with each other as they worked.

‘Yes,’ she said. She could think of nothing else to say.

‘You should make the most of it,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . hard to find a bit of space to yourself on board. I mean real space . . .’

Perhaps he might understand more than he was saying, she thought. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is.’

‘I—’

‘Hey, Marine.’

The rating walked towards them, holding out a note, his cap pulled at a jaunty angle over one eye. ‘They want you in the control room before your watch. Briefing for the governor’s visit.’ As he came closer she could see he had recognised her. The look the younger man gave her as he handed over the note made her wince. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, cheeks reddening.

As she turned away, she half hoped he might ask her to wait a moment. That he might say something, that told her he didn’t see her as the rest of them did. Say something, she willed him. Anything.

Moments later she wrenched open the door to the dormitory and let it shut heavily behind her. She leant against it, her back sticking through her blouse to its unforgiving surface. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that it ached. She had never thought until now about life’s fairness, at least not in relation to herself. Her patients had suffered, and she had occasionally questioned why God could take one or leave another in such pain. She had never wondered about the fairness of her own experiences: she had long ago discovered that it was better not to think about those years. But now, with all the other emotions swirling around inside her in some infernal cocktail, she felt the pendulum swing from bleak despair to blind fury at the way her life had turned out. Had she not suffered enough? Was this, and not what she had seen in the war, the real test of her resolve? How much more was she expected to pay for?

Maude Gonne, perhaps understanding that Margaret had gone ashore, scratched restlessly at the door. Frances stooped, picked her up and sat down with her on her lap.

The dog took no comfort from this. In fact she paid Frances no attention. Frances sat there stroking, gazing at the milky, unseeing eyes, the quivering body desperate for only one person.

Frances held the dog close to her, pitying her plight. ‘I know,’ she whispered, laying her cheek against the soft head. ‘Believe me, I know.’

Accustomed to the intense heat of Bombay, and oblivious to the huge fans that whirred overhead, the waiters in the cocktail bar of Green’s Hotel were visibly perspiring. The sweat glistened on their burnished faces and seeped into the collars of their immaculate white uniforms. But their discomfort was less to do with the heat – it was a relatively mild evening – than the endless demands of the hundred or so brides who had chosen that bar to end their day’s shore leave.

‘If I have to wait one more minute for my drink I swear I’ll have words with that man,’ said Avice, wafting the fan she had bought that afternoon and eyeing the unfortunate waiter as he ducked through the crowd, tray held aloft. ‘I’m wilting,’ she said, to his departing back.

‘He’s doing his best,’ said Margaret. She had been careful to sip her drink slowly, having guessed from the packed bar that service was likely to be slow. She was feeling restored: she had been able to elevate her feet for half an hour, and now let her head rest on the back of the chair, enjoying the light breeze created by the overhead fan.

It was the same everywhere: in Greens, the Bristol Grill, the grand Taj Mahal hotel; a combination of the
Victoria
and several troopships landing at once had swamped the harbour area with would-be revellers, men made gay and reckless by the end of the war and their increasing proximity to home. They had looked in at several places before deciding that at Green’s they might get a seat. Now, from their vantage-point on the veranda, they could look back through the archway at the dance area, which was now populated by men and women casting hopeful – and sometimes covetous – looks in the direction of the tables. Some of the brides had begun drinking John Collins and rum punches at lunchtime and were now feeling the effects of their encroaching hangovers. They seemed listless and vaguely discontented, their makeup sliding down their faces and their hair limp.

Margaret felt no guilt at hogging her seat. Heedless of the heat and dust, and of her own oft-stated ‘delicate condition’, Avice had dragged her everywhere that afternoon. They had walked around all the European shops, spent at least an hour in the Army and Navy Stores and another bartering with the men and small boys who besieged them with apparently unmissable bargains. Margaret had swiftly grown tired of haggling; it felt wrong to hold out for the odd rupee faced with the abject poverty of the salesmen. Avice, however, had leapt into it with astonishing enthusiasm, and spent much of the evening holding aloft her various purchases and exclaiming at the prices.

Margaret had been overwhelmed by the little they had seen of Bombay. She had been shocked at the sight of Indians bedding down in the street, at their seeming indifference to their conditions. At their thin limbs next to her own milk-fed plumpness, at their physical disabilities and barely dressed children. It made her feel ashamed for the nights she had moaned about the discomfort of her bunk.

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.