Ship of Brides (49 page)

‘Think you can limp into harbour?’

Highfield sat in the bridge, watching the grey skies clear to reveal patches of pure blue, as if in apology for the evening before. ‘We’re less than a day away. We’ve got one working engine. I don’t see why not.’

‘Sounds like the old girl suffered a bit.’ McManus’s voice was low. ‘And a little bird tells me you were a little too stuck in for comfort.’

Highfield dismissed thoughts of armament clamps and his raw throat. He took another swig of the honey and lemon that his steward had prepared for him. ‘Fine, sir. Nothing to worry about. The men . . . looked after me.’

‘Good man. I’ll take a look at your report. Glad you were able to bring it all under control – without frightening the ladies too much, I mean.’ His laugh echoed tinnily down the wire.

Highfield stepped out of the bridge, and stood on the flight deck. At the aft end, a row of men were making their way slowly along it, scrubbing off traces of the smoke that had filtered upwards, their buckets of grey, foaming water slopping as they went. They worked around the areas that had buckled, which were not safe to walk on. Several marines had been busy constructing barriers around them. The damage was visible, but it was all orderly. When they sailed into Plymouth, Highfield’s ship would be under control.

He had not lost a single one.

No one was close enough to hear the shaking breath that Highfield slowly let out as he turned to go back into the bridge. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

At least a hundred women had queued patiently by the main hatch since breakfast, waiting to be allowed back to their cabins. There had been hushed conversations about the state of their belongings, fears for cherished and carefully chosen arrival outfits now perhaps wrecked by water and smoke. Although there was no obvious damage on this deck, a brush against a wall or bunk left one with a shadow that revealed everything was veiled with a fine layer of soot. As they stood and talked, quieting for every piped instruction in case it heralded their being allowed in, more women drifted towards the queue.

Margaret, heavily pregnant and cumbersome as she was, tore through the hatch the minute it was opened, and was already in her cabin by the time the other brides had made it to the bottom of the stairwell. ‘Maudie! Maudie!’

The door had been open. She knelt down and peered under the two bottom bunks. ‘Maudie!’ she cried.

‘Have you tried the canteen? There’s a lot of them still up there.’ A WSO had stuck her head briefly round the door. Margaret turned and stared at her perplexed, until she realised the woman thought she was looking for another bride.

‘Maudie!’ She checked under every blanket, lifting bedrolls and tearing the sheets from the bunks in her desperation. Nothing. She was not in the beds, in any of the bags. She was not even in Margaret’s hat, traditionally her place of comfort.

Margaret was hit with the scale of the search ahead at the exact moment she heard the scream. She stood very still for a minute, and then, as someone else cried, ‘What on earth is it?’ she threw herself out of the door and lumbered down the passageway to the bathrooms.

Afterwards she thought she had probably known even before she got there. It was the only other place Maudie knew on the ship, the only other place she must have thought she might find Margaret. She stood in the doorway, staring at the girls gathered by the sinks. She followed their eyes to the little dog lying pressed against the back of the door, several dark streaks on the tiled wall where she must have tried to scrabble her way out.

Margaret stepped forward and fell to her knees on the damp floor. A great sob escaped her. The dog’s limbs were stiff, the body cold. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’

Margaret’s face crumpled like a child’s. She gathered the little dog’s body into her arms. ‘Oh, Maudie, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’

She stayed there for some minutes, kissing the wet hair, trying to will the body into life, knowing that it was hopeless.

She did not actually cry, those watching reported, just sat, holding the dog, as if absorbing some great pain.

Eventually, at the point where the anxious glances around her became whispers, she peeled off her cardigan and folded the dog into it. Then, with a grunt, one hand on the smudged wall, she got to her feet. She held the bundle close to her, as one would hold a baby.

‘Would you . . . would you like me to fetch someone?’ A woman laid a hand on her arm.

She didn’t seem to hear.

Crying bitterly, Margaret walked back along the passageway, clasping her swaddled burden. Those who were not preoccupied with their own smoked belongings peered into it, curious about this baby’s identity.

An uneasy hush had descended on the ship. Those women returning to their cabins did not chatter with relief, even though the worst damage to anyone’s belongings had been a coating of soot. The night had shown them the precariousness of their position, and it had shaken them. The voyage was no longer an adventure. There was not one who wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by an ache to be home. Whatever that turned out to be.

The WSO placed a hand under her arm as Frances lifted herself on to the bed, surprised by how tired that small act made her feel. The woman pulled a blanket over her, then made to adjust the other round her shoulders. The marine removed his own supporting arm, and let go of her hand with a hint of reluctance. She caught his eye and her exhaustion briefly disappeared.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, to the WSO. ‘Thank you, but really I am. I’d be just as good in my own bunk.’

‘Dr Duxbury says anyone who’s been in the water needs to spend a few hours under observation. You might have hypothermia.’

‘I can assure you I haven’t.’

‘Orders are orders. You’ll probably be out by teatime.’ The WSO moved to Avice’s bed, tucking in her blankets in a brisk, maternal gesture that reminded Frances suddenly of the hospital at Morotai. But they were in a side room off the infirmary, some kind of detergent store, Frances guessed, from the boxes around them and the pervasive smell of bleach. There were charts on the walls, with lists of supplies, and locked cabinets containing items that might be flammable. Frances shivered.

‘Sorry about the room,’ the WSO was saying. ‘We need the infirmary for the men who inhaled smoke, and we couldn’t have you mixing. This was the only place we could put you two. Only for a few hours, though, eh?’

The marine, inches from her bed, was staring at her. Frances felt the warmth of his eyes and savoured it. She could still feel the imprint of his arm round her as he half walked, half carried her back on board, his head so close to hers that, if she had inclined her neck a little further, she could have felt his skin against hers.

‘Now, Mrs Radley, are you comfortable?’

‘Fine,’ Avice said, into her pillow.

‘Good. I’ve got to pop next door and get the men comfortable, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ve brought you some nice clean clothes to change into. I’ll put them just here.’ She placed the carefully folded pile on a small cabinet. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies could do with a cup of tea. Marine, would you do the honours? It’s chaos downstairs and I don’t want to have to fight my way to the galley.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

She felt his hand, the brief squeeze, and for a second she forgot about this room, about Avice, the fire. She was on a lifeboat, her eyes locked on to this man’s, saying everything she had ever wanted to say, everything she had never believed she would want to say, without uttering a word.

‘I’ll take a look at those cuts later,’ she murmured to him, and fought the urge to touch his face. She imagined how his skin would feel under her fingertips, the tenderness with which she would care for the bruised flesh.

He glanced behind him as he walked towards the door. Smiled when he saw she was still watching him, one hand raised unconsciously to her hair.

‘I don’t suppose you particularly want to be stuck with me, do you?’ As he closed the door, Avice’s voice cut into the silence.

Reluctantly, Frances brought her thoughts to the woman in front of her. ‘I don’t mind who I’m with,’ she replied coolly.

It was as if their hours in the lifeboat had never happened, as if Avice, uncomfortable at having been rescued by this woman, was now determined to restore the distance between them.

‘I’ve got a stomach-ache. This bodice is too tight. Will you help me out of it?’

Avice slid slowly out of her bed, her hair separated into pale, salted fronds. Frances helped her out of the ruined party dress, the stiff girdle and brassière, with impersonal care. It was only as she helped Avice back on to the bed that she saw the mark spreading slowly across the back of the peach silk robe. She stooped to pick up the soiled dress and saw further evidence. She waited until Avice had lain down, then stood stiffly beside her. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding.’

In the little room, piled high with boxes, they examined the robe in silence. Avice took it off and stared at the ruby stain, which was even now making its way on to the sheet. She saw in Frances’s face what it meant. There was no visible change in her demeanour. She accepted the clean towel that Frances fetched without comment.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Frances, a pebble of discomfort lodged inside her. ‘It – it may have been the shock of the water.’ She had been prepared for Avice to scream at her, that she might relish the chance to add this lost child to Frances’s list of supposed sins. But she said nothing, just acceded to Frances’s quiet requests to lie still, put this towel there, take a painkiller or two.

Finally she spoke. ‘Just as well, really,’ she said. ‘Poor little bastard.’

There was a brief, shocked silence, as if even she was surprised by her choice of words.

Frances’s eyes widened.

Avice shook her head. Then suddenly, lurching up and forward like somebody choking, she began to wail. Racking sobs filled the little room and she sank back on to the narrow bed, her face buried in the sheet, the muffled noise passing through her as if with seismic tremors.

Frances dropped the dress, clambered quietly on to Avice’s bed and sat beside her, stunned. She stayed there for some time until, unable to bear the terrible sound any longer, she put her arms round the girl and held her. Avice neither pushed her away nor leant in to her. It was as if she was so locked into her own private unhappiness that she did not know Frances was there.

‘It will be all right,’ Frances said, not knowing if she could justify her words. ‘It will be all right.’

It was some time before the sobbing subsided. Frances fetched more painkillers from the dispensary and a sedative, in case it proved necessary. When she returned, Avice was lying back against the wall, a pillow propped under her. She wiped her eyes, then gestured to Frances to pass her her dress, from which she pulled a piece of tattered, damp paper. ‘Here, you can read this properly now,’ she said.

‘Not Wanted Don’t Come?’

‘No. Oh, he wants me, all right . . .’

Avice thrust it towards her and, conscious that they had traversed some barrier, Frances took it and this time read properly the bits that had not run in the waters of the Atlantic.

I should have told you this a long time ago. But I love you, darling, and I couldn’t bear the thought of your sad face when I told you, or the slightest possibility of losing you . . . Please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not asking you not to come. You need to know that the relationship between me and my wife is far more like brother and sister than anything. You, my darling, mean far more to me than she ever could . . .

I want you to know I meant every word I said in Australia. But you must understand – the children are so young, and I am not the type to take my responsibilities lightly. Perhaps when they are a little older we can think again?

So, I know I’m asking a lot of you, but just think about this in your days left on board. I’ve got a fair bit put away, and I could set you up in a lovely little place in London. And I can be with you a couple of nights a week, which, when you think of it, is more than most wives see their men in the Navy . . .

Avice, you always said that us being together was all that mattered. Prove to me, darling, that this was the truth . . .

As Frances digested the final words, she didn’t know whether she should look Avice full in the face. She did not want her to think she was gloating. ‘What will you do?’ she said carefully.

‘Go home, I suppose. I couldn’t while there was . . . but now, I suppose, it can be like nothing happened. None of it happened. My parents didn’t want me to come anyway.’ Her voice was thin and cold.

‘You will be all right, you know.’

In her reaction to this, there was just a hint then of the old Avice: the superciliousness that told Frances that what she had said, what she was, were worthless. Avice dropped the letter on to the bedcover. The way she looked at Frances now was naked, unembarrassed. ‘How do you carry on living,’ she asked, ‘with all that hanging over you? All that disgrace?’

Frances understood that, for once, the words were not as harsh as they sounded. Beneath Avice’s pallid complexion, there was genuine curiosity in her eyes. She chose her words carefully. ‘I suppose I’ve discovered . . . we all carry something. Some burden of shame.’

Frances reached under the girl, pulled out the towel and checked the size of the stain. She hid it discreetly, then handed her another.

Avice shifted on the bed. ‘And yours has been lifted. Because you found someone prepared to take you on. Despite your – your history.’

‘I’m not ashamed of who I am, Avice.’

Frances picked up the soiled items for the WSO to take to the laundry. Then she sat down on the bed. ‘You might as well know. I’ve done one thing in my life that I’m ashamed of. And that wasn’t it.’

The Australian Army Nursing Service had set up a recruiting depot in Wayville, near the camp hospital. She had been a trainee nurse for some time at the Sydney Showground Hospital, had worked for a good family in Brisbane to finance her training, and now, single, medically fit, without dependants and with a glowing reference from her matron, the newly formed Australian General Hospital was keen to take her. She had had to lie about her age, but the knowing look the CO had given her when she calculated her new date of birth told her she wasn’t the first. There was a war on, after all.