The Ship of Brides

  Dobson leant forwards, his elbows resting on his knees. 'The women's officers tell me they're pretty sure there's movement at night. The one on B Deck had to break up a situation only last night.'

  'Fighting?'

  The two seated men glanced at each other, then at the captain.

  'No, sir. Er . . . physical contact between a bride and a rating.'

  'Physical contact?'

  'Yes, sir. He had hold of her round the - round the back of the bilge pump.'

  Highfield had suspected this might happen, had warned his superiors of it. Yet the reality struck him like a punch. The thought that, even as he sat there, such things were going on aboard his own ship . . .

  'I knew this would happen,' he said, and saw that the other two men seemed markedly less disturbed by it than he felt. In fact, Dobson looked as if he was trying to contain mirth. 'We'll have to post more marines outside the hangar area, the stokers' and seamen's messes.'

  'With respect, sir,' the marine captain interjected, 'my boys are on rotating seven-day shifts as it is, as well as all their other tasks. I can't ask them to do more. You saw how exhausted Nicol was, and he's not the only one.'

  'Do we really need them outside the men's messes?' said Dobson. 'If we've got marines keeping the brides in, plus the monitors doing the chastity rounds, surely that should be adequate?'

  'Well, it's obviously not, is it? Not if we're already breaking up petting parties and goodness knows what else. Look, we're only a week out of port. If we let it slip now, heaven knows where we'll end up.' He was besieged by images of fornicating couples in the flour store, of irate husbands and puce-faced admiralty.

  'Oh, come on, sir. I'd say it's important to keep it in perspective.'

  'What?'

  'There are bound to be a few hiccups to begin with, especially with so many crew new together, but it's nothing we can't manage. In fact, after the business with Indomitable, it's probably a good thing. It shows that the men are perking up a bit.'

  Until that point, perhaps through diplomacy or even a desire not to wound their captain further, no one had talked of the sunken ship - at least, not in relation to the men's morale. At the mention of its name Highfield's jaw tightened. It might have been reflexive. More likely it was because of who had spoken.

  As he gathered his thoughts, Dobson added silkily, 'If you'd rather, Captain, you could leave disciplinary matters to us. It would be sad, sir, if, because of a few youthful high jinks, you couldn't enjoy this last voyage a little.'

  In Dobson's barbed words, in his relaxed, confident manner, lay everything the men thought about Highfield now but would not say aloud. Once, Dobson would never have dared speak to him in this way. Highfield was so stunned by this barely veiled insubordination that he couldn't speak. When the steward arrived with his tea, he had to wait for several seconds before the captain noticed his presence.

  The marine captain, a more diplomatic sort, leant forward. 'I think, sir, that much of the problem this past week may have been to do with the conditions over the Bight,' he said. 'I believe that both the seamen and the women may have taken advantage of the fact that so many of the monitors were absent to increase the levels of - erm - interaction. Give it a few days more and the women will be less excitable and the men will have got used to having them around the place. I suspect things will settle down.'

  Highfield, now suspicious, studied the marine captain. There was a transparency in his expression visibly lacking in that of the man beside him. 'You think we should let things be?'

  'Yes, I do, sir.'

  'I agree, sir,' said Dobson. 'Best not to rattle things up too much at this stage.'

  Highfield ignored him. As he closed the ledger, he turned to the marine captain. 'Very well,' he said. 'We'll go softly for now. But I want to know everything, every footstep, that takes place below deck after ten p.m. Shake the monitors up - get them to use their eyes and ears. And if there is the slightest hint of misbehaviour - the slightest hint, mind - I want us to be down on it like a ton of bricks. I will not have anyone charge this voyage with lowering naval standards. Not under my command.'

  Dear Deanna,

  I hope you, Mother and Father are all well. I'm not sure when I will be able to post this, but I thought I would write and let you know a little of our voyage. It is all terribly exciting. I often think how much you would enjoy being here, and how surprising are the conditions we travel in, given my reservations.

  I have made three delightful new friends: Margaret, whose father owns a large estate not far from Sydney; Frances, who is terribly elegant and has been doing admirable things in nursing; and Jean. They are all so much more interesting than our old crowd. One girl here has brought fifteen pairs of shoes with her! I am very relieved that I was able to go shopping before I came on board. It is so nice to have new things, isn't it?

  My accommodation is situated in the largest part of the boat, a short distance from the part known as the bridge and the captain's 'sea cabin'. We are told there may well be some cocktail parties once we get to Gibraltar as it is entirely possible that several governors are coming aboard, so that is something to look forward to.

  The staff really cannot do enough for us. Every day they lay on new entertainments to keep us girls busy; needlework, dancing, all the latest films. I am off to watch National Velvet this afternoon. I don't believe it has reached Melbourne yet but, believe me, you must go when it does. The girls who have already seen it say Elizabeth Taylor is perfectly wonderful. The sailors are charming, and helpful, and are always bringing one little things to eat. And, Deanna, you would die for the food. It's as if no one had ever heard of rationing. Not quite the powdered egg we had all feared! So you can tell Mother and Father they do not need to worry in the slightest.

  There is a fully fitted hair salon at the far end of the ship. After I finish writing I think I might take a look. Perhaps I might even offer some help! Remember how Mrs Johnson always said no one could set hair like me? I shall have to find a decent salon as soon as I reach London. I shall, of course, let you know all about London. I am hoping to hear from Ian before we meet, as to the plans for our little holiday there.

  As I said, I hope my letter finds you all well, and please do pass on my happy news to the old crowd. Oh, yes, your little recital will have taken place by the time you get this. I trust it went well. I'll write again when I'm not so busy!

  Your loving sister

  Avice

  Avice was sitting in the small canteen on the flight deck, staring out of the salt-spattered window at the seagulls swooping alongside the ship and the bright skies beyond. For the half-hour it had taken her to write her letter, she had almost begun to believe in the version of the voyage she had created. So much so, in fact, that she had felt rather deflated when she signed off to find herself back in this rusting waterborne hangar, surrounded not by cocktail parties and adorable new friends but by the scarred noses of the aeroplanes on the deck, the shuffling, incoherent boys in their grubby overalls, the brine and salt, the smells of fried food, oil and rust.

  'Cup of tea, Avice?' Margaret was leaning over her, that huge belly almost resting on the wood-topped table. 'I'm going to get some. You never know, it might settle your stomach.'

  'No. Thank you.' Avice swallowed, then allowed herself to imagine the taste. An immediate wave of nausea confirmed her refusal. She was still having trouble coping with the pervasive droplets of jet fuel that seemed to follow her everywhere, clung to her clothes and in her nostrils. It didn't matter how much perfume she applied, she still felt she must smell like a mechanic.

  'You've got to have something.'

  'I'll have a glass of water. Perhaps a dry cracker, if they've got some.'

  'Poor old you, eh? Not many get it so bad.'

  There were three puddles in the middle of the floor. They reflected the light from the windows.

  'I'm sure I'll get over it soon enough.' Avice made sure to smile brightly. Very few troubles in life could
n't be lessened by a nice smile - that was what her mother always said.

  'I was like that in my early months with this.' Margaret patted her bump. 'Couldn't even keep down dry toast. I was really miserable. I'm surprised I didn't get as seasick as you and Jean.'

  'Would you mind if we talked about something else?'

  Margaret laughed. 'Sure thing. Sorry, Ave. I'll go and get the tea.'

  Ave. If Avice had been feeling less awful, she would have corrected her: there was nothing worse than an abbreviated name. But Margaret had already waddled off towards the counter, leaving her with Frances, an even more uncomfortable proposition.

  Over the past few days, Avice had decided there was something profoundly discomfiting about Frances. There was something watchful about her, as if even as she sat there in silence she was judging you. Even when she was being nice, bringing pills to make Avice feel less sick, checking that she wasn't too dehydrated, there was something reserved in her demeanour, as if there were elements of Avice that meant she did not want to engage too closely with her. As if she were something special!

  Margaret had told her that Frances had been turned down when she offered to work in the infirmary. The less generous-spirited part of Avice wondered what the Navy had felt was not fitting about the girl; the other thought how much easier life would have been without her hanging around all day, with her awkward conversation and serious face. She glanced at the tables of other girls, most of whom were chatting away as if they had known each other for years. They had settled into little cliques now, tight bands already impenetrable to outsiders. Avice, gazing at one particularly happy group, fought the urge to appeal to them, to demonstrate that she was not with this strange, severe girl by choice. But that, of course, would have been rude.

  'Have you anything planned for this afternoon?'

  Frances had been studying a copy of Daily Ship News. She looked up sharply with the guarded expression that made Avice want to yell, 'It isn't a trick question, you know.' Her pale red hair was pulled into a tight chignon. If she had been anyone else, Avice would have offered to do her something more flattering. She'd be pretty if she brightened herself up a little.

  'No,' said Frances. Then, when the ensuing silence threatened to overwhelm them both, 'I thought I might just sit here for a while.'

  'Oh. Well, I suppose the weather's improved, hasn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  'I thought the lecture sounded rather dull today,' said Avice. She abhorred a conversational vacuum.

  'Oh?'

  'Rationing and somesuch.' She sniffed. 'Frankly, once we get to England I plan to do as little cooking as possible.'

  Behind them a group of girls pushed back their chairs noisily and rose from their table, barely breaking their conversation.

  The two women watched them go.

  'Have you finished your letter?' Frances asked.

  Avice's hand closed over her writing-pad, as if its contents might somehow become visible. 'Yes.' It had come out sharper than she'd intended. She made a conscious effort to relax. 'It's to my sister.'

  'Oh.'

  'I've written two others this morning. One to Ian, and another to an old schoolfriend. She's the daughter of the McKillens?'

  Frances shook her head.

  Avice sighed. 'They're very big in property. I hadn't written to Angela since I left Melbourne . . . I don't know when we'll be able to post them, though. I'd love to know when I'll get one from Ian.' She examined her fingernails. 'I'm hoping it will be Ceylon. I've been told they might bring aboard post there.'

  She had dreamt of a fat little cushion of Ian's letters, waiting in some sweltering tropical post office. She would tie them with red ribbon and read them in private, luxuriously, one at a time, like someone enjoying a box of chocolates. 'It's rather strange,' she said, almost to herself, 'going all this way and not speaking for so long.' Her finger traced Ian's name on the envelope. 'Sometimes it all feels a bit unreal. Like I can't believe I married this man, and now I'm on this boat in the middle of nowhere. When you can't speak to them, it's hard to keep hold of the fact that it's all real.'

  Five weeks and four days since his last letter. The first she had received as a married woman.

  'I try to imagine what he's thinking now, because the worst thing about waiting so long for letters is that you know all the feelings are out of date. Things he might have been upset about then will have passed. Sunsets he described are long gone. I don't even know where he is. The one thing we all count on, I suppose, is that their feelings for us haven't changed, even if we're not speaking. I suppose that's our test of faith.'

  Her voice had dropped, become contemplative. She realised that for several minutes she had forgotten to feel sick. She sat up a bit. 'Don't you think?'

  Something odd happened to Frances's expression: it closed over, became neutral, mask-like. 'I suppose so,' she said.

  And Avice knew she might as well have said that the sky had gone green. She felt unbalanced and irritated, as if her gesture towards intimacy had been deliberately rebuffed. She was almost tempted to say something to that effect but at that moment Margaret waddled back to the table bearing a tea tray. Propped in her mug was a large vanilla ice-cream, the third she had eaten since they had sat there.

  'Listen to this, girls. Old Jean will love it. There's going to be a crossing-the-line ceremony. It's a sailors' tradition, apparently, about crossing the equator, and there's going to be all sorts of fun on the flight deck. The guy at the tea urn just told me.'

  Frances's rudeness was forgotten. 'Will we have to get dressed up?' Avice's hand had risen to her hair.

  'Dunno. I know nothing about it - they're going to post something on the main noticeboard later. But it'll be a laugh, right? Something to do?'

  'Ugh. I'm not joining in. Not with my stomach.'

  'Frances?' Margaret had bitten the top off her cone. A small blob of ice-cream was stuck to the tip of her nose.

  'I don't know.'

  'Ah, come on,' said Margaret. The chair creaked in protest as she sat down. 'Let your hair down, woman. Cut loose a little.'

  Frances gave her a tentative smile, showing small white teeth. She might even, Avice saw, with a start, be beautiful. 'Perhaps,' she said.

  Frances had thought she would resent the man outside. On the first night he had stood there, on the other side of their door, she had been unable to sleep, conscious of the stranger's proximity. Of her own state of undress, her vulnerability. Of the fact that, in theory at least, he was in authority over her. She had been acutely conscious of his every movement, every shift of his feet, every sniff or cough, the sound of his voice as it murmured a greeting or instruction to a passer-by. Occasionally, lying in the dark, she would ponder on his significance: his presence highlighted the fact that they were cargo, a consignment to be ferried safely from one side of the world to the other, in many cases from fathers to husbands, one set of men to another.

  Those heavy feet, that rigid stance, the rifle told her they were to be constrained, imprisoned, yet guarded, protected from the unknown forces below. Sometimes, when the nearness of so many people, so many strange men, teamed with their isolation made her feel anxious, she was glad that he was stationed outside the door. But more usually she resented him for making her feel like a possession, someone's property to be safeguarded.

  The others seemed to indulge in little such philosophical consideration. In fact, they didn't notice him; for them, like so much on board, he was part of the nightly furniture, someone to call good evening to, to smuggle the dog past, or even themselves, if they were tiptoeing downstairs to another party. As they were tonight. Margaret and Jean were off to meet Dennis for another poker session, chatting in surreptitious whispers as they brushed their hair, fiddled with stockings and shoes and, in Jean's case, borrowed everyone else's cosmetics. It was nearly nine, not late enough to confine them to their cabin, according to the curfew, but after both supper shifts: late enough to warrant a legitimate query about w
here they were going, should their movement be noticed.

  'You sure you won't come with us, Frances?' They had been to several parties now. Jean had stayed sober during at least one.

  Frances shook her head.

  'You don't need to behave like a nun.' Margaret finished doing up her shoe. 'I'm sure your old man won't mind you enjoying a bit of company, for goodness' sake.'

  'We won't tell,' said Jean, shaping her mouth into a moue as she reapplied her lipstick.

  Margaret lifted her dog on to what remained of her lap. 'You'll go nuts if you spend every evening in here, you know.'

  'They'll have to walk you off in a straitjacket when we get to Plymouth.' Jean cackled, tapping the side of her head with a forefinger. 'They'll think you've got kangaroos loose in the top paddock.'

  'I'll take my chances.' Frances smiled.

  'Avice?'

  'No, thank you. I'll rest this evening.' Avice's nausea had worsened again, and she lay, pale and limp, on her bunk, periodically lifting and lowering her book. 'If you could keep the dog well away from me I'd be grateful. Its smell is making me feel even worse.'

  They had not expected the marine to be standing outside. He had not been there the previous evening, and none of them had heard the footsteps that usually signalled his arrival. Jean, then Margaret, stopped dead in the doorway. 'Oh . . . we're just going for some fresh air,' said Margaret, speedily closing the door behind her.

  'We'll be back by eleven,' said Jean.

  'Or thereabouts.'

  Frances, who had stood up to retrieve her dressing-gown from a hanger, paused on the other side of the door, hearing the male voice, the surprise and slight strain in the women's.

  'I'd avoid the Black Squad, if that's how you like your fresh air,' he said now, so quietly that no one could be sure of what they'd heard.

  Frances leant closer to the door, her dressing-gown raised in the air.

  'The stokers' mess. Bit of a crackdown tonight,' he explained.