The Ship of Brides

  When she turned back Tims had disappeared. The injured man now sat lopsidedly on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.

  'You do know there are grave penalties for being in the men's area?'

  There was a heavy silence. The officer bent down, took in the state of the man, the fact that the other had vanished. Then she saw Jean. 'Oh, my goodness. Please don't tell me this is what I think it is.'

  'It's not,' said Margaret.

  The woman's eyes moved to her. 'Oh, my goodness,' she said again. 'The captain will have to be informed.'

  'Why? It wasn't us.' Avice had yelled to be heard over the engines. 'We only came to get Jean.'

  'Avice!' Frances was scrambling to her feet. She stood between the woman and Jean's prostrate form. 'Leave it to us. We'll get her back to her room.'

  'I can't do that. I've been told to report any parties, any drinking, any . . . misdemeanours. I'll need all your names.'

  'But it wasn't us!' said Avice, with a glance at Irene. 'It's only Jean who's disgraced herself!'

  'Jean?'

  'Jean Castleforth,' said Avice, desperately. 'We really are nothing to do with it. We just came down because we heard she was in trouble.'

  'Jean Castleforth,' said the woman. 'And yours?'

  'But I haven't so much as looked at another man! I don't even like alcohol!'

  'I said we'll take her home,' said Frances. 'I'm a nurse. I'll look after her.'

  'You're not suggesting I ignore this? Look at her!'

  'She's just--'

  'She's no better than a brass, is what she is!'

  'How dare you?' Frances was surprisingly tall when she stood straight. Her features had sharpened. Her fists, Avice noted, were balled. 'How dare you?'

  'Are you telling me they forced her to come down here?' The woman wrinkled her nostrils against the smell of alcohol on Jean's breath.

  'Why don't we all just--'

  Quivering with rage, Frances turned on Avice. 'Get out of here! Just get away from me. And listen, you - you women's officer, or whatever you are - you can't report her for this, you hear? It wasn't her fault.'

  'My orders are to report any misdemeanours.'

  'She's sixteen years old. They've obviously got her drunk and . . . abused her. She's sixteen!'

  'Old enough to know what she's doing. She shouldn't be down here. None of you should be.'

  'They got her drunk! Look at her! She's virtually unconscious! You think she should lose her reputation, possibly her husband, because of this?'

  'I don't--'

  'You can't ruin the girl's whole life because of one drunken moment!' Frances was standing over the woman now, some sense of barely concealed - what was it?

  Avice, shocked by this unrecognisable Frances, found herself instinctively stepping backwards.

  The officer could see it too: she had squared up a little, in a manner that suggested some defensive strategy. 'As I said, my orders are to--'

  'Oh, shut up about your bloody orders, you officious--'

  It was impossible to say why Frances, flushed and electric, had lifted her arm but Margaret was already pulling her backwards. 'Frances,' she was murmuring, 'calm down, okay? It's okay.'

  It was a few moments before Frances appeared to hear her. She was rigid, filled with tension. 'No, it's not okay. You've got to tell her,' she said, her eyes glittering.

  'But you're not helping her,' said Margaret. 'You hear me? You've got to back off.'

  Something in Margaret's eyes stayed Frances. She blinked several times, then let out a deep, shuddering breath.

  Irene's hand - she was still clutching the handkerchief - was shaking. As Avice looked away from it, the officer had turned and, as if grateful for the means of escape, was walking briskly, with purpose, down the passageway.

  'She's just a kid!' Frances yelled. But the woman was gone.

  11

  Congratulations to Mrs H. Skinner and Mrs H. Dill who both have wedding anniversaries this week. Mrs Skinner has been married two years and Mrs Dill a year and although this happy occasion may find them separated from their husbands we sincerely hope that this will be the last anniversary they will spend apart and wish them every happiness in their future life.

  'Celebration Time', Daily Ship News,

  from the papers of Avice R. Wilson, war bride,

  Imperial War Museum

  Eighteen days

  At sea, it was impossible to say at what time dawn broke, not because it varied from day to day, or continent to continent, but because across the flattened arc of a marine horizon the glowing crack that sheared into the darkness could be seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles away, long before it might be visible on land, long before it meant a new day. And, more importantly, because below decks, in a narrow passageway without windows or doors, without anything but artificial light, it was impossible to tell whether it had happened at all.

  This was one, but not the only, reason Henry Nicol did not like the hour between five and six in the morning. Once he had enjoyed the early watch, when the seas had been new and magical to him, when, unused to living in such close quarters with other men, he had relished the quietest time aboard ship: those last dark minutes before the ship segued into the mechanics of its day and woke, by degrees, around him. The one time he could imagine himself the only person in the world.

  Later, when he had been home on leave and the children were babies, one or both would inevitably wake at this time, and he would hear his wife slide heavily out of bed, half seeing, if he chose to open an eye, her hand reaching unconsciously to her pin curls, the other reaching for her dressing-gown as she whispered, 'Hold on, Mother's coming.' He would turn over, pinned to his pillow by the familiar mix of guilt and impatience, aware even in half-sleep of his own failure to feel what he should for the woman padding across the linoleum: gratitude, desire, even love.

  For some time now 0500 had become not the herald of a new dawn but a bald figure of timing for conversion: in America, it would be five o'clock the previous evening. And in America, his 1900 hours would be waking-up time for his boys. But this time the distance in geography would be only half of it: their whole lives would be running on different time lines. He had often wondered how they would remember him, if they could not imagine him existing half a day, even a whole day ahead. Now there would be no more thinking of them in the present tense, imagining, as he sometimes did, They'll be having breakfast now. They'll be brushing their teeth. They might be outside, playing with a ball, a car, the wagon I made for them from bits of wood. Now he would think of them historically.

  Some other man's hands throwing the ball.

  On the other side of the steel door a woman murmured in sleep, her voice rising as if in a question. Then silence.

  Nicol stared at his watch, adjusted the previous day as they entered another time zone. My hours are speeding towards nothing, he thought. No home, no sons, no heroic return. I have given up my best years and watched my friends freeze, drown and burn. I have given up my innocence, my friends their lives, so that I might grieve for what I was never sure I even wanted. At least, until it was too late.

  Nicol leant back, hardened his mind against the familiar thoughts, trying to dislodge the huge weight that had settled upon him, that pulled on his heart and lungs. Willing the last hour to pass faster. Willing the dawn to come.

  'Off caps!'

  The paymaster failed to look up as the seaman stepped forward, swivelled his cap from his head and laid it on the table before him. The two men at his side were flicking through drawers of banknotes, passing each other handwritten slips.

  'Andrews, sir. Air mechanic, first class. Seven two two one nine seven two. Sir.'

  As the younger man stood expectantly before him, the paymaster flipped pages, then ran his finger swiftly down his accounts book. 'Three pounds twelve shillings.'

  'Three pounds twelve shillings,' repeated the paymaster's assistant, beside him.

  The mechanic cleared his
throat. 'Sir - with respect, sir - that's less than we were getting before Australia, sir.'

  The paymaster wore the expression of one who had heard every complaint, every financial try-on not once but several thousand times. 'We were serving in the Pacific, Andrews. You were getting extra pay for operating in a war zone. Would you like us to organise a couple of kamikaze guests to warrant your extra two shillings?'

  'No, sir.'

  'No . . . Don't spend it all ashore. And steer clear of those women. Don't want a queue outside the sick bay in two days' time, do we, lads?'

  The money was counted, pushed across the table. The cap was replaced on the mechanic's head and he walked off, a little pink, counting the notes between keen fingers.

  'Off caps!'

  'Nicol.'

  Lost in the gentle rhythm of the line that snaked along what remained of the hangar deck, he heard his name spoken twice before he registered it. He was bleary from another night of lost sleep and deep in unwelcome thoughts.

  Tims, a broad, taut figure, stood beside him, smoking, for several seconds before he spoke again. Nicol knew him as a bluff man, one of those larger-than-life sorts who liked to be thought of as a 'mess character'. There were rumours that he was involved in money-lending, and those who fell foul of him often became terribly accident prone. Nicol had tended instinctively to steer clear of him, recognising that with someone like Tims it was often better not to get too close or, indeed, know too much. One neither wanted to make an enemy of him nor find oneself indebted to him. These men, with their strange charisma, their intricately built power bases, were to be found on every ship. It was, he supposed, inevitable in a self-contained world that relied on silence and hierarchy.

  Now, however, Tims was subdued; when he spoke, his words were careful and considered. There might be a bit of bad blood between the seamen and the stokers, he said. There had been an incident with a woman a couple of nights ago. He had shaken his head as he said this, as if even he could not believe the foolishness of the Aussie girls. Things, he said, had got a little out of hand.

  Such a bald admission was out of character. And at first Nicol wondered if he was asking him obliquely to make an arrest. But before he had a chance to ask why this should be of any more than passing interest to him, Tims spoke again: 'It's your lot who were involved.'

  Your lot. What a strange, almost familial intimacy the phrase suggested. Nicol had felt a flush of incomprehension that the reserved bride who had chatted with him that evening might have been the cause of some kind of drunken fracas. That was women for you, he thought bitterly. Unable to stay faithful - sober, even - for a six-week voyage.

  Then Tims, a bloodsoaked bandage visible round his knuckles, explained further. It had not been the tall girl, Frances, but the young silly one Nicol had spoken to on his first watch. The one who was always giggling. Jean.

  He was somehow less shocked and, although disturbed by what he heard, felt something that might have been relief. Frances hadn't seemed the type. Too awkward in company. Too self-conscious. He supposed he wanted to believe that there were still good women out there. Women who knew how to behave.

  Women who understood the notion of loyalty.

  'I need you to do us a favour, Marine. I can't go along there, obviously.' Here Tims jerked a thumb towards the cabins. 'Just make sure Maggie's all right, will you? The one who's expecting. She's a nice girl, and she was a bit shocked. What with her condition and all . . . Well, I don't like to think of her being troubled.'

  'She'll go to the sick bay if she's shook up, surely.'

  Tims grimaced. 'To see that idiot? He's been drunk as a skunk every day he's been on board so far. I wouldn't trust him with a splinter.' Tims stubbed out his cigarette. 'No. I think it would be a good idea if you kept an eye on her. And if anyone says anything, the girls were in their bunks all night. Right?'

  It was not the norm for a marine to be addressed in such a way by a stoker. And something in Tims's tone might normally have caused Nicol to bristle. But he suspected this unusual confidence was prompted by chivalry, perhaps even genuine concern, and he let it go. 'No problem,' he said.

  Now he thought back, there had been some subtle change in atmosphere that evening. From the other side of the door he had heard none of the usual intermittent conversation, but instead urgent whispering. At one point, there had been the sound of crying, a brief argument. The tall girl had been out three times 'for water' and barely muttered a hello. He had assumed it was one of those bouts of feminine hysteria. They had been warned that such things could happen once they were on board, especially with the women unused to living at close quarters.

  'I tell you,' Tims was saying, 'Thompson's lucky I didn't get to that spanner first.'

  'Spanner?' He glanced behind him.

  'One of the girls had it. The tall one. By all accounts it was her who got the bastard off. Gave him a good crack on the shoulder, then tried to stove his head in for good measure.' Tims laughed humourlessly. 'You've got to hand it to these Aussie girls, they're not short of balls. You couldn't imagine an English girl doing the same, could you?' He took a long drag of his cigarette. 'Then again, I suppose you wouldn't get an English girl heading below decks with a load of foreign johnnies.'

  'Don't be too sure,' muttered Nicol, and regretted it.

  'Anyway, I'm going to lie low for a bit. The mess is closed to visitors for a while. But tell Mags I'm sorry. If I'd got to her little mate first . . . well, it wouldn't have happened.'

  'Where's Thompson?' said Nicol. 'In case they ask. Is he in custody?'

  Tims shook his head.

  'Shouldn't we be taking him in?'

  'Think about it, Nicol. If we haul him in for what he's done, the girl gets done too, right? The WSO who came down didn't have a clue, only got Jean's name. But little Jean's not going to tell the truth about what went on. Not if she wants to get to Blighty and her old man without a fuss, which I'm pretty sure she does.' He stubbed out his cigarette. ''Sides, I'm sure you don't want a fuss made about your girls getting into trouble. Can't look good on you, can it? Them all being down in the engine rooms that close to the start of your watch . . .' He kept his voice soft, at odds with the implied threat in his words. 'I'm just letting you know, out of courtesy, like, that me and the boys will deal with Thompson and his shabby little mate our way. Even if we have to wait till we're ashore.'

  'It'll get out,' said Nicol. 'You know it will.'

  Tims glanced behind him at the long queue. When he turned back, his eyes held something that made Nicol feel vague pity for the unknown offender. 'Not if everyone keeps their gobs shut it won't.'

  Margaret leant over the rail as far as her belly would allow, and hauled up the wicker basket, murmuring to herself as it bumped off the sides of the ship. Below her, in the glinting waters, lithe brown boys dived over the sides of their small craft for coins that the sailors threw from the deck. Alongside them slim canoes, hollowed from single tree-trunks, wobbled under the movements of thin, tanned men holding armfuls of trinkets. The port of Colombo, Ceylon, shimmered in the heat, punctuated by the occasional tall building and set behind with dense, dark forest.

  There had been several reported cases of smallpox and it had been announced earlier that it was not considered wise for the women to go ashore. Here, anchored in the clear blue waters several hundred feet from shore, was as close as they were going to get to Ceylon.

  Margaret, who had been desperate to leave the ship, who had spent days anticipating the feel of solid earth under her feet, had been furious. 'Your man at the PX says they're still going to allow the men ashore so it's okay for us to catch the bloody smallpox off our own.' She had almost wept with the unfairness of it.

  'I suppose it's because the men are inoculated,' said Frances. Margaret chose not to hear her.

  Perhaps in consolation, one of the storemen had lent them a cable to which he had attached a basket. They were to lower it and pull it up when it was full, so they could examine the goods
at their leisure. He had pointed out two other warships anchored in the harbour, where she could see clusters of little boats involved in the same activity. 'French and American. You'll find most of the traders end up round the Americans.' He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, grinning and raising an eyebrow. 'If you can swing your basket that far you might get yourself some new stockings.'

  'This batch looks good, girls. Get your purses ready.'

  Margaret, puffing with exertion, brought the basket carefully over the rail, then placed it on the floor of the gun turret where they were seated. She rummaged through, holding up beads, strings of shell and coral that rippled through her fingers. 'Mother-of-pearl necklace, anyone? Better than that thing with all the chicken rings, eh, Jean?' Jean raised a thin smile. She had been silent all morning. Before the 'wakey-wakey' call, Margaret had heard her exchanging whispered words with Frances. Then they had disappeared to the bathroom for some time. Frances had taken her medical kit. No one had talked of what might have taken place, and Margaret hadn't liked to ask, wasn't sure even of the question. But now, pale and subdued, looking frighteningly young, Jean sat mutely between them. When she walked, she did so gingerly.

  'Look, Jean. This would go well with your blue dress. See how the mother-of-pearl catches the light.'

  'Nice,' said Jean. She lit another cigarette, her shoulders hunched around her ears as if she were cold, despite the heat.

  'We should get something for poor old Avice. Might make her feel better.'

  She heard her voice, determinedly cheerful, and in the answering silence the suggestion that Frances might not want Avice to feel better.

  There had been a terrible argument between the two after they had returned to the cabin the previous night. Frances, her normal reserve dissolved, had screamed at Avice that she was selfish, a traitor, merely concerned with saving her own skin. Avice, flushed with guilt, had retorted that she couldn't see why she should jeopardise her future because Jean had the morals of an alleycat. They would have found out her name in the end. Her own temper had been sharpened because her friend Irene had vanished. It had been all Margaret could do to stop the pair coming to blows. The following morning, when Avice had left the cabin, the others had assumed they would probably not see her again that day.