The Ship of Brides

  Dear George,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and that your leg is much recovered. I was not sure that you received my last letter as I have not had a reply for so long. I have taken the liberty of numbering this one so that you might tell which order mine were sent in. We are all well here in Tiverton. The garden is looking simply lovely, and my new borders are filling out nicely. Patrick is working hard, as always, and has taken on a new chap to help him with some of the bigger accounts. That will bring his total staffing to five, which is quite a tally for these thin years.

  I am rather anxious to hear from you, George, as I have asked you several times now whether you want to take up the rental of the cottage on the edge of the Hamworth estate. I have spoken to Lord Hamworth personally (we have met occasionally at his wife's social gatherings) and he has said he is happy to consider you, with your glowing service record, but he does need to know soon, dear, as other people have indicated an interest. There is a retired teacher next door, Mrs Barnes, a nice sort, from Cheltenham. And we have already lined up a lady to do for you, so you need not worry about your hot dinners!

  And as I have mentioned before, Patrick is quite happy to introduce you to the better side of Tiverton society - he is a not inconsiderable force in the local Rotary Club and could make sure you have an 'in' with the right sort around here. Now that you will have some more time at your disposal, perhaps you might like to join the local car club? Or even do a bit of yachting? I'm sure you will want to carry on 'messing about in boats', even in your twilight years.

  Another retired serviceman and his wife have just moved in locally, although I think he might be RAF, so you would have someone to exchange your 'war stories' with. He is a quiet sort - said hardly a word to me in the lane! - and seems to have something wrong with his eye. I assume it is a war injury, but Marjorie Latham swears he is winking at her.

  I must go now, George. But I thought I should let you know that our sister is a little better. She says to tell you she is grateful for all you did, and hopes to be able to write herself soon. She has borne her loss so bravely.

  I pray, as always, that your voyage is a safe one.

  Your loving sister

  Iris

  Captain Highfield sat in his rooms, one steadying hand on his lead-crystal wine-glass as he read the letter he had put off opening since Sydney, a fork raised absently to his mouth. It had remained there, in mid-air, for several paragraphs now, and when he reached the end of the letter he put it down, then pushed away the congealing gammon steak and boiled potatoes.

  He had been rather glad of the change in the weather: the women were easier to manage in the confines of their berths and cabins and, apart from a couple of cases of severe vomiting and the girl who had bruised herself rolling out of an upper bunk, the sick bay had not been unduly troubled. That said, the doctor was much on his mind at the moment.

  At first he had wanted to ascribe it to the damp, the rheumatic twinge caused by the sudden drop in pressure. But the ache in his leg had become steadily more insistent, had mutated in form so that occasionally it sharpened, became a signal of malevolent intent. He knew he should go and get it seen to: the doctor in Sydney had impressed upon him the necessity of it. But he knew that if they found what he suspected they would have a reason to deprive him of this last voyage. They'd have him flown home. And even a ship full of women was preferable to no ship at all.

  There was a knock on his door. Reflexively, Captain Highfield pushed his leg further under the table. 'Enter.'

  It was Dobson, bearing a thick sheaf of papers. 'Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I've brought you the revised sick list. I thought you'd want to know that we're down five of the eight WSOs.'

  'All sick?'

  'Four sick, sir. One confined to bed. She fell down the stairs by the transmitter room and sprained her ankle.'

  Dobson was staring at the untouched food. No doubt that would be reported to his mess later, and the possible reasons for it discussed, Highfield thought. 'What on earth was she doing outside the transmitter room?'

  'Lost, sir.' Dobson shifted his balance expertly as the floor rose beneath him and spray obliterated the view from the window. 'One of the engineers found two girls in the number-two flour store this morning. Somehow managed to lock themselves in. Seems an awful lot of them can't read a map.'

  The wine had soured in his mouth. Highfield exhaled silently. 'So what will we do about going rounds tonight?'

  'I thought we could get a few of the marines to do it, sir. Clive and Nicol are pretty responsible fellows. To be honest, I can't see there'll be too much trouble with the ladies while we're coming through the Bight. I'd say at least half are too busy moaning on their bunks to get up to any mischief. The canteens are almost empty.'

  Dobson was right. Highfield hoped absently that the foul weather would last the entire six weeks. 'Fine. Get the men to do it. How's the water level?'

  'Not too bad, sir. We're just about keeping on top of things, although I have to say the systems on this old girl are pretty tired. Some of the machinery looks like it's held together with baling twine and good luck. Still, it's helped that so many of the women are in bed.' He grinned. 'Less hair-washing, that sort of thing.'

  'Yes, well, I've been thinking about that. Make sure we introduce another lecture on the dhobi. Make it compulsory. And for those who fail to implement it, the threat that they will be allowed no water for three days before they meet their husbands should do the trick.'

  Dobson left, something a little irritating in his swagger. He fancied himself for captain, Rennick, Highfield's steward, had told him, more than once. He had been glad to see other men who had served beneath him promoted, but there was something about Dobson's manner that simply stuck in his craw. Something in the man's eyes told him that, whether it was due to Hart or his own imminent retirement, he was written off; despite his history, his position, he was no longer a man to be reckoned with.

  'Man's an ass,' Rennick said, arriving to take the captain's plate. He had been with Highfield almost ten years and his opinions were expressed with the confidence of their long acquaintance.

  'He's an ass, but he's the only executive officer I've got.'

  'The men have no respect for him. He'll do you no good on this voyage.'

  'You know what, Rennick? Right now, ass or not, Dobson is the least of my worries.'

  The steward shrugged, his lined Scottish face fixing the captain with an expression that suggested they both knew more than they chose to say. As he left the room, Highfield's eyes fell to the letter in front of him. Then he took his wine-glass in his other hand and swept the piece of paper off the mahogany table into the bin below.

  Dennis had been wrong about the marine. When Margaret and Frances arrived back at their cabin, he was standing outside, his hand raised as if to knock. 'Hey!' yelped Margaret, trying, against her own lumbering weight, and the swaying floor, to run down the passageway. 'Hey!'

  He lowered his hand long enough for Margaret to slide between him and the door.

  'Can I help?' she said, panting, one hand under her belly.

  'I've brought you some crackers. Captain's orders, ma'am. We're doing it for everyone who's sick.'

  'They're asleep,' said Margaret. 'Best not to disturb them, wouldn't you say, Frances?'

  Frances glanced at the man, and then away. 'Yes.'

  'Frances here's a nurse,' said Margaret. 'She knows what's best for sickness.'

  There was a short silence.

  'Crackers tend to help.' The marine was holding the box stiffly in both hands. 'Shall I leave them with you, then?'

  'Yeah. Thanks.' Margaret took the box, wincing: the baby hadn't enjoyed being rattled.

  The man was staring at Frances. When he realised Margaret was watching him, he looked away quickly. 'I won't be here tonight,' he said. 'There's a few gone sick because of the weather so I'll be helping with the rounds. I've got permission to look in on you later if you'd prefer.' He had a cli
pped way of talking, as if uncomfortable with casual conversation.

  'No,' said Margaret. 'We'll be fine.' She smiled broadly. 'Thanks for offering, though. And you don't have to call us "ma'am". Seems a little . . . formal.'

  'Orders, ma'am.'

  'Oh. Orders.'

  'Right.' He lifted a hand in a half-salute.

  ''Bye, then. And thanks for the crackers.' Margaret fluttered her fingers. She was praying that Maude Gonne, alerted by her voice, wouldn't bark.

  When they opened the door Jean woke, raising a pale face from under her blanket. She refused the crackers and sat up slowly, revealing the upper half of a flannelette nightgown garlanded with little pink rosebuds. She looked, Margaret thought, shockingly young.

  'Do you think we should take anything?' Maude Gonne had leapt on to her lap and was trying to lick her face.

  'Take anything where?'

  'The stokers' mess. A drink or something.'

  'I'm not going,' Frances said.

  'You must! I can't go by myself.'

  Jean squinted. Her eyes were shadowed. 'Go where?' she murmured.

  'Bit of a do downstairs,' said Margaret. 'I'm promised a game of poker. I'm going to head down there once I've given Maudie a quick run. Come on, Frances, you can't sit here all night. You'll be miserable.'

  'It's really not my thing,' said Frances. But she sounded half-hearted.

  'Then I'll teach you.'

  'You're not leaving me here,' said Jean, and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk.

  'Are you sure?' said Margaret. 'It's pretty rough outside.'

  'Better than puking my guts up in the company of Miss Prim,' she said, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figure of Avice in the bunk opposite. A long silk robe in shell pink hung from it. 'I'll come with you. I'm not missing out if there's a party. It'll be the closest thing I've had to a laugh since we set off.'

  If Margaret had thought the brides' cabins cramped, little had prepared her for the sheer numbers of men who could be crowded into a single mess area, not much bigger than a working-man's parlour. The first indicator was the odour: the musk that had characterised her brothers' rooms at home had been condensed, amplified, until it met them in an unsavoury blast even outside the door. It was the smell of male bodies in permanent too-close contact, washed and unwashed, of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes and unlaundered linen and things that neither Frances nor Margaret wanted to think about. It was little surprise: four floors down, bang on the waterline, it was unlikely the mess had ever enjoyed more than the faintest whisper of fresh air. Directly above the starboard engine room, it was also in a state of almost constant vibration, the noise juddering away below their feet with an awesome, leviathan constancy.

  'I think we should go back,' said Frances. She had dragged her feet all the way there, had anticipated trouble at the end of every passageway. Margaret had ended up clutching her sleeve, determined that the girl was going to have a good time, just once, if it killed her.

  'Past the officers' bathrooms, right? Do you think those are the bathrooms?'

  'I'm not looking to see,' said Jean. In the minutes between sneaking out of their dormitory and coming down the stairs she had recovered her colour. Behind her, Frances stumbled, and tried to catch her balance as the ship pitched again.

  'Here it is,' said Margaret. 'Hello?' she called, and knocked tentatively, unsure if she would be heard above the din. 'Is Dennis there?'

  There was the briefest silence, then an outburst of catcalling and whistling. A cry of 'Chaffer up, lads, we've got visitors.' Then, after several minutes, in which Margaret and Frances wondered whether to leave, and Jean attempted unsuccessfully to peep through the inch-wide illuminated gap, the door swung open. A sweet-smelling Dennis, wearing a pressed shirt and clutching a bottle of amber liquid, waved his arm in the manner of someone proposing a grand entry.

  'Ladies,' he said, stooping to address them, 'welcome to the real engine of the Victoria.'

  Thirty-two men were billeted in the stokers' mess, and even with only half of that number present, the women found themselves in a proximity to the opposite sex that in normal circumstances would have left them awaiting imminent betrothal. Frances spent the first half an hour pressed up against the only spare six inches of wall, apparently too terrified, faced with the presence of several semi-dressed males, to sit down. Jean was giggling and blushing, saying, 'Saucy!' in a scolding voice whenever she couldn't think of anything sensible to say, which was often. Margaret was perhaps the least perturbed: her condition and her ease in the company of large numbers of men enabled them to treat her like an honorary sister. Within an hour, she had not only won several hands of cards, but had answered several queries about the best things to write in letters to sweethearts, how to handle interfering mothers-in-law and, on one occasion, which tie to wear for a civilian event. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes and the occasional curse - followed by an apology, as a concession to the presence of ladies. In the far corner, a rake-thin man with slicked red hair played a trumpet quietly. He was ignored, which made Margaret think this was probably a nightly occurrence.

  'You ladies want a drink?' said Dennis, leaning over them with a couple of tumblers. They had quickly established that he did not operate by the normal rules of the ship. Alcohol, smokes, a sub till payday - all of these flowed either to or from him like water. Frances, who had been persuaded to sit down beside Margaret, shook her head. She was apparently immune to the men's admiring looks, and had spent so much time staring at her shoes that Margaret felt guilty for having insisted she come. Jean, meanwhile, had drunk two tumblers already and was getting sillier by the second.

  'Steady now, Jean,' Margaret whispered. 'Remember how sick you were earlier.'

  'Davy here says it will settle my stomach,' said Jean, prodding the man beside her.

  'Sittle yer stummick?' One of the ratings, Jackson, had found their accents fascinating, and had made a point of parroting whatever they said.

  'You don't want to believe anything this lot tell you,' said Margaret, raising her eyebrows. 'Settle your stomach, indeed.'

  'That what your Joe told you, was it?' said Dennis, pointing at hers, to the sound of ribald laughter.

  There were bars on the walls to support the hammocks, and rows of lockers, their owners identified by postcards or hand-drawn lettering. On what little wall space remained, pictures of scantily clad starlets jostled for elbow room with grainy, less glamorous shots of wives and girlfriends, beaming children, a nicotine-stained reminder of other, wider worlds far from here. Around them, those men not playing cards at the wooden tables lay in their hammocks, writing letters, sleeping, smoking, reading or just watching - simply enjoying the presence of women. Most had covered themselves, out of deference, and many had proffered boiled sweets, cigarettes, or even photographs of their sweethearts for admiration. Despite the close confines, there was no undercurrent of threat as there had been in the days when Dad brought all those blokes back from the pub. The men were hospitable, friendly and only mildly flirtatious. Margaret thought she understood; having spent months away from those they loved, just having someone there as a reminder of world away from war and men and fighting was enough. She had felt it herself when she had seen men in the same uniform that Joe wore.

  'Frances? You sure you won't play a hand?' Margaret had won again. Dennis had whistled and thrown down his cards, threatening dire revenge on the next occasion they met. There seemed no doubt in his mind that there would be another.

  'No. Thank you.'

  'You'd be great at it.' She would. Her face was almost entirely impassive; her neat, slightly sharpened features revealed none of the discomfort that Margaret knew she felt. Several times now she had mentioned that Frances was a nurse, and several times Frances had rebuffed any attempt to get her to talk about her time in service. There was just enough grace in her manner to prevent the suggestion of rudeness. But only just.

  'Your mate all right?' Dennis murmured to
her.

  'I think she's a little shy.' Margaret had no other explanation. She had kept her head down, embarrassed to be claiming familiarity with a woman she had only recently met.

  'A liddle shoi,' murmured the rating behind her.

  'Shut up, Jackson. So, who's your man with, then?'

  'Navy,' said Margaret. 'Joseph O'Brien. He's an engineer on the Alexandra.'

  'An engineer, eh? Hey, lads, Mags here's one of us. An engineer's wife. I knew you had taste, Mags, as soon as I laid eyes on you.'

  'And I bet you lay eyes on plenty of women.' Margaret raised her eyebrows.

  'Very few with taste,' said his mate.

  They played four or five more hands, the game and the surroundings swiftly displacing the women's sense of being strangers. Margaret knew she was a safe prospect to someone like Dennis: he was the kind of man who enjoyed female company if the possibility of sexual conquest was removed. She had feared her pregnancy might make things difficult on the voyage; now she saw it might make things easier.

  Even better, paradoxically, was that these men didn't define her by her belly. Almost every woman she had met so far on this ship had asked her how far gone she was, whether it was a 'good' baby (what, she thought, was a bad one?), whether she hoped for a boy or a girl. It was as if she had ceased to be Margaret at all but had become a walking incubator. Some wanted to touch it, and whispered unwanted confidences about how they longed for their own. Others, like Avice, eyed it with vague distaste, or failed to mention it at all, as if they were afraid it might be contagious in some way. Margaret rarely broached the subject: haunted by images of her father's cows giving birth, she had still not reconciled herself to her biological fate.

  They played two, three, several more hands. The room grew smokier. The man in the corner played two songs she didn't recognise, then 'The Green Green Grass of Home', unusually fast, on his trumpet. The men had stopped the game to sing. Jean broke in with an unrepeatable ditty, and forgot the last few lines. She collapsed into squawks of laughter.

  It grew late, or at least it felt late: without natural light or a clock it was impossible to tell whether time had stalled or sped on into the early hours. It became a matter of good or bad hands, of Jean's giggling, the trumpet in the corner, and sounds that, with a little imagination, bore the faintest resemblance to home.