The Ship of Brides

  Margaret put down her hand, gave Dennis a second to register. 'I think you owe me, Mr Tims.'

  'I'm all out,' he said, in good-natured exasperation. 'Settle for cigarette cards? Something to give the old man?'

  'Keep them,' she said. 'I'm feeling too sorry for you to take anything else off you.'

  'We'd better get back to the dorm. It's getting late.' Frances, the only one of them who was still stiff and formal, looked pointedly at her watch, and then at Jean, who, helpless with giggles, was lying on a hammock, looking at a young rating's comic book.

  It was a quarter to twelve. Margaret stood up heavily, sad to have to leave. 'It's been great, guys,' she said, 'but I suppose we should go while the going's good.'

  'Don't want to get sent home in a lifeboat.'

  Frances's face revealed that, for several seconds, she had taken this remark seriously.

  'Thanks ever so much for the hospitality.'

  'Hospidaliddy,' murmured Jackson.

  'Our pleasure,' said Dennis. 'Want one of us to check the passageway's clear for you?' Then his voice hardened. 'Oi, Plummer, have a little respect.'

  The music stopped. All eyes turned towards Dennis's line of sight. The owner of Jean's comic book had rested a hand casually on the back of her thigh, which was now removed. It was unclear whether Jean was too drunk to have noticed it. Either way, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. For a second or two, nobody spoke.

  Then Frances stepped forward. 'Yes, come on, Jean.' It was as if she had been galvanised into life. 'Get up. We must get back.'

  'Spoilsports.' Jean half slid, half fell off the hammock, blew a kiss to the rating, and allowed her arm to be linked by Frances's rigid one. ''Bye, lads. Thanks for a lovely time.' Her hair had fallen across her face, half concealing a beatific smile. 'Got to shake a leg in the morning.' She wiggled one of hers clumsily, and Frances reached forward to pull her skirt down to a demure level.

  Margaret nodded to the men round the table, then made her way to the door, suddenly awkward, as if only just aware of the potential pitfalls of their position.

  Dennis seemed to grasp this. 'Sorry about that,' he said. 'It's just the drink. No harm meant.'

  'None taken,' said Margaret, raising a neutral smile.

  He held out a hand. 'Come again.' He stooped forward and murmured, 'I get sick of the sight of this lot.'

  She knew what he was trying to say, and was grateful.

  'I'd appreciate another game,' he added.

  'I'm sure we'll be back,' she said, as Frances dragged Jean out of the door.

  Avice was awake when they sneaked into their cabin as silently as they could with Jean giggling and snorting between them.

  They had seen only two others: wary girls, who had shared with them the briefest complicit grin before vanishing into a shadowy doorway. Margaret, however, had seen spectral monitors everywhere: her ears had burned with anticipated cries of 'Hey! You! What do you think you're doing?' She knew from Frances's serious face that she felt the same. Meanwhile, Jean had been sick twice, thankfully in the officers' bathroom, which had been empty at the time, but was now giggling as she tried to relate to them the story she had been reading. 'It was awful funny. Every time this girl does anything. Anything.' Her face opened in exaggerated amazement. 'All her clothes fall off.'

  'Hilarious,' muttered Margaret. She was a strong girl ('a bit of a heifer', her brothers used to say), but the baby, combined with Jean's almost dead weight and the incessant lurching of the ship, had caused her to grunt and sweat along the passageway. Frances had taken most of Jean's weight and hauled her along silently, one hand gripping at pipes and rails, her face set with the effort.

  'Most times it's down to her undies and whatnot. But there were at least two pictures where she had nothing on at all. Nothing. She had to do this with her hands.' Jean wrestled herself out of their grasp - she was surprisingly strong for such a small girl - and made as if to cover her bosom and groin, her face an exaggerated ooh! of surprise.

  'Oh, come on, Jean.'

  Margaret had peeped round the corner to where their dormitory was, and saw thankfully that the marines were not on duty. 'Quick! We might only have a minute.'

  It was then that the woman had stepped out of the darkness.

  'Oh!' Frances gasped.

  Margaret felt herself flush.

  'What's going on, ladies?'

  The officer came towards them at a trot, her bosom arriving shortly before she did. She was one of the WSOs, a short, auburn-haired woman who had directed them earlier to the laundry. There was something almost indecent in her haste, as if she had been waiting for some misdemeanour to take place. 'What's going on? You know brides are not allowed out of their dormitories at this time of night.'

  Margaret felt her tongue swell to fill her mouth.

  'Our friend is ill,' said Frances, coolly. 'She needed to go to the bathroom, and we weren't sure she would manage by herself.'

  As if in corroboration, the deck lifted under them, sending all four staggering against the wall. As she slipped to her knees Jean swore, then belched.

  'Seasickness, is it?'

  'Terrible,' said Margaret, heaving Jean up.

  'Well, I'm not sure--'

  'I'm a nurse,' interrupted Frances. That thin little voice could hold a surprising amount of authority, Margaret thought. 'I decided it would be more hygienic if she was ill away from the bunks. We've got another inside,' she said, pointing towards their door.

  The woman stared at Jean, whose head was hanging down. 'Are you sure it's just seasickness?'

  'Oh, yes,' said Frances. 'I've examined her and she's fine otherwise.'

  The woman's expression was guarded.

  'I've seen it before,' said Frances, 'when I was serving on the hospital ship Ariadne.' She had emphasised 'serving'. She held out a hand. 'Sister Frances Mackenzie.'

  The woman had been outmanoeuvred. She was bothered by it, Margaret could tell, not least because she was not sure how it had happened.

  'Yes. Well . . .' she said. She did not take Frances's hand, but left it in mid-air. The apparent ease with which Frances eventually lowered hers made Margaret wonder briefly how many times the gesture had been refused.

  'Well, I'll ask you to return to your bunks, ladies, and not to come out again unless it's an emergency. You know we don't have our marine guard tonight, and there's meant to be a strict curfew in place.'

  'I'm sure we'll be fine now,' said Frances.

  'Orders, you know,' said the officer.

  'Yes, we know,' replied Frances.

  Margaret made as if to move, but Frances was waiting for the woman to go.

  Of course, Margaret thought. The dog.

  The woman broke. She walked on, casting one brief, uneasy backwards look at them as she headed unsteadily towards the canteen.

  9

  Rounds of all weather decks, galleries and gun positions were carried out frequently, and at irregular periods after dark. All women had to be in their bunks by 11p.m. and the duty woman officer went round to see that no women were missing . . . These measures were the best that could be devised and although by no means perfect, at any rate, acted as a deterrent to bad behaviour and broke up many petting parties before their logical conclusion.

  Captain John Campbell Annesley, quoted in

  HMS Victorious, Neil McCart

  Seven days

  The sound of the bugle echoed tinnily through the Tannoy, and bounced down the walls of B Deck. Beneath it several men grimaced, and at least one put his hands over his ears - delayed, tentative movements, which were testament to eight unofficial 'parties' alleged to have taken place during the previous nights. Of the fifteen men lined up outside the Captain's office, eleven awaited summary trial for some related misdemeanor and the remainder were up for offences dating back to the last shore leave. Normally such disciplinary matters would take place when the ship was not a day or two out of dock, but the extraordinary nature of its cargo, and the
unusual level of offences meant that, to some extent at least, normal service on board HMS Victoria had not yet been resumed.

  The master-at-arms stood squarely in front of one of the younger boys who was being supported under each arm by two pustulent mates. He shot out a broad, pudgy finger, and chucked the offender under the chin, frowning as he caught a whiff of his breath. 'I don't know what your mother would say to you, my old flower, if she could see you in this state, but I've got a good idea.' He turned to the boys. 'He your mate?'

  'Sir.'

  'How'd he get like this?'

  The boys, for they were not much more, looked at their feet. 'Dunno, sir.'

  'Scotch mist, is it? As opposed to just Scotch?'

  'Dunno, sir.'

  'Dunno, sir,' the man repeated, fixing them with a well-practised glare. 'I bet you don't.'

  Henry Nicol, Marine, stepped back against the wall. The young dabber beside him was wringing his cap in bruised, bloodied hands. He breathed out, bracing himself against the movement of the ship. They were out of the worst of the Bight, now, but it could still catch the unwary.

  'Soames, eh?'

  The younger man nodded unhappily at the master-at-arms. 'Sir.'

  'What's he in for, Nicol?'

  'Quarrels and disturbances, sir. And drunkenness.'

  'Not like you, Soames.'

  'No, sir.'

  The older man shook his head. 'You speaking for him, are you, Nicol?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Make sure you get some sleep afterwards. You're on watch again tonight. You look bloody awful.' He nodded at the younger man. 'Soames, it's a bad business. Use your loaf next time, not your fists.'

  The master-at-arms moved slowly on to the next man - conduct to the prejudice of good order, drugs/alcohol - and Soames slumped against the wall.

  'You're all for it,' the master-at-arms said. 'It's the captain today, not the executive officer, and I can tell you he's not in the best of moods.'

  'I'm going to get it, aren't I?' Soames groaned.

  In normal circumstances Nicol might have disputed this, might have been reassuring, upbeat. But with one hand still resting against the letter in his trouser pocket, he had neither the energy nor the desire to make someone else feel better. He had put off opening it for days, guessing, dreading the nature of its contents. Now, seven days after they had left Sydney, he knew.

  As if knowing could ever make anything any better.

  'You'll be all right,' he said.

  Dear Henry,

  I'm disappointed but not surprised I haven't heard back from you. I want to say again how sorry I am. I never set out to hurt you. But we have had hardly a word from you in so long, and I am really very fond of Anton. And he is a good man, a kind man, who pays me a lot of heed . . .

  This is not meant to be a criticism of you. I know we were awfully young when we married, and perhaps if the war had not come when it did . . . Still, as we both know, our world today is full of such if-onlys . . .

  He had read the first paragraph and thought that, ironically, life was easier when his letters were still censored.

  It was almost twenty minutes before they were up. They paused outside the captain's office, then Nicol followed the younger man in and they saluted. Captain Highfield was seated behind the desk, flanked by the marine captain and a lieutenant Nicol didn't recognise, who was writing something in a ledger. For some seconds he gave no sign that he was aware of the new occupants of the room.

  Nicol nudged the younger man. 'Cap,' he hissed, his own black beret held in front of him. Soames removed his.

  The officer beside the captain read out the charge: the boy had been scrapping with another dabber in the seamen's mess. He had also been drinking - spirits, far in excess of the daily 'sippers' ration to ratings.

  'How do we plead?' said Captain Highfield, still writing. He had tall, elegant script, somehow at odds with his short, stubby fingers.

  'Guilty, sir,' said Soames.

  Yes, I am guilty. And weak. But, to be truthful, for the last four years I might as well have been a widow for the word I have had from you. I spent three of those years lying awake week after week praying for your safety; that you might come back to us, talking to the children of you daily, even when I suspected you did not remember us. When you did come back you were like a stranger.

  Finally, the captain looked up. He eyed the young man, then addressed the marine. 'Nicol, isn't it?'

  'Sir.'

  'What can you tell me about this young man's character?'

  Nicol cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts. 'He's been with us a little over a year, sir. A dabber. He's been very steady during that time, hard-working, quiet.' He paused. 'A good sort.'

  'So, Soames, given this glowing character reference, what turned you into a brawling idiot?'

  The boy's head dipped. 'Look up, man, when you're talking to me.'

  'Sir.' He blushed. 'It's my girl, sir. She . . . she was to see me off in Sydney. We've been stepping out some time. But she's been . . . well, it's one of the others in C Deck, sir.'

  When Anton came, and started paying me some attention, Henry, it's not even that he stepped into your shoes. There were no shoes for him to step into.

  '. . . and he started taunting me . . . and then the others, well, they said as how I couldn't keep hold of a woman, and you know what it's like in the mess, sir, well, I'd had a bellyful of it and - well - I suppose I saw red.'

  'You suppose you saw red.'

  The children are very fond of him. You will always be their father, and they know that, but they will love America and have all sorts of chances there that they would never have had in a sleepy old village in Norfolk.

  'Yes, sir.' He coughed into his hand. 'I'm very sorry, sir.'

  'You're very sorry,' said the captain. 'So, Nicol, you say he's been a good sort up to this point?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  The captain put down his pen and clasped his hands. His voice was icy. 'You know I don't like fighting on my ship. I especially don't like fighting when there's alcohol involved. Even more, I dislike discovering that there may be social events taking place on my ship without my knowledge that involve alcohol.'

  'Sir.'

  'Do you understand? I don't like surprises, Soames.'

  But here, dear, I have to tell you something hard. If there is an urgency to my letter it is because I am carrying Anton's child, and all we are waiting for is your permission to divorce, so that we can marry and bring this baby up together.

  'You're a disgrace.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'You're the fifth person I've seen in here this morning on a drink-related charge. Did you know that?'

  The boy said nothing.

  'Rather surprising for a ship that supposedly contains no alcohol except your weekly allocation.'

  'Sir.'

  Nicol cleared his throat.

  The captain stared at the boy from under his brows. 'I'm conscious of your previous good character, Soames, and you should consider yourself lucky you have someone of better character to speak for you.'

  'Sir.'

  'I'm going to let you off with a fine. But I want you to be clear on one thing - and you can tell your friends this, and all those waiting outside too. Little escapes me on this ship. Very little. And if you think I am not aware of the little get-togethers that are springing up at an hour when our crew and our female cargo should be separated not just by walls but by whole bloody passageways, then you are very much mistaken.'

  'I didn't mean any harm, sir.'

  I did not intend things to turn out this way. Please do not make this child grow up a bastard, Henry, I implore you. I know I have hurt you terribly, but please do not inflict whatever you feel for me on the little one.

  'You meant no harm,' Highfield muttered, and began to write. 'You meant no harm. None of you ever does.'

  There was a brief silence in the room.

  'Two pounds. And don't let me see you in here again.'


  'Sir.'

  'Left turn, quick march,' called the lieutenant.

  The two men saluted, and left the office.

  'Two bloody pounds,' said Soames, as they shuffled past the queue of offenders, ramming his cap back on to his head. 'Two bloody pounds,' he muttered to one of his mates. 'He's a miserable bloody bastard, that Highfield.'

  'Bad luck.'

  Soames's pace increased with his sense of injustice. 'I don't know why he had to pick on me, going on and on like that. I haven't even spoken to one of those bloody Aussie brides. Not so much as a bloody one of them. Not like bloody Tims. He has girls in that mess most nights. Jackson told me.'

  'Best stay away from the lot of them,' said Nicol.

  'What?' The younger man turned, perhaps sensing the barely suppressed tension in the marine's voice. 'You all right?'

  'I'm fine,' he said, removing his hand from his pocket.

  Please write me or wire me when you can. I am happy to leave you the house and everything. I have kept it all in good order, the best I could. I do not want to cause you more trouble. I just want your permission to go.

  Yours,

  Fay

  'Yes,' said Nicol, striding down the passageway. 'I'm fine.'

  The summary trials ended a few minutes after eleven. Captain Highfield laid down his pen and motioned to Dobson who had entered some minutes previously and the marine captain that they should sit down. A steward was sent for tea.

  'It's not good, is it?' he said, leaning back in his chair. 'We're hardly a week in and look at it.'

  The marine captain said nothing. The marines were a disciplined lot and never drank on board; they tended to appear only as character witnesses, or occasionally when the natural friction between marines and seamen boiled over into blows.

  'It's bringing tension into the ship. And alcohol. When did we last have so many drunkenness offences at sea?'

  The two men shook their heads. 'We'll organise a locker search, captain. See if we can flush it out,' said Dobson. Out of the window, behind them, the skies had cleared to a bright, vivid blue, the sea becalmed. It was the kind of sight that couldn't help but fill the heart with optimism. But Highfield took no joy from it: his leg had throbbed dully all morning, a permanent, intermittent reminder of his failure.

  He had avoided looking at it when he dressed this morning: its colour disturbed him. A faint purplish tinge told not of the steady creation of new, healthy tissue but of some terrible struggle taking place beneath. If Bertram, the ship's regular surgeon, had been aboard, he could have asked him to take a look at it. He would have understood. But Bertram had failed to show at Sydney, was now the subject of a court-martial, and that damn fool Duxbury was in his place.