'I feel like I'm back at school,' murmured Jean, in front of her, 'but with fewer places to smoke.'
Highfield looked at the women in front of him, nudging, whispering, fidgeting, not even capable of standing still for long enough to hear him list the rules and regulations that would govern their lives for the next six weeks. Even in this last twenty-four hours, he had watched every new outrage, every new example of why this had been a catastrophic idea, and wanted to telegraph McManus to say, 'See? Didn't I tell you this would happen?' Half of them were hysterical, and didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry. The other half were already clogging up the place, getting lost below decks, forgetting to duck and injuring their heads, getting in the way of his men, or even stopping him to demand, as one had this morning, where she might find the canteen with the ice-cream. To top it all, he had walked along the upper gallery earlier this morning and found himself in a fine mist, not of aircraft fuel but of perfume. Perfume! They might as well tie their undergarments in place of the ship's pennant and be done with it.
Admittedly there was no dramatic difference in the men's behaviour, but he knew it was only a matter of time: at this very minute the women would be the main topic of conversation in the seamen's and stokers' mess, in the officers' mess and even the marines'. He could feel a subtle sense of disquiet in the air, as when dogs scent an approaching storm.
Or perhaps it was simply that nothing had felt settled since Hart's death. The company had lost the cheerful sense of purpose that had characterised its last nine months in the Pacific. The men - those who remained - had been withdrawn, more prone to argument and insubordination. Several times since they had slipped anchor, he had caught them muttering among themselves and wondered to what extent they blamed him. He concluded his speech, and forced the thoughts, as he often did, from his mind. The women looked wrong. The colours were too bright; the hair was too long; scarves dangled all over the place. His ship had been an ordered thing of greys and whites, of monochrome. The mere introduction of colour was unbalancing, as if someone had unleashed a flock of exotic birds around him and left them, flapping and unpredictable, to create havoc. Some women were wearing high-heeled shoes, for goodness' sake.
It's not that I don't like women, he thought, as he did several times an hour. It's just that everything has its place. People have their place. He was a reasonable man. He didn't think this was an unreasonable point of view.
He folded the booklet under his arm and caught sight of some ratings loitering by the lashings - the chains that secured the aircraft to the deck. 'Haven't you got anything bloody better to do?' he barked, then turned on his heel and strode into the lobby.
Dear Joe,
Well, here I am on the Victoria with the other brides, and I can tell you this: I'm definitely a land girl. It's awful cramped, even in a ship this size, and wherever you go you're bumping into people, like being in the city but worse. I suppose you're used to it, but I'm already dreaming of fields and empty spaces. Last night I even dreamt of Dad's cows . . .
Our four-berth cabin is one of many in what was apparently a giant liftwell, and I am sharing with three girls, who seem to be all right. One girl, Jean, is only sixteen - and guess what? She's not the youngest. There are evidently two girls of fifteen on board - both married to Brits and travelling alone. I can't say what Dad would have done if I'd come home at fifteen and announced I was getting married - even to you, dear. I'm also sharing with a girl who has been working for the Australian General Hospital out in the Pacific, and says almost nothing, and another who I think is a bit of a society type. I can't say any of us has much in common, other than that we are all wanting the same thing.
One bride apparently missed the boat at Sydney and they're flying her to Fremantle, where we will pick her up. So I guess you can't say the Navy aren't doing all they can to get us to you.
The men are all pretty friendly, although we're not meant to talk to them much. Some girls go silly whenever they walk past one. Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen a man before, let alone married one. The captain has read us the Riot Act already, and everyone keeps going on about water and how we're not meant to use any. I only had a flannel wash this morning - I can't see how I'm going to run the ship dry on that. I think of you often, and it is a comfort to me to think that we are probably even at this minute, sailing on the same ocean.
Joe Junior, I'm sure, sends his love (kicks like a mule when I'm trying to sleep!).
Your Maggie
These were the other things that she hadn't told Joe: that she had lain awake for most of the first night, listening to the clanking of chains, doors slamming above and below, the hysterical giggling and shrieking of other women behind thinly constructed walls, and feeling the vibrations of the great ship moving under her, like some groaning prehistoric beast. That among the incomprehensible pipes that sounded every fifteen minutes or so ('Hands to action stations', 'Stand by to receive gash barge alongside', 'Special Sea Dutymen, close up') their wake-up call had been a rendition over the Tannoy of 'Wakey, wakey, show a leg' (and that at five thirty, she had overheard the less savoury men's version: 'Wakey, wakey, rise and shine, hands off cocks, pull on socks'). That the ship was a bewildering mass of ranks and roles, from marines to stokers to airmen. That the canteen was big enough to seat three hundred girls at once, that together they made a noise like a huge flock of starlings descending, and that she had eaten better food at last night's supper than she had for the last two years. That almost the first naval custom they had been taught - with great emphasis on its importance - was the 'submariner's dhobi': a shower of several seconds to soak oneself, a soaping with the water turned off, then a brief rinse under running water. It was vital, the Red Cross officer had impressed upon them, that they conserve water so that the pumps could desalinate at a rate fast enough to replace it, and they could make the crossing hygienically. From what she had heard in the shower rooms, she was pretty well the only bride to have followed those instructions.
Behind her, hidden by her size and a carefully folded blanket, Maude Gonne lay sleeping. After the captain's address, Margaret had raced back to their cabin (Daniel would have said 'lumbered') and subdued the little dog's yelps with stolen biscuits, then smuggled her along to the bathroom to make sure she didn't disgrace herself. She had only just got back to the bunk when Frances came in, and she had thrust herself on to her bed, a warning hand on the dog's hidden head, willing her to stay quiet.
It was a problem. She had thought she would be allocated a single cabin - most of the pregnant brides had been. It hadn't occurred to her that she might have to share.
She wondered whether Frances, on the bunk opposite, could be trusted. She seemed all right, but she had said little that suggested anything at all. And she was a nurse - some of whom got awfully tied up in rules and regulations.
Margaret shifted on her bunk, trying to get comfortable, feeling the engines rumbling beneath her. There was so much she wanted to tell Joe, so much she wanted to convey about the strangeness of it all - of being thrust from her home into a world where girls became hysterical not just about their future but over brands of shampoo or stockings ('Where did you get those? I've been looking everywhere for them!') and exchanged the kind of intimate confidences that suggested they'd known each other for years, not twenty-four hours.
Mum would have been able to explain it, thought Margaret. She would have been able to speak their language, translate it, and afterwards would have defused its power with a few pithy remarks. If I'd known she was going, she thought, I would have listened harder. I would have treated it all with a little more respect, rather than spending my life trying to live up to the boys. They never told you it wasn't just a gaping hole of grief but that it went on and on, myriad questions that wouldn't be answered.
She glanced at her watch. They would be out now, perhaps on the tractor, clearing the saplings at the bottom of the steers' field, as they had been meaning to do all summer. Colm had joked that spen
ding all these weeks surrounded by women would drive her mad. Dad had said it might teach her a few things. Margaret gazed surreptitiously at the feminine trappings around her, of silk, nylon and floral patterns, of face creams and manicure sets. She hadn't anticipated that it might leave her feeling alien.
'You want my pillow?' Frances had emerged from her novel. She was gesturing towards Margaret's stomach.
'No. Thanks.'
'Go on - you can't be comfortable.'
It had been the longest sentence she had uttered since introducing herself. Margaret hesitated, then accepted the pillow with thanks and wedged it under her thigh. It was true: the bunks offered all the width and comfort of an ironing-board.
'When's it due?'
'Not for a couple of months or so.' Margaret sniffed, pushed tentatively at her mattress. 'It could have been worse, I suppose. They might have given us hammocks.'
The other girl's smile faltered, as if, having opened the conversation, she was now unsure what else to say. She returned to her book.
Maude Gonne shifted and whined in sleep, her paws scrabbling against Margaret's back. The noise was disguised by the thrum of the engines and the chatter of girls passing outside the half-open door. But she would have to do something. Maude Gonne couldn't stay in here for the whole six weeks. Even if she only left to go to the bathroom there were bound to be occasions when the other girls were here. How would she keep her quiet then?
Bugger it, she thought, shifting her belly again. What with the baby moving constantly, and all these women around, night, day and every single minute in between, it was impossible to think straight.
The cabin door was open and Avice stepped in, remembering to duck - she had no intention of meeting Ian with a bruised forehead - and raised a smile for the two girls lying on the bottom bunks. Made of a naval-issue bedroll lying in a raised platform of webbing, they were less than five feet apart, and the women's small cases, containing the minimum of their belongings, were stacked securely against the temporary sheet-metal wall that divided them from the next cabin.
The entire space was rather smaller than her bathroom at home. There was no concession to the femininity of the passengers: the fabrics were utilitarian at best, the floor uncarpeted, the colour a uniform battleship grey. The only mirrors were in the steamy confines of the shower rooms. Their larger cases, with the main part of their clothes and belongings, were stored in the quarterdeck lockers, which smelt of aircraft fuel and to which they had to beg access from a spectacularly sour WSO, who had already reminded Avice twice - with what Avice felt was obvious envy - that life on board was not a fashion parade.
Avice was desperately disappointed in her travelling companions. Almost everywhere she had been this morning she had seen girls in smarter clothes, with the right sort of look, the kind that spoke to Avice of a social standing not dissimilar to her own. She might have found consolation in their company for the awfulness of the ship. But instead she had been landed with a pregnant farm girl and a surly nurse. (She did so hope she wasn't going to be one of those superior types, as if the terrible things she had supposedly witnessed made the rest of them shallow for trying to enjoy themselves.) And, of course, there was Jean.
'Hey there, shipmates.' Jean scrambled on to the bunk above Margaret, her thin bare limbs like a monkey's, and lit a cigarette. 'Avice and me have been checking out the action on board. There's a cinema up near the bow, on the lower gallery. Anyone fancy coming to the pictures later?'
'No. Thanks anyway,' said Frances.
'Actually, I think I'll stay here and write some letters.' Avice had made her way on to her top bunk, holding her skirt down over her thighs with one hand. It took some effort. 'I'm feeling a little weary.'
'How 'bout you, Maggie?' Jean leant over the side of her bunk.
Her head heaving suddenly into view made Margaret jump and contort into a peculiar shape. Avice wondered if this travelling companion was going to prove even odder than she had suspected. Margaret seemed to sense that her reaction had been a little strange: she reached behind her, picked up a magazine and flicked it open with studied nonchalance. 'No,' she said. 'Thank you. I - I should probably rest.'
'Yeah. You do that,' said Jean, hauling herself back into her bunk and taking a long drag on her cigarette. 'The last thing we want is you dropping it in here.'
Avice was searching for her hairbrush. She had been through her vanity case several times, and climbed down from her bunk to gaze at the others. Now that the excitement of the slipping off had dissipated, and the circumstances in which she was going to have to spend the next six weeks had come into focus, her mood had darkened. She was finding it difficult to keep smiling through. 'I'm sorry to bother you all, but has anyone seen my brush?' She thought it rather noble of her not to direct this at Jean.
'What's it look like?'
'Silver. It has my initials on the back. My married ones - AR.'
'Not up here,' said Jean. 'A few things spilt out of our cases when the engines did that juddery thing earlier. Have you looked on the floor?'
Avice knelt down, cursing the inadequate light from the one unshaded overhead bulb. If they'd had a window, she would have been able to see better. In fact, everything would have been more pleasant with a sea view. She was sure some of the girls had got windows. She couldn't understand why her father hadn't made it a requirement. She was just stretching her arm under Frances's bunk when she felt a cold wet touch high on the inside of her thigh. She shrieked and jumped up, smacking the back of her head on Frances's bunk.
'What, in heaven's name--'
Pain shot through the top of her head, making her stumble. She pulled her skirt tight round her legs, twisting round in an effort to see behind her. 'Who did that? Was it someone's idea of a joke?'
'What's the matter?' asked Jean, wide-eyed.
'Someone goosed me. Someone stuck their cold wet . . .' Here, words failed Avice, and she gazed round suspiciously, as if perhaps some madman had stowed away when no one was looking. 'Someone goosed me,' she repeated.
No one spoke.
Frances was watching her silently, her face impassive.
'I'm not imagining it,' Avice told her crossly.
It was then that all eyes fell on Margaret, who was leaning over the edge of her bunk, muttering to herself. Avice, cheeks flushed, heart racing, legs crossed defensively, stared at her.
Margaret looked up at her with a guilty expression. She stood up, went to the door, closed it and sighed. 'Oh, hell. I need to tell you all something. I'd thought I'd get a cabin to myself because of being . . . like this.'
Avice took a step backwards - which was a difficult manoeuvre in so little space. 'Like what? Oh, Lord! You're not one of those . . . deviant types? Oh, my goodness.'
'Deviant?' said Margaret.
'I knew I shouldn't have come.'
'Pregnant, you eejit! I thought I'd get a cabin to myself because I'm pregnant.'
'Are you making a nest under your bunk?' said Jean. 'My cat did that when she had kittens. Made a terrible mess.'
'No,' said Margaret. 'I was not making a ruddy nest. Look, I'm trying to tell you all something.' Her cheeks were flushed.
Avice crossed her hands protectively over her chest. 'Is this your way of apologising?'
Margaret shook her head. 'It's not what you think.' She lowered herself on to her hands and knees and uttered a soft crooning sound. Seconds later, her broad hand emerged from under her bunk. In it she held a small dog. 'Girls,' she said, 'meet Maude Gonne.'
Four sets of eyes stared at the dog, who stared back with rheumy disinterest.
'I knew it! I knew you were up to something!' crowed Jean, triumphantly. 'I said to myself, when we were on the flight deck, "That Margaret, she's as furtive as a fox in long grass eating guts."'
'Oh, for goodness' sake.' Avice grimaced. 'You mean that was what . . . ?'
'Those cami-knickers really do the job, eh, Avice?' scoffed Jean.
Frances studied the
dog. 'But you're not allowed pets on board,' she said.
'I know that.'
'I'm sorry, but you can't hope to keep it quiet,' Avice said. 'And it'll make the dorm smell.'
There was a lengthy silence as unspoken thoughts hung in the air.
In the end, anxiety overrode Avice's natural delicacy. 'We're on this thing for almost six weeks. Where's it going to do its business?'
Margaret sat down, ducking to avoid banging her head on the top bunk. The dog settled on her lap. 'She's very clean - and I've worked it all out. You didn't notice anything last night, did you? I ran her up and down the end gangway after you'd gone to sleep.'
'Ran her up and down the gangway?'
'And cleaned up afterwards. Look, she doesn't bark. She doesn't smell. I'll make sure I keep her "business" well out of your way. But please, please, don't dob me in. She's . . . old . . . My mum gave her to me. And . . .' she blinked furiously '. . . look, she's all I've got left of my mum. I couldn't leave her, okay?'
There was silence as the women exchanged looks. Margaret stared at the floor, flushed with emotion. It was too soon for this level of confidence, she knew it, and so did they. 'It's just for a few weeks, and it's real important to me.'
There was another lengthy silence. The nurse looked at her shoes. 'If you want to try to keep her in here, I don't mind.'
'Nor me,' said Jean. 'Long as she doesn't chew up my shoes. She's quite sweet. For a rat.'
Avice knew she couldn't be the only one to complain: it would make her seem heartless. 'What about the Royal Marines?' she asked.
'What?'
'The ones they're posting outside our doors from tomorrow night. Didn't you hear that WSO? You won't be able to get her out.'
'A marine? For what?'
'He's coming at nine thirty. I suppose it's to stop the men below coming up and ravishing us,' said Jean. 'Think about it - a thousand desperate men lying just a few feet below us. They could storm the doors if they wanted to and--'
'Oh, for goodness' sake!' Avice's hand flew to her throat.
'Then again,' said Jean, grinning lasciviously, 'it might be to keep us lot in.'
'Well, I'll have to get her out before the marine comes.'