A Stone's Throw

by Fiona Shaw

  There was another in front of them, a ginger-haired boy. He looked nothing like Will; was too young probably, yet … She narrowed her eyes still further, till the soldiers were no more than a series of grainy movements. What was it about him? If he were two foot smaller and if his gun were a stick and his uniform a pair of pyjamas, and if he didn’t have ginger hair, then …

  ‘You’d think the stick was his life.’ She could hear her mother’s voice. It was the same voice she’d use when Will got muddy, or tore his clothes.

  ‘Boys will be boys,’ Meg said to herself.

  That was how the ginger-haired soldier held his gun, too, close-in to his head, caressing almost.

  There was nothing about George that reminded her of Will. She’d never thought this before, but it was true.

  The officer shouted and the soldiers wheeled. She felt the clap of their hands and the beat of their boots. She’d know him anywhere: by the curve of his brow, or how he walked, or by his eyes; she knew she would. Her mother’s fingers in his hair and Will pulling away, impatient to be off, away on his adventure.

  They were so handsome in their uniforms; alive and strong and on their way to fight. Each time something caught her eye – a turn of the head, the light on their hair – she’d look again, because it might be …

  Then she’d look away.

  Again a shout, again the soldiers wheeled round, shouldering, unshouldering; as he came to the head of the line, the ginger-haired soldier looked up at her, and she turned and went.

  In her cabin she did as her mother would have told her and shut the blind over the porthole and lay down for twenty minutes. The air was warm, but she was shaking, so she pulled a blanket over, tucking it up beneath her chin, catching it under her feet.

  The bed lamp made a small, safe circle and she was at the heart of it. She opened the bible and read about Jacob tricking his brother, then wrestling with the angel. There had been a picture of Jacob and the angel on the Sunday School wall. Alice said they were kissing.

  Meg woke late in the afternoon. Her mouth was dry and she felt nauseous. She got up, ran a deep bath and lay submerged till her skin puckered in the warm salt water. She felt sad and though the water grew cold, it was a struggle to get out. Before going to dinner she wrote a few lines to her mother:

  … I saw the soldiers parading today and thought of the lads in the village going off. James Pedley, and the Andrews boys especially. Please write to me with any news of them.

  It’s funny but it doesn’t feel dangerous on this ship. Perhaps because it’s so luxurious, and because we have been lucky with the weather. But I have had enough of it and wish we could be there sooner, for all the lovely food and time.

  She went to dinner early to avoid the Richardsons, and sat at a table between two elderly gentlemen. They told stories about cricket and diamond mining and they let her be. She was served with Lancashire hot pot and ice cream with tinned peaches, but though she tried, she didn’t manage to eat much. Still she nodded and laughed when it was expected and the meal passed off all right.

  She saw the Richardsons across the room, and nodded and smiled to Mrs Richardson. There was no reason she could put her finger on, but she didn’t want to speak with her, so she excused herself to the old gentlemen and slipped away.

  Two more days passed and Meg still kept her distance. The soldiers parading had distressed her, and she needed time to let her feelings settle. As much as possible, she sat outside. Sometimes she liked to stand in the face of the wind and feel the tears forced from her; or open her mouth and drink it in. But mostly she would find secluded spots where she could be on her own and just let the time go by. She slept thick, dreamless sleeps, waking exhausted as if she had run for miles in her head.

  On the third day she sat down to lunch with the Richardsons. They were already eating their soup. Mrs Richardson smiled a greeting and Mr Richardson pulled out her chair, then shuffled it in from behind, as if he was locking her in to her place.

  She’d decided not to tell them about seeing the soldiers, but now, seated there, she wanted to please them; she wanted to give them something. She also wanted to drown out the sound Mr Richardson was making with his soup, and before she could check herself, the words were out.

  ‘I came across the soldiers a few days ago,’ Meg said. ‘After our coffee. They were doing their drill.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Richardson. ‘You found them after we had coffee?’

  ‘I carried on along that deck and eventually …’

  ‘Should you have done that? Isn’t that beyond where we’re meant to go?’

  ‘I just wanted to walk as far as I could,’ Meg said. ‘I felt a bit cooped up.’

  ‘You’re very daring,’ Mrs Richardson said, smiling and shaking her head. ‘Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.’

  Mr Richardson tapped his spoon against the bowl, pointed it at his wife.

  ‘You’re not to copy Margaret and go off wandering. One of us doing that sort of thing is quite enough.’

  ‘Meg, not Margaret,’ Meg said.

  ‘Were they good at marching?’ Mrs Richardson said.

  ‘They looked very well-trained.’

  Mr Richardson snorted slightly. ‘How would either of you know?’

  Meg shrugged and turned to Mrs Richardson. ‘What will you do in South Africa?’

  ‘She’ll be inspecting the guard,’ Mr Richardson said, ‘won’t you, darling?’

  The steward brought Meg’s soup and she was glad of an excuse to lower her head.

  ‘John,’ Mrs Richardson said. ‘Meg was making conversation. She’s just a girl.’

  Mr Richardson pursed his lips. ‘There’s a reason why they keep the soldiers at the other end of the ship.’

  Mrs Richardson put a hand over Meg’s. ‘Don’t mind him. It’s only his bark.’

  The steward brought steak and kidney pudding and after he’d gone, Mrs Richardson continued. ‘To answer your question, I’m going to be spring-cleaning when we get home. Have the house spick and span again. Two years away, it’ll have gathered quite a lot of dust.’

  ‘Be jolly glad to have you back where I know you’re safe,’ Mr Richardson said. ‘Much rather you were polishing teaspoons than hiding in Anderson shelters.’

  He turned to Meg and cocked his head slightly in what she took for a placatory gesture. ‘I expect your fiancé will feel the same way, once this boat arrives.’

  Meg nodded.

  ‘I think you’re jolly brave; I wouldn’t do it on my own,’ Mrs Richardson said.

  Meg shrugged. ‘George can’t keep me safe.’

  ‘You’re just not used to it,’ Mrs Richardson said. ‘Growing up without your father. You’re not used to having a man to look after you.’

  It’s their morning game, before he does his shaving. But today she says ‘Pa’ to him and he doesn’t look at her. He’s smoothing his hair down with his fingers.

  She pulls at his trouser leg.

  ‘I’m your Princess Margaret,’ she says, ‘and you’ve rescued me from in the thorny thicket.’

  He looks down then, but he doesn’t smile.

  ‘Meg,’ he says.

  ‘I’m Princess Margaret.’

  He says ‘Meg’ again. He wipes his fingers and lifts her up and holds her close.

  ‘You’re hurting,’ she says because he’s squeezing her too tight, and he puts her down and picks up his razor.

  Will is still asleep but she wakes him up.

  ‘Play with me,’ she says.

  Then her pa comes in with foam on his cheeks and speaks to Will.

  ‘Get dressed, quick as you can. We’re visiting Ada. Nice and warm.’

  ‘Can I get dressed nice and warm?’ Meg says, but her pa’s face goes angry and he bangs their door.

  Will gets dressed.

  ‘Play with me,’ Meg says. But Will pulls on his brown sweater and goes downstairs.

  ‘This ship,’ Meg said. ‘It’s like a waiting room.�
�

  Mrs Richardson patted her hand. ‘You’ll be busy soon enough, once the ring’s on your finger.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ Meg said.

  ‘Quite a fierce little thing, aren’t you,’ said Mr Richardson.

  ‘Housekeeping is more than a full-time occupation,’ Mrs Richardson said, ignoring her husband, ‘especially when you’re first married. I expect your mother’s given you some good tips?’

  ‘I know how to keep house.’

  ‘A homebody then. That’ll be useful in Africa,’ said Mr Richardson.

  ‘Finding out how your husband likes things; I had no idea how Mr Richardson liked his eggs boiled, or his shirt sleeves folded.’

  ‘I know how,’ Meg repeated.

  ‘Only, what with your father not being there growing up …’

  Meg turned to look Mrs Richardson straight in the face.

  ‘It’s not only husbands and fathers that need looking after. Excuse me, but I don’t want to talk about marriage any more. Or housekeeping.’

  She picked up her knife and fork. She could see the Richardsons exchange glances, and Mrs Richardson shrug. The pale suet was heavy in her mouth and hard to swallow.

  ‘Another day and the convoy will be out of U-boat range. Then you ladies can relax. Plan your menus,’ Mr Richardson said.

  She closed her eyes. Shirts, and eggs, and knives and forks, and ice and cold, and sheets and blankets. Behind her, her mother cried at the kitchen table, and ahead of her was George.

  ‘Meg?’ said Mrs Richardson.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. Her feet were like lead beneath the table and she couldn’t breathe. She needed air. She shoved her chair out and stood. Mr Richardson had got up and a steward was approaching.

  If she could just get away from everybody, she’d be all right again. Pushing past the steward she made for the lobby doors.

  ‘Miss Bryan?’ she heard, ‘Miss Bryan? …’

  She ran without looking, without caring, through doors, down stairways and along one passage after another, seeing nobody and paying no heed to signs, till the only sounds in her head were the deep roar of the ship and her own harsh breathing. At last she stopped, her head spinning, and leaned back against the bulkhead to get her breath. She thought she must be deep below the surface of the sea. The corridor was narrow and pipes ran along the ceiling; the lights cast a dim glow, pulsing slightly. It felt almost homely and it reminded her of somewhere; she laughed, her voice echoing back from the riveted walls. It was six days since she had left home, and eight since she had milked cows. How strange to think of that barn now, with its steamy half light and those heavy, warm animals. She knew her way round the barn with her eyes shut. And here she was, deep in this ship and she had no idea where she was, or what she was doing. Her laugh became a sob, her legs went to jelly and she slid down the wall.

  She opened her eyes: black boots and khaki trousers. There was a hand on her shoulder; she could feel the fingers pressing.

  She started and the hand lifted off.

  ‘You shouldn’t be down here, Miss.’

  The voice was soft with an accent she didn’t recognise.

  ‘You all right?’

  He sounded young.

  ‘I got lost,’ she said after a moment. She went to get up but her legs were still like jelly.

  ‘I don’t feel very steady.’

  ‘Here,’ the voice said, ‘I’ll give you a hand.’

  She hadn’t seen the man’s face yet; and although she knew plenty of young men in the village, she never got this near to them. George was the only man she had been this near to. The thought of him just now made her shudder. If he could see her, he’d be shocked.

  ‘We’ll take it slow,’ the soldier said.

  He bent and took her hands.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘No rush.’

  He was close as breathing and he smelt of damp wool and coal tar soap.

  Her head swam and her fingers tingled, as though she had held them for an hour above her head. She stood up and leaned against the wall, staring at the floor, at his boots and her shoes, waiting for her sight to clear.

  ‘Breathe, nice and deep, in through your nose and out through your mouth,’ he said.

  ‘I’m feeling steadier,’ she said after a minute. ‘I’ll be fine in a …’

  ‘Just wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  Then as suddenly as he’d come, he went; she hadn’t even seen his face. He might have been one of the soldiers she’d watched parading. Perhaps he’d watched her arrive on the tender. She kicked her heel at the wall. She was betrothed; she shouldn’t be here, where a soldier could find her like this. Because of George she had left her mother; he had plans and when he told her, his eyes shone. He told her he would teach her and she would learn; he would help her smooth the rough edges and show her how to find her place. But she must do as he said, and he wouldn’t like her being here like this.

  Somebody else might find her, not a young soldier, but an officer; somebody who’d be angry, who’d rebuke her. Then the Richardsons might hear about it, and she’d be humiliated. She didn’t know how to find her way back, but waiting felt unbearable, and she was about to leave when the soldier returned, and this time she saw him properly.

  ‘I’ve checked and there’s no one about right now. So shall I walk you home?’ he said.

  He was tall, taller than George, or Mr Richardson, taller than Will would be; and he had wide cheekbones and blue eyes. His hair was blond but the shadow on his jaw was dark and his eyebrows made two black lines across his brow. He wasn’t like the boys at home. He looked foreign to her; he looked like a Viking, or how she imagined a Viking to look.

  ‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘Quick then, before they find I’m gone.’

  Forgetting her embarrassment, Meg laughed. ‘You remind me of my brother,’ she said.

  ‘How’s that then?’

  He knows how to get away with things.’

  ‘He in uniform too?’

  She shrugged, not a yes or a no.

  ‘What about your fiancé?’ he said, glancing at her engagement ring.

  She nodded.

  ‘Uniform makes us all look the same,’ the soldier said. ‘Anyway, the coast’s clear. Let’s go.’

  ‘Do you know the way?’

  But she followed him as if he did, and he walked ahead of her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  It took them no time to get back to her part of the ship. More than once they passed sailors and she watched his shoulders gather authority so that he might have been on a mission for Churchill himself, the way he marched. Nobody stopped them; nobody asked what they were doing, though Meg felt herself blush to the roots each time. Then they reached the far end of her corridor.

  ‘I know where I am now. My cabin’s down here,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll show you to your door.’

  ‘But if a steward …’

  ‘There’s enough that’s dangerous going on; at least I can show you to your door.’

  There was a touch of grievance in his voice, so she let him. So much at stake for each if they were caught, it was better not to think about it, and they walked along the corridor, with the pictures of Naples and Nice hanging on the walls, and the war going on just out there, for all the world as if he were walking her home from the pictures.

  ‘It’s here,’ she said.

  She put her key in the lock and looked round.

  ‘You’ve been …’ she said, but he put a finger to his lips.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Voices,’ he whispered back.

  She froze, listening, like a rabbit in the field when it hears the gun. Then turned the key and shoved the door with her shoulder.

  ‘Quick,’ she said, and she grabbed his sleeve. He stumbled against her and she fought to keep her feet, finding herself half-pinioned against the dressing table. The voice
s were clearer now and she knew them.

  ‘The Richardsons. Shut the door,’ she said. She passed him the key. ‘Lock it.’

  ‘Silent as the grave,’ he said.

  They stood stock-still in the dark, his hand on Meg’s arm and her elbow banging against his ribs. She gripped the dressing table for balance. The tip of his boot dug at her ankle, so that she breathed rapidly and shallowly, so as not to exclaim or cry out.

  The voices stopped outside her door.

  ‘Meg!’ Mrs Richardson called, then a pause. ‘Meg!’ she called again.

  ‘Miss Bryan,’ Mr Richardson said in an ordering tone of voice.

  Meg held the dressing table tight, her palms slippy with sweat.

  ‘If she’s not here, then I shall speak to the captain.’ Meg could hear every word; Mrs Richardson’s voice was peremptory. ‘He ought to know that a young woman has gone missing.’

  ‘She’ll be hiding out somewhere. She’s only been gone half an hour.’

  ‘But what if she isn’t? She seemed very upset.’

  ‘Silly little thing. There is a war on.’

  ‘John!’

  ‘Can’t turn the ship, the bloody convoy, around for a single girl in the middle of the Atlantic.’

  ‘John, don’t.’

  ‘She got herself worked up, God knows why. She’ll be better once she’s married,’ he said.

  Meg’s mouth had dropped in surprise. It wasn’t comfortable, hearing herself talked about like this. It wasn’t comfortable, standing here in the dark with this stranger.

  ‘Bang on the door, darling,’ Mrs Richardson said. ‘Just in case. She might be a heavy sleeper.’

  The door thudded, a dull, underwater sound, then the door handle turned. Meg’s heart was in her mouth. What if the soldier hadn’t locked the door properly? But the door stayed firmly shut, and after a moment she heard Mr Richardson’s voice again.

  ‘Come on. I want a cup of coffee, before the steward’s buggered off.’

  It went quiet after that, but she couldn’t tell if they’d gone. What if they were waiting in the corridor? She listened out as hard as she could beyond the sound of her own breathing but all she could hear was the ship’s noisy silence gathered around them – its deep turbine rumble, the break of sea against the hull. With her body jarred against the soldier’s – elbow and shoe and hip and chin – she waited until she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, that she would snap with the tension. Then the soldier spoke.