Ship of Brides

by Jojo Moyes

  ‘And you – you still wear it?’

  ‘Cow dung included. To me that’s part of the romance.’ Then, as Jean’s hand went to her mouth, ‘Oh, Jean! Of course I washed it before I put it on. I had to do the same for Joe. My first evening as his fiancée was spent washing and ironing his uniform so that he wouldn’t get into trouble back at base.’

  ‘Stan asked me while we were at a dance,’ said Jean. ‘I reckon I was the youngest there – I was still fifteen. But it was lovely. I was wearing a blue shantung silk two-piece, it belonged to my friend Polly, and he said I was the most beautiful girl in the room. He’d had a few, but when they struck up with “You Made Me Love You” he turned to his mate and said, “This is the girl I’m going to marry. You hear that?” And then he said it louder. And I made out I was dead embarrassed but, to be honest, I really liked it.’

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ said Frances, smiling.

  ‘He was the first person to tell me he loved me.’ Her eyes glittered with tears. ‘No one ever told me that. Not my mum. Never even met my dad.’ She pushed her hair off her face. ‘Nope. I got nothing back there, nothing. He’s the best man I ever met.’

  They had sat, in near silence, for almost half an hour more, Margaret calling to the traders to come closer, to take these back, bring those over. She had bought, at ridiculous cost, two necklaces for Letty, telling herself they would be a lovely gift, knowing it was a feeble attempt to atone. As the heat grew fiercer, and the sun moved across, taking their vantage-point out of the shade, she thought about moving. But no entertainments had been planned for the day, owing to the former expectation that they would be ashore, and the thought of them bickering with each other in the little dormitory was unbearable.

  She was squinting listlessly at a small propeller craft humming towards them, the naval cap of its skipper, the clumsy grey shapes on board, watching them become increasingly distinct at it drew closer. She heard exclamations along the length of the ship as other women realised what it was.

  ‘Girls!’ she yelled. ‘It’s the post! We’ve got post!’

  An hour later, they sat in the canteen, the normally cabbage-scented air now thick with anticipation, as a Red Cross officer collected all mail to be sent and distributed small bundles of letters from a trestle table at the end. The announcement of each name was greeted with squeals from the recipient and her friends, as if she was being called up to collect an award, rather than correspondence. Around them the windows were propped open to allow the sea breezes to penetrate the room. The light bounced off them, echoing the glimmering ocean low.

  Jean had been among the first called to the table: her impressive seven letters from Stan had restored some of her vitality. She had handed them to Frances, who read them aloud in her low, sonorous voice, while Jean puffed nervously at a cigarette. ‘Did you hear that?’ she kept interrupting. ‘My name tattooed on his right arm. In two colours! And it hurt like buggery.’

  Margaret and Frances had exchanged a glance. ‘And,’ Frances continued, ‘he’s won four pounds in a boxing match. He says the other fellow’s idea of boxing involved trying to block Stan’s punches with his nose.’

  ‘Hear that?’ Jean nudged Margaret. ‘Trying to block punches with his nose!’ If her laughter was a little too high to suggest genuine mirth, no one said anything. It was enough that she was laughing at all.

  Later Frances would confide that she had left out several paragraphs: those that warned Jean to ‘behave herself’, and the story of a sweetheart deserted by one of his friends once he heard she had been ‘playing fast and loose’.

  ‘Margaret O’Brien?’

  Margaret was out of her chair with a speed that belied her cumbersome frame. Breathless, she launched herself at the sheaf of letters proffered towards her, and returned, glowing and triumphant, her failure to get ashore forgotten. She wondered, briefly, whether she could go to the cabin and read them in private without causing offence. But just as she was about to ask, she heard a chair scrape back, and looked up from the envelopes to see Avice seat herself carefully in front of them.

  There was a brief pause. Margaret, a little taken aback that Avice had chosen to seat herself among them after the previous evening’s quarrel, wondered if she might be about to apologise.

  ‘I’ve got news,’ Avice said.

  ‘So have I,’ said Jean. ‘Look. Seven letters. Seven!’

  ‘No,’ said Avice. She had a contained smile on her face, as if she harboured some great secret. It was a different Avice from the furious, tight-lipped girl who had left their cabin several hours earlier. ‘I have real news,’ she said, her chin jutting out. ‘I’m expecting.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘Expecting what?’ said Jean.

  ‘A baby, of course. I’ve been to the doctor.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Frances. ‘Dr Duxbury doesn’t strike me as . . . the most reliable . . .’ She thought of the last time she had seen him, singing blindly into a stores cupboard.

  ‘Oh, so nurses know more than doctors now, do they?’

  ‘No, I’m just—’

  ‘Dr Duxbury has taken a blood test, but in the meantime he asked me lots of questions and did an examination. He’s pretty certain.’ She smoothed her hair and glanced around, perhaps hoping to impart such momentous news to a wider audience.

  ‘I guess it makes sense,’ said Margaret, ‘now I think about it.’

  The two other women looked at each other.

  Avice couldn’t retain her composure. Her face lit up, cheeks pink with excitement. ‘A baby! Can you imagine? I knew I couldn’t be seasick. I’ve been yachting loads of times and that didn’t make me ill. Margaret, you must tell me everything I need to buy. Do you think they sell baby clothes in England? I shall have to get Mummy to send over all sorts of things.’

  Margaret stood up and reached over the table to hug her. ‘Avice,’ she said, ‘it’s great news. Congratulations. How wonderful for you both.’

  ‘Strewth,’ said Jean, wide-eyed. ‘So all that seasickness was really you expecting?’ She looked genuinely pleased. Frances hasn’t told her of Avice’s betrayal, Margaret thought, and felt suddenly sad for her.

  ‘He thinks I’m already nine or ten weeks along. I was rather shocked when he told me. But I’m so excited. Ian’s going to be thrilled. He’ll be such a good father,’ Avice trilled, one slim hand resting on her flat stomach, already lost in a vision of future family life.

  Margaret marvelled at her ability to wipe out the events of the past hours.

  ‘Stan got a tattoo of my name,’ Jean told her, but Avice didn’t hear.

  ‘I think I shall put in a special request to the captain to wire my family and tell them the news. I don’t think I can bear to wait until we reach England.’ Her name, called in clipped tones, echoed through the canteen. ‘Letters!’ she said, standing. ‘Letters! In all the excitement I hadn’t even thought – oh, you two have got yours.’ She looked at Frances, as if suddenly remembering, and said nothing.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Frances. She didn’t look at Avice.

  Frances’s name was called an hour later; it was almost the last, and cut across the canteen when the once-packed room was nearly empty. Margaret had thought several times about leaving them all to drink in Joe’s words in private, then re-examine them with the benefit of silence, but there was such bad blood between the other girls now, and Jean was still fragile, that she felt obliged to wait.

  Avice had received two letters from her family, and two very old ones from Ian, sent only days after he had left Sydney. ‘Look at the date on them,’ she had said crossly. She had seemed to count it as a personal insult that Jean and Margaret had received more than she had. ‘Ian’s are nearly six weeks old. Honestly, you’d think the least the Navy could do is make sure we get our letters on time. How on earth am I meant to tell him about the baby if he’s going to get my next letter a week after we reach Plymouth?’

  She studied the postm
ark bad-temperedly. ‘It’s really not on. I should have had lots more by now. They’re probably piled up in some godforsaken outpost somewhere.’

  ‘I think you were just unlucky, Avice,’ said Margaret, absently. She had reread Joe’s first several times now. He had numbered them thoughtfully so that she could read them in the correct order. ‘Hello, love,’ he had written. ‘Hoping by the time you get this you’ll be on board the Victoria. Couldn’t believe it when you told me you’d be on that old girl. Keep a lookout for Archie Littlejohn. He’s a radio man. We trained together back in ’44. Good chap. He’ll look out for you. Then again I reckon there’s not a man on board who won’t look out for you girls. They’re a good bunch on the Vic.’

  Margaret gulped as his words became audible in her imagination, and thought of Joe’s trusting faith in the good nature of the men around him. She sneaked a look at Jean, who was gazing intently at Stan’s letters. ‘Want me to teach you?’ she asked. ‘While we’re on board? Bet we could have you reading by the time we disembark.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Nothing to it,’ said Margaret. ‘An hour or two a day and you’ll be a regular bookworm.’

  ‘Stan doesn’t know . . . about the reading. I always got my mate Nancy to write letters for me, see?’ she said. ‘But then I remembered when I came aboard that if anyone else writes them it’ll be in different handwriting.’

  ‘All the more reason to get you started,’ said Margaret. ‘You’ll be able to write your own And I bet you Stan won’t know any different.’

  Jean’s obvious delight lightened the mood. ‘You really think I could do it?’ she kept saying, and grinning when Margaret responded in the affirmative. Her mother had always told her she was thick, Jean revealed, her eyes darting between them. ‘Mind you, she’s gotta be the thick one. She’s stuck back there working in the cracker factory, and I’m on a ship to Blighty. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Margaret, firmly. ‘Here, give us your envelope. I’ll write out your ABCs.’

  Frances had arrived back at the table. Avice glanced up from her letters at Frances’s hand. ‘Only one?’ she said loudly. She failed to keep the smile off her face.

  Frances was unperturbed. ‘It’s from one of my old patients,’ she said, with shy pleasure. ‘He’s home and walking again.’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Margaret, patting her arm.

  ‘Nothing from your husband?’

  ‘Avice . . .’ said Margaret, warningly.

  ‘Well, I’m only asking.’

  There was a brief silence.

  Margaret made as if to speak, then couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Oh, well. Perhaps he was overcome at the thought of seeing you again,’ she said. Avice raised her eyebrows, stood up and strolled away.

  Having failed to elicit a reply from you to any of my correspondence, I am writing out of courtesy to let you know that I have applied for a divorce, on grounds of three years’ desertion. While you and I know this might not be quite correct, I am hoping you will not contest. Anton is paying for the children’s and my passage to America, so that we can join him there. We leave Southampton on the 25th. I would have liked us to do this in a civilised manner, for the children’s sake as much as anything, but you are obviously determined to show me the same lack of concern as you have displayed the whole time you have been gone.

  Where is your humanity? Perhaps there is nothing left of you underneath your rules and regulations. I know things must have been hard for you. I know you have probably seen and coped with no end of horrors. But we, here, are living. We would have been your lifeline if you had let us.

  Now I feel no guilt in choosing life, a better life, for me and my children . . .

  ‘What’s the matter, Nicol? You look a bit pale. Got a Not Wanted Don’t Come?’ Jones-the-Welsh was lying on his hammock, flicking through a dozen or so letters. They would be from a dozen or so women.

  Nicol stared, unseeing, at his. Crumpled it into his pocket. ‘No,’ he said, then coughed to stop his voice cracking. ‘No . . . just a bit of news from home.’

  A few of the men around him exchanged glances. ‘No one ill?’ said Jones.

  ‘No,’ said Nicol. His tone halted further enquiries.

  ‘Well, you look terrible. In fact, you’ve looked like buggery for weeks. Working middle watch does that to you, doesn’t it, lads? You know what you need, man?’ Here he punched Nicol’s arm. ‘You need a bit of R and R. You’re off tonight, right? Come ashore with us.’

  ‘Ah . . . I think I’ll just sleep.’

  ‘It’s called leave, man. Believe it or not, Nicol, even you are meant to go off duty occasionally.’

  ‘I’ll stay here. Got a bit of make and mend to catch up on.’

  ‘Sorry, man, can’t have it. You’ve got a pocket full of dosh and a face like a smacked arse. Dr Jones here says the only cure is to lighten the pair of them. Get a couple of hours’ kip now. Then you’re coming out with us. And we’re going to get absolutely pissed.’

  Nicol began to refuse, then felt inexplicably relieved by Jones’s good-natured bullying. The thought of standing outside that metal door, alone with his thoughts at another dawn, was too much. ‘Okay,’ he said, strung up his hammock and hopped lithely into it. ‘You’re on. Wake me up half an hour before you want to head off.’

  They had eaten together – less, Margaret suspected, out of any great desire on Avice’s part to share her meals with them but because Irene and her friends had made it clear, by their whispers and cold stares, that she was no longer welcome in their set. She had watched Avice preparing to bounce over to their table and announce her news until she realised they were being discussed – not in a good way. She had deflated a little, her eyes darting to them at every peal of laughter. Then she had smoothed her hair and sat down opposite Margaret. ‘You know,’ she said lightly, ‘I’ve just remembered what I couldn’t stand about that Irene Carter. She’s terribly rude. I can’t imagine what I ever saw in her.’

  ‘It’s nice for us all to eat together for a change,’ Margaret said equably, ignoring Frances’s silence.

  ‘Nice not to have Avice puking anyway,’ said Jean.

  ‘Did they make a mistake with your post, Frances,’ said Avice, ‘or did you really get just one letter?’

  ‘Do you know what, Avice?’ said Margaret, loudly. She pushed away her plate. ‘We had a lovely chat earlier about how our husbands proposed to us. I bet you’d love to tell us how Ian proposed to you, wouldn’t you?’

  Margaret caught Frances’s look. It might have been of gratitude or something else entirely.

  ‘Have I not told you? Really? Oh, it was the best day of my life. Well, next to our wedding, of course. That’s always a girl’s best day, isn’t it? And in our case we couldn’t have the kind of wedding I might normally have expected – with my family’s position in society and all . . . No, it had to be a bit more intimate. But, oh, Ian’s proposal. Oh, yes . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘Do you know? It still comes back to me so vividly, almost like a scent . . .’

  ‘A bit like Margaret’s, then,’ said Jean.

  ‘I knew he was the one as soon as I saw him. And he says the same about me. Oh, girls, he’s so sweet. And it’s been so long since we spoke – I can’t bear it. He’s the most romantic man alive. I didn’t think I’d marry into the services, you see. I wasn’t one of those uniform-hunters, always fluttering her eyelashes at anything in whites. But I was helping out at one of the tea dances – perhaps you had something similar where you were? – and I saw him and that was it. I knew I had to be Mrs Radley.’

  ‘So what did he do?’ said Jean, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Well, he was terribly gentlemanly. We knew we loved each other – he told me he was actually obsessed with me at one point – can you imagine? – but he was worried about whether I could cope with being a services wife. I mean, what with all the separations and insecurity . . . He told me he didn’t know if it was fair to put me through that. But I tol
d him, “I may look like a delicate flower” – that’s what my father used to call me, his little jasmine blossom – “but I’m actually quite strong. Really. I’m very determined.” And I think even Ian recognised that in the end.’

  ‘So, what happened?’ said Margaret, sucking her teaspoon.

  ‘Well, we were both in agony. Daddy wanted us to wait. And Ian didn’t want to upset him, so he said he would. But I couldn’t bear the thought of us leaving each other simply “engaged”.’

  ‘Worried he’d bugger off with someone else?’ said Jean.

  ‘So he got permission from his commander and we just ran off and got married in front of a justice of the peace. Just like that. It was terribly romantic.’

  ‘What a lovely story, Avice,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m going to get some tea. Anyone want a cup?’

  Outside the sky was darkening. The sunsets happened rapidly here, day fading into night with some impatience. The ship was quieter than usual, despite the presence of the women, as if the absence of the men had seeped into each deck, subduing them.

  ‘I’ll go and see if they’re going to show anything at the cinema,’ said Jean.

  ‘They might have decided to put something on with us all being here.’

  ‘There’s nothing,’ said Avice, ‘just a sign saying the next one’s tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘The men will be ashore now,’ said Margaret, staring out of the window. ‘Lucky things.’

  ‘What about your bloke, Frances?’ Jean rested her chin on her hands, her head tilted to one side. ‘How did he propose?’

  Frances stood up, began gathering plates on to a tray. ‘Oh, it’s not very interesting,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure we’d be fascinated,’ said Avice.

  Frances gave her a hard look.

  Margaret thought she should probably try to steer the conversation towards some other course, but she had to admit to a sneaking curiosity.