by Jojo Moyes
Avice calculated how much time was left before they should get up and return home. If they left in the next hour they could possibly nip into the zoo so that she wouldn’t have to lie about where they’d been. Her mother was bound to ask her something pointed about Sumatran tigers or some such.
Ian had been dozing, one heavy arm pinning her to the bed. Now he opened an eye. ‘What are you thinking?’
She let her head turn slowly until their faces were only inches apart. ‘I was thinking we were probably not supposed to do this until after the wedding.’
‘Don’t say that, gorgeous girl. I couldn’t have waited that long.’
‘Would it have been so hard?’
‘Sweetheart, you know I’ve only got a forty-eight-hour pass. Wasn’t this more fun than fussing about plans for flowers and bridesmaids and what-have-you?’
Avice thought secretly that she would probably have liked fussing over flowers and bridesmaids, but she didn’t want to spoil the mood so she smiled enigmatically.
‘God, I love you.’
She could feel his words on her skin, as if he were giving her tiny particles of himself even in his breath. She closed her eyes, savouring them: ‘I love you too, darling.’
‘You’re not sorry?’ he said.
‘To be marrying you?’ Her eyes widened.
‘To have done . . . you know. I didn’t hurt you or anything?’
He had, a little, if she was honest. But not in any way that had made her want to stop. She blushed now, shocked at the things she had found herself doing, at how easily she had surrendered to him. She had always suspected, from what her mother had told her, that it would be something she had to endure. The Sleeping Beast, her mother had called it. ‘Best leave it sleeping as much as possible,’ she had advised sagely.
‘You don’t think any less of me . . .’ she murmured ‘. . . for having let you . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I mean, I’m not sure I was meant to enjoy it quite as much as I did . . .’
‘Oh, my darling girl, no! God, no, it was wonderful that you liked it. In fact, that’s one of the things I love about you, Avice,’ Ian pulled her close to him and spoke into her hair. ‘You’re a sensual creature. A free spirit. Not like English girls.’
A free spirit. She had found herself believing this new version of herself, as Ian described it. Some time earlier, when she had found herself naked and self-conscious before him, he had said she was a goddess, the most alluring creature he had ever seen, and something else that made her blush, his eyes unfocused in admiration of her, and she had found herself determinedly becoming alluring and goddess-like when she really wanted to reach for a dressing-gown.
This must mean he’s right for me, she told herself. He has it in him to make me better than I am.
Outside, the traffic was picking up. Somewhere below the open window a car door slammed and a man shouted insistently, ‘Davy, Davy,’ apparently unheeded.
‘So,’ she said, disentangling their legs and sliding round so that she was leaning over him, some small part of her still shocked at the feel of his naked skin against hers. ‘You really, really love me, do you?’
He smiled at her, his hair matted against the pillow. She thought she’d never seen a more handsome man in her entire life. ‘Do you really have to ask?’
‘And I never do anything to upset you, or irritate you?’
‘Couldn’t,’ he said, reaching over to the bedside table for a cigarette. ‘Impossible.’
‘And you want to be with me for ever?’
‘More than. For infinity.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Then I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not to be angry with me.’
He pulled a cigarette from his packet with neat white teeth, and paused, using the arm looped round her neck to cup the flame of the match as he lit it. ‘Mm?’ he said. A soft plume of blue smoke rose into the still air beside her head.
‘We’re getting married.’
He looked at her for a moment. His eyes creased upwards. ‘Of course we’re getting married, my little duck.’
‘Tomorrow.’
She didn’t like to think too hard about that next bit. The way those creases hardened and his eyes became less soft.
The way the not-so-Sleeping Beast had suddenly become more so.
‘What?’
‘I’ve fixed it up. With a justice of the peace. We’re getting married tomorrow. At the Collins Street register office. Mum and Dad and Deanna are going to be there and the Hendersons have agreed to be our witnesses.’ Then, when he didn’t say anything, ‘Oh, darling, don’t be cross with me. I couldn’t bear the thought of you going off again and us only being engaged. And I thought seeing as you do love me and I love you and we only want to be together there wasn’t any point in waiting months and months and months. And you did say you’d got permission from your commander.’
Ian sat up abruptly so that she fell against the pillow. She pushed herself upright against the headboard, the sheet gathered round her chest.
Ian had leant forward, his back to her. It might have been her imagination, but there appeared to be grim determination in the way he was smoking his cigarette.
‘Now, darling,’ she said, playfully, ‘you’re not to be cross. I won’t have it.’
He didn’t move.
She waited several lifetimes, and slumped a little. The pert expression of disapproval slowly faded. Eventually, when she could bear it no longer, she put out a hand to him. His skin, where it met hers, sang to her of the previous hours. ‘Are you really cross with me?’
He was silent. He put out his cigarette, then turned back to her, running a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t like you organising things over my head . . . especially not something as – as important as this.’
Now she dropped the sheet, leant forwards and put her arms round his neck. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she whispered, nuzzling his ear. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ That wasn’t strictly true: even as she had made the appointment, she had known that the flicker of nervousness in the pit of her stomach was not purely anticipation.
‘It’s a man’s place, after all, to arrange these things. You make me feel . . . I don’t know, Avice. Who wears the trousers here?’ His was face clouded.
‘You!’ she said, and the last of the sheet dropped away as she slid a slim leg over him.
‘This isn’t some joke, is it? It’s all set up? Guests and everything?’
She lifted her lips from his neck. ‘Only the Hendersons. Apart from family, I mean. It’s not like I organised some huge do without you knowing.’
He covered his face with a hand. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’
‘Oh, Ian, sweetheart, please don’t—’
‘I can’t believe you—’
‘You do still want me, don’t you, darling?’ Her voice, tremulous and a little pleading, suggested more doubt than Avice felt. It had never occurred to her that Ian might change his mind.
‘You know I do . . . It’s just—’
‘You want to make sure you’re head of the household. Of course you do! You know I think you’re simply masterful. And if we had had more time I would have left it as long as anything. Oh, Ian, don’t be cross, darling, please. It’s only because I wanted to be Mrs Radley so badly.’
She pressed her nose to his and widened her blue eyes so that he might lose himself in them. ‘Oh, Ian, darling, I do love you so much.’
He had said nothing initially, just submitted to her kisses, her murmured entreaties, the gentle exploration of her hands. Then, slowly, she felt him thaw. ‘It’s only because I love you, darling,’ she whispered, and as he gave himself up to her, as she slowly became lost, felt their bodies restoring him to her, as the Sleeping Beast awoke, a little part of her reflected with satisfaction that, difficult as these things could sometimes be, through intelligence, charm and a bit of luck, Avice Pritchard usually had her way.
He had been a little odd at the wedding. She knew he
r mother thought so. He had been distracted, selectively deaf, bit his nails even (an unbecoming habit in a grown man). Given that there were only eight of them, and that he was an officer, she had thought his nervousness a little excessive.
‘Don’t be silly,’ her father had said. ‘All grooms are supposed to look like condemned men.’ Her mother had hit him playfully, and tried to raise a reassuring lipsticked smile.
Deanna had sulked. She had worn a blue suit, almost dark enough to be considered black, and Avice had complained about it to her mother, who had told her not to fuss. ‘It’s very hard for her, you being the first to get married,’ she had whispered. ‘Do you understand?’
Avice did. Only too well.
‘Still love me?’ she had said to him afterwards. Their parents had paid for everyone’s dinner and a night at the Melbourne Grand. Her mother had wept at the table and told her in a stage whisper, as she and Ian left to go upstairs, that it really wasn’t all that bad and it might help if she had a little drink or two first. Avice had smiled – a smile that reassured her mother and irritated the bejaysus out of her sister, to whom it said, I’m going to do It: I shall be a woman before you. She had even been tempted to tell her sister she had already done It the previous evening, but the way Deanna had been lately, she thought she was likely to blab to their mother and that was all she needed.
‘Ian? Do you still love me, now that I’m just boring Mrs Radley?’
They had reached their room. He closed the door behind her, took another swig of his brandy and loosened his collar. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. He had seemed more like himself then. He pulled her to him, and slid a warm hand chaotically up her thigh. ‘I love you to bits, darling girl.’
‘Forgiven me?’
His attention was already elsewhere. ‘Of course.’ He dropped his lips to her neck, and bit her gently. ‘I told you. I just don’t like surprises.’
‘I reckon there’s a storm brewing.’ Jones-the-Welsh checked the barometer at the side of the mess door, and lit another cigarette, then generated a shudder. ‘I can feel it inside me. Pressure like this – it’s got to break some time, right?’
‘What do you think that was this morning, Scotch mist?’
‘Call that a storm? That was a piss and a fart in a teacup. I’m talking about a proper storm, lads. A real wild woman of a storm. The kind that stands your hair on end, whips you round the chops and shreds your trousers afore you can say, “Ah, come on now, love. I was just calling you her name for a joke.”’
There was a rumble of laughter from various hammocks. Nicol, lying in his, heard the sound as a dull harbinger of darkening skies. Jones was right. There would be a storm. He felt tense, jittery, as if he had drunk too many cups of Arab coffee. At least, he told himself it was the storm.
In his mind Nicol saw, again, the imprint of that pale face, illuminated by moonlight. There had been no invitation in her glance, no coquettishness. She was not the kind of woman who considered flirting compensation for the condition of marriage. But there was something in her gaze. Something that told him of an understanding between them. A connection. She knew him. That was what he felt.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said aloud, swinging his legs out of the hammock. He had not meant to speak, and as his feet hit the floor he felt self-conscious.
‘What’s the matter, Nicol, my love?’ Jones-the-Welsh put down his letter. ‘Someone done up your corset too tight? Not arrested enough people lately?’
Nicol closed his eyes. They were sore, gritty. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. It let him chase it through the daytime hours, occasionally suggesting that it would be his. Then as he relaxed, the urge evaporated and left him, with that imprint on the back of his eyelids. And an ache in his soul. How can I think like this? he would ask himself. Me of all people.
‘Headache,’ he said now, rubbing his forehead. ‘As you said. The pressure.’
He had told himself he was incapable of emotion. So shocked by the horrors of war, by the loss of so many around him that, like so many men, he had closed off. Now, forced to examine his behaviour honestly, he thought perhaps he had never loved his wife, that he had instead become caught up in expectation, in the idea that he should marry. He had had to – after she had revealed the consequence of what they had done. You married, you had your children and you grew old. Your wife grew sour with lack of attention; you grew bitter and introverted for your lost dreams; the children grew up and moved on, promising themselves they would not make the same mistakes. There was no room for wishful thinking, for alternatives. You Got On With It. Perhaps, he thought in his darkest moments, he found it hard to admit that war had freed him from that.
‘You know, Nic, the stokers are talking of having a party tonight. Now that the old lady’s settled down again.’ He patted the wall beside him. ‘I must say, it does seem a waste for all that female talent to miss out on the experience of a bit of good old naval hospitality. I thought I might look in later.’
Nicol reached for a boot and began to polish it. ‘You’re a dog,’ he said.
Jones-the-Welsh let out a joyous woof. ‘Oh, what’s the harm?’ he said. ‘Those who don’t want a bit of Welsh rarebit must be proper in love with their old men. So that’s lovely. Those who find the sea air has . . .’ here he raised an eyebrow ‘. . . given them a bit of an appetite, probably weren’t going to go the distance anyway.’
‘You can’t do it, Jones. They’re all married, for God’s sake.’
‘And I’m pretty sure some are already a little less married than they were when they set out. You heard about the episode on B Deck, didn’t you? And I was on middle watch outside 6E last night. That girl with the blonde hair’s a menace. Won’t bloody leave me alone. In and out, in and out . . . “Ooh, I’m just popping to the bathroom,” dressing-gown hanging open. I’m sure us men are the real victims in these things.’ He fluttered his eyelashes.
Nicol went back to his boots.
‘Ah, come on, Nicol. Don’t come over all married and judgemental on us. Just because you’re happy living by the rule book doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t enjoy ourselves a little.’
‘I think you should leave them alone,’ he said, closing his ears to the communal ‘woohoo!’ that met his words. There was a creeping lack of respect for the women, even among men he considered honourable, that made him uncomfortable.
‘And I think you should buck up a bit. Lidders here is coming, aren’t you, boy? And Brent and Farthing. Come with us – then you can see we’re behaving ourselves.’
‘I’m on duty.’
‘Of course you are. Pressed up to that dormitory door listening to those girls pant with longing.’ He cackled and jumped into his own hammock. ‘Oh, come on, Nicol. Marines are allowed a bit of fun too. Look . . . think of what we’re doing, right, as some kind of service. The entertainment of the Empire’s wives. For the benefit of the nation.’
With an extravagant salute, Jones leant back again. By the time Nicol had worked out an appropriately pithy response, Jones had fallen asleep, a lit Senior Service hanging loosely from his hand.
The men were boxing on the flight deck. Someone had set up a ring where the Corsairs had sat and in it Dennis Tims was battering several shades of something unrepeatable out of one of the seamen. His naked upper body a taut block of sinewy muscle, he moved without grace or rhythm around the ring. He was an automaton, a machine of destruction, his fists pounding bluntly until the darting, weaving young seaman succumbed and was hauled unconscious through the ropes and away. Four rounds in, there was such a terrible inevitability to his victories that the assembled men and brides were finding it hard to raise the enthusiasm to clap.
Frances, who had found it difficult to watch them, stood with her back to them. Tims, punching, was too close a reminder of the night of Jean’s ‘incident’. There was something in the power of his swing, in the brutal set of his jaw as he ploughed into the pale flesh presented to him that made her feel cold, eve
n in this heat. She had wondered, when she and Jean had sat down, whether they should move away, for the younger girl’s sake. But Jean’s benign interest demonstrated that she had been too drunk to know what Tims had seen – or for that matter, what anyone else had done.
‘Hope they don’t get too hot and bothered,’ Jean said now, folding herself neatly into the spot beside Margaret. She seemed to find it difficult to sit still: she had spent the last hour wandering backwards and forwards between the ringside and their deck-chairs. ‘Have you heard? The water’s run out.’
Margaret looked at her. ‘What?’
‘Not drinking water, but the pump isn’t working properly and there’s no washing – not hair, clothes or anything – until they’ve mended it. Emergency rations only. Can you imagine? In this weather!’ She fanned herself with her hand. ‘I tell you there’s a bloody riot in the bathrooms. That Irene Carter might think she’s a right lady, but when her shower stopped you should have heard the language. Would have made old Dennis blush.’
Over the past week or so, Jean had recovered her good humour, so much so that her ceaseless and largely inconsequential chatter had taken on a new momentum. ‘You know Avice is taking Irene on for Queen of the Victoria? They’ve got the Miss Lovely Legs competition this afternoon. Avice has been down to the cases and persuaded the officer to let her get out her best pair of pumps. Four-inch heels in dark green satin to match her bathing suit.’
‘Oh.’
Tims followed an upper cut with a left hook. Then again. And again.