by Jojo Moyes
Daily Mirror, Wednesday, 7 August 1946
Eight hours to Plymouth
A naval uniform, unsupported by the human frame, is a curious thing. With its thick dark material, its braid and brass buttons, it speaks of whole other realms of being, of parades, of the effort - pressing, mending, polishing - involved in its upkeep. It speaks of propriety, routines and orderly habits, of those who inhabit it and those whose uniforms match it. Depending on its stripes, or badges, it also speaks of a history of conflict. It tells a story: of battles fought and won, of sacrifices made. Of bravery and fear.
But it tells you nothing about a life. Highfield stared at his uniform, carefully pressed by his steward, now hanging under little epaulettes of tissue paper, ready for its last outing when Victoria docked the following day. What does that uniform say about me? he thought, running his hand down the sleeve. Does it tell of a man who only knew who he was when he was at war? Or of a man who realises now that the thing he thought he was escaping from, intimacy, humanity, was what he had lacked all along?
Highfield turned to the chart that lay folded upon his table with a pair of dividers. Beside it stood his half-packed trunk. He knew where his steward would have placed it, did not have to slide his hands too far under the carefully packed clothes before he found the frame that had spent the last six months face down in his drawer. Now he took it out, unwrapped the tissue paper in which Rennick had thoughtfully placed it. It was a silver-framed photograph of a young man, his arm round a smiling woman who tried, with one hand, to stop the wind blowing her hair in dark ribbons across her face.
It would make a man of the lad, he had told his sister. The Navy turned boys into men. He would take care of him.
He stared at the image of the young man grinning back at him, one arm resting on his wife's shoulders. Then he moved the chart a little and placed it upright on the table. It would be the last thing he would take from this ship.
They were a matter of hours from Plymouth. By the time the women woke, the ship would be preparing to disgorge them into their new lives. Tomorrow, from the earliest pipes, the ship would be a vortex of activity: endless lists crossed and checked, women and men queuing for their trunks, the procedural and ceremonial duties involved in the bringing of a great ship into harbour. He had seen it before, the excitement, the nervous anticipation of the men waiting to disembark. Except this time the war was over. This time they knew their leave was safe, their return permanent.
They would pour off the ship, straight into those tearful embraces, eyes shut tight in gratitude, the pawing excitement of their children. They would walk or drive off in noisy cars to homes that might or might not be as they remembered them. If they were lucky, there would be a sense of a hole filled.
Not everyone would be so lucky. He had seen some relatives turn up even after they had received the dreaded telegram, unable or unwilling to accept that their John or Robert or Michael was never coming home. You could spot them even in the teeming crowds, their eyes fixed on the gangplank, hands tight on handbags or newspapers, hoping to be proved wrong.
And then, on board, there were those like Highfield. Those whose return was not marked by joyous or clamorous thanks, but who made their way inconspicuously through the crowds of jostling, reunited families, perhaps to be met miles away by the muted pleasure of relatives who tolerated them through familial pity. Through duty.
Highfield stared again at the uniform he would wear for the last time tomorrow. Then he pulled out a chair, sat down at his desk and began to write.
Dear Iris,
I have some news for you. I am not coming to Tiverton. Please send Lord Hamworth my apologies and tell him I will be happy to make up any financial disadvantage my decision might cause on his part.
I have decided, upon reflection, that a life on land is probably not for me . . .
Nicol could think of nowhere else to go. Even at a quarter to one at night the mess was a seething mass of noisy men, high on anticipation and extra sippers, pulling their photographs from their lockers and packing them into overstuffed kitbags, exchanging stories about where they would be, what they wanted to do first. If the missus could find someone to mind the kids . . . He had not wanted to sit among them, had not thought himself capable of deflecting their good-natured joshing. He needed to be alone, to digest what had happened to him.
He could still taste her. His body was charged, shot through with painful urgency. Did she hate him? Did she consider him no better than Tims, or any of them? Why had he done that to her, when she had spent weeks, years even, despising men who thought of her only in that way?
He had gone up to the flight deck.
He had not expected to find himself in company.
The captain was standing on the foredeck, in front of the bridge. He was in his shirtsleeves, head bare to the wind. Nicol, emerging on to the deck, halted in the doorway and prepared to retreat but Highfield had spotted him and Nicol realised he would have to acknowledge him.
'Finished your watch?'
Nicol stepped forwards so that he was standing beside the captain. It was cold out here, the first time he had felt properly cold since they left Australia. 'Yes, sir. We're not posted outside the brides' area tonight.'
'You were outside Sister Mackenzie's lot, weren't you?'
Nicol looked up sharply. But the captain's look was benign, lost in thought. 'That's the one, sir.' He couldn't believe that she had been disgusted. Her cool hands had been pulling him in, not pushing him away. Nicol felt almost dizzy with uncertainty. How could I have done it after what Fay has done to me?
The captain's hands were thrust deep into his pockets. 'They all all right, are they? I heard two of them were in the sick bay.'
'All fine, sir.'
'Good. Good. Where's Duxbury?'
'He's - er - I believe he's probably taking a nap, sir.'
The captain gave him a sideways look, registered something in Nicol's face and let out a faint but definite 'hmph'. 'You married, Nicol? Not sure I can remember if Dobson told me.'
Nicol paused. He stared at the point where the black sea met the sky and a patch of stars were revealed as the clouds parted, the moon briefly illuminating the endlessly moving landscape. 'No, sir,' he said. 'Not any more.' He noted the captain's enquiring look.
'Don't become too enamoured of your freedom, Nicol. A lack of responsibility, of ties . . . can be a two-edged sword.'
'I'm starting to understand that, sir.'
They stood there for some time in companionable silence. Nicol's thoughts churned like the seas, his skin prickling when he thought of the woman below. What should I have done? he asked himself, over and over. What should I do?
Highfield stepped a little closer to him. He pulled a cigar box from his pocket and offered one to Nicol. 'Here. Celebration,' he said. 'My last night as a captain. My last night after forty-three years in the Navy.'
Nicol took the cigar and allowed the older man to light it, his hand braced against the sea breeze. 'You'll miss it. Out here.'
'No, I won't.'
Perplexed, Nicol turned to him.
'I'm going to go straight back out,' Highfield said. 'See if I can crew merchant ships, that kind of thing. I'm told there's plenty of demand. I don't know, Nicol. These girls have made me think. If they can do it . . .' He shrugged.
'You don't feel . . . like you've earned your time on land, sir?'
The captain exhaled. 'I'm not sure, Nicol, that I'd know how to be on land. Not for any length of time.'
Somewhere beneath their feet, the riveted metal plates that made up Victoria's flight deck groaned, signalling some distant tectonic shift. The two men gazed across the repainted surface, the sectioned-off areas where her innards lay exposed to the night sky. Their thoughts drifted to the engine, whose laboured efforts were apparent in the juddering, the broken trails of foam that should have been a continuous, sweeping line in the water. The ship knew. They both felt it.
Captain Highfield dre
w on his cigar. He was in his shirt, but he didn't seem to feel the cold. 'Did you know she served in the Pacific?'
'Victoria?'
'Your charge. Sister Mackenzie.'
'Sir.' What was she doing now? Was she thinking of him? Unconsciously he raised his hand to his face where she had touched it. He had hardly heard what the captain was saying.
'Brave woman. Brave the lot of them, really. Think about it. This time tomorrow they'll know which way their future lies . . .'
With that man, the man Nicol wanted to hate, wanted to disparage for the mere fact that he had a claim to her. But the way she had described him - how could he hate the gentle, affectionate soldier? How could he despise a man who had managed, from a sickbed, to be more of a husband than he himself had ever been . . . ?
Nicol's head felt feverish, despite the chill night air. He thought he might have to leave, to be alone somewhere. Anywhere.
'Sir, I--'
'Poor girl. She's the second one on board, you know.'
His skin was burning. He had a sudden urge to dive into that cool water.
'Second what, sir?'
'Widow. Had a telegram yesterday for one of the girls on B Deck. Husband's plane went down in Suffolk. Training flight, would you believe?'
'Mrs Mackenzie's husband was killed?' Nicol froze. He felt a stab of guilt, as if he had willed this to happen.
'Mackenzie? No, no, he . . . he died some time ago. Back in the Pacific. Odd decision, really, to leave Australia with nothing to come to. Still, that's the war for you.' He sniffed the air, as if he could detect the proximity of land.
Widowed?
'Look at that. Hardly worth going to sleep now. Here, Nicol, come and have a drink with me.'
Widowed? The word held a glorious resonance. He wanted to shout, 'She's a widow!' Why hadn't she told him? Why hadn't she told anyone? 'Nicol? What do you fancy? Glass of Scotch?'
'Sir?' He glanced towards the hatch, desperate suddenly to get back to her cabin, to tell her what he knew. Why didn't I tell her the truth? he thought. She might have confided in me. He understood suddenly that she had probably believed her status as a married woman offered her the only protection she had ever had.
'Your devotion to duty is admirable, man, but just this once I'm ordering you. Let your hair down a little.'
Nicol felt himself lean towards the hatch. 'Sir, I really--'
'Come on, Marine, indulge me.' He waited, until he was sure Nicol was heading towards his cabin. Then he glanced at him, a rare, sly conspiracy in his smile. 'Besides, how will that little dog get any rest if it's always listening to you shuffling around outside the door?'
As he turned in, Highfield wagged an admonishing finger. 'Not a lot gets past me, Nicol. I might be about to be pensioned off, but I'll tell you this - there's not much goes on on this ship that I don't know about.'
By the time he leaves the captain's rooms it is too late to wake her. He does not mind now: he knows he has time. His stomach full of whisky, and his mind still ringing with that word, he has all the time in the world. He squints against the too-bright blue of the skies as he heads across the flight deck, slows along the hangar deck, and then, as he reaches the women's area, he stops, savouring the dawn silence, the sound of the gulls crying from Plymouth Sound, the sound of home.
He stares at the door, loving that rectangular slab of metal as he has never loved anything. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he turns, places his hands behind his back, and stands outside, his feet planted on the smoke-damaged floor, blinking slowly, head a little muzzy from the drink and cigars.
He is the only marine who will, tomorrow morning, be wearing an unpressed, unpolished uniform. He is the only marine to be disobeying orders by being in close, illegal proximity to the brides.
He is the only marine on duty the entire length of the hangar deck, and there is a look of something proud and proprietorial, mixed with unutterable relief on his face.
25
Australian brides - 655 of them - of British sailors stepped into England last night when the 23,000-ton aircraft carrier Victorious anchored at Plymouth. They brought with them these stories:
ADVENTURE - Mrs Irene Skinner, aged 23, descendant of the Rev. Samuel Marsden, who settled in Australia in 1794, said: 'We may settle in Newfoundland, in England or in Australia, or in fact anywhere where we will find adventure and contentment.'
ROMANCE - Mrs Gwen Clinton, aged 24, whose husband lives in Wembley, spoke of her marriage: 'He was billeted with me in Sydney. I was fascinated by him, and that was the end of it.'
PESSIMISM - Mrs Norma Clifford, 23-year-old wife of a naval engineer: 'They tell me you cannot get any shoes at all in England.' She brought 19 pairs with her.
Daily Mail, 7 August 1946
Plymouth
'I'm not coming out. I tell you - I've changed my mind.'
'Come on, Miriam. Don't be daft.'
'I tell you, I've changed my mind. I've had another look at my photographs and I've decided I don't like the look of him.'
Margaret sat on the edge of her bunk, listening to the urgent exchange coming from the next cabin. The women had been shouting at each other for almost half an hour now; the unfortunate Miriam appeared to have bolted herself in, and none of the others who shared the room, all of whom had been queuing for the bathroom at the time, could get dressed.
As some of the WSOs had predicted, it was chaos. Around the unfortunate inhabitants of 3F, brides ran up and down the corridors, shrieking over mislaid belongings or missing friends. There had been an endless stream of piped instructions to the men, all in preparation for disembarkation, while the air was filled with the sound of seamen calling to each other as they performed last-minute tasks. The WSOs were already congregating at the gangplank, ready for their final duties: to confirm that each bride had been checked off, was in possession of all her cases, that she would be passed into safe hands.
'Brides' second sitting, last call for the canteen, last call for the canteen.' The Tannoy hissed and clicked off.
Insulated from all the activity, and without Avice and Frances, the dormitory was silent. Margaret glanced down at her outfit; she could only squeeze into one of her dresses now, and it was straining at the seams. She rubbed at a little oil mark, knowing it would do no good.
'Just pass me my slip, then, Miriam, will you? We can't stand out here all morning.'
'I'm not opening the door.' The girl's voice was hysterical.
'It's a bit late for that. What are you planning to do? Flap your arms and fly home?'
Her small suitcase, neatly packed, stood at the end of her bunk. Margaret smoothed the blanket beside it where Maudie had lain and took a deep, wavering breath. This was the first morning she had not been able to eat even a piece of dry toast. She felt sick with nerves.
'I don't care! I'm not coming out.'
'Oh, for goodness' sake. Look, get that marine there. He'll help. Hey! You!'
Margaret sat still, conscious of a shuffling against her door. Puzzled, she opened it and stepped back as the marine fell into the cabin, in a heavy tumble of limbs.
'Hello,' said Margaret, as he tried to push himself upright.
'Excuse me.' A woman padded up to Margaret's door, her hair in a towelling turban. She addressed Nicol: 'Miriam Arbiter's locked herself in our cabin. We can't get at our clothes.'
The marine rubbed his head. It was obvious to Margaret that he was barely awake. She sniffed, noting with some surprise the faint whiff of alcohol that emanated from him, then bent down a little, to make sure he was who she thought he was.
'We're meant to be ready to go ashore in less than an hour, and we can't even get at our things. You'll have to fetch someone.'
Suddenly he seemed to register where he was. 'I need to speak to Frances.' He scrambled to his feet.
'She's not here.'
He looked startled. 'What?'
'She's not here.'
'How have I missed her?'
'Look
, Marine, please can you sort this out? I need to set my hair or it'll never be dry in time.' The girl in the doorway pointed at her watch.
'She came back last night and then she went again.'
'Where is she?' He grasped Margaret's wrist. His face was alive with anxiety, as if he had only just worked out how close they all were to dispersing. 'You've got to tell me, Maggie.'
'I don't know.' Then she understood something that had been nagging at her for weeks. 'I guess I thought she might be with you.'
Avice stood in the infirmary bathroom, applying a final coat of lipstick. Her eyelashes, under two layers of block mascara, widened her marble-blue eyes. Her skin, which had been ghostly pale, was now apparently glowing with health. It was always important to look one's best, especially at an occasion, and that was the marvellous thing about cosmetics. No one would know what awful things were going on inside one, given some pressed powder, rouge and a good lipstick. No one would know that one still felt a little shaky, even if there were mauve shadows under one's eyes. Underneath the dark red two-piece, firmly enclosed by a quality girdle, there was no clue that one's waist had been even an inch wider than it was now, or if what remained of one's dreams was still bleeding away into unmentionable wads of cotton padding. No one would need to know if secretly one felt like one had been literally turned inside-out.
There, she thought, as she stared at her reflection. I look - I look . . .
He would not be there to meet her. She knew this as surely as she believed that now, finally, she knew him. He would wait until he had heard from her, until he knew which way the land lay. If she said yes, he would fall on her with protestations of eternal love. He would probably spend years telling her how much he loved her, how he adored her, how anyone else (she could not bring herself to use the words 'his wife') meant nothing to him. If she told him she didn't want him, she suspected he would grieve for a few days, then probably consider himself to have had a lucky escape. She pictured him now, at the kitchen table, his mind already on this ship, bad-tempered and distant with this uncomprehending Englishwoman. A woman who, if she knew Ian as well as Avice did, would choose not to ask too many questions as to the cause of his foul mood.