Ship of Brides (13 page)

L. Troman, seaman, HMS
Victorious

in
Wine, Women and War

Two days in

In an effort to keep occupied those brides whose initial excitement might have given way to homesickness, HMS
Victoria
offered, on the second full day of the voyage, the following activities – neatly documented in the inaugural issue of the
Daily Ship News
:

Of these, the Deck Games and the Bingo Party looked to be the most popular, and the lecture the least. The chaplain had an unfortunately forbidding manner, and at least one of the brides had remarked that they didn’t need a lecture on marriage from a man who looked like he wanted to wash himself whenever a woman happened to brush past him.

Meanwhile, the imaginatively titled newspaper, edited by one of the women’s officers with the help of two brides, also noted the birthdays of Mrs Josephine Darnforth, 19, and Mrs Alice Sutton, 22, and appealed to its readers to come forward with little snippets of gossip and good wishes that ‘might make the journey pass in a pleasant and congenial manner’.

‘Gossip, eh?’ mused Jean, to whom this piece had been read aloud. ‘Betcha by the end of the trip they’ll have enough to fill twenty bloody newspapers.’

Avice had left the dormitory early for Protestant Devotions. She suspected she might meet more her sort of people at church. She had felt a little perturbed when Margaret announced that she would be attending the Roman Catholic Mass. She had never met a papist before, as her mother called them, but she was careful not to let her pity show.

Jean, who had already announced her aversion to any kind of religion (an unfortunate experience with a Christian Brother) was making up, ready for Recorded Music. She suspected there might be dancing and pronounced herself as ‘itchy as a bare-arsed wallaby on a termite hill’ to escape the cabin and take to the floor.

Margaret was lying on her bed, a hand on the dog, reading one of Avice’s magazines. Occasionally she would snort derisively. ‘Says here you shouldn’t sleep on one side of your face too often in case it gives you wrinkles. How the hell else are you meant to sleep?’ Then she had recalled the sight of Avice the night before, lying flat on her back above Frances, despite the obvious discomfort of a headful of rollers, and made a mental note not to comment publicly again.

This left Frances free to disappear without comment and, dressed in pale khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt – the closest she could come to her old uniform – she had slipped out, nodding a brief greeting to the girls she passed, and made her way down the gangway.

She had had to knock twice before she got a response, and even then she drew back, checking and rechecking the name on the door.

‘Come in.’

She stepped into the infirmary, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bottles and jars, secured on narrow shelves behind glass doors. The man behind the desk had short red hair, slicked close to his head like a protective shell, and was dressed in civilian clothes. His face was freckled, his eyes creased from years of what might have been squinting but, judging from his actions now, was probably smiling.

‘Come right in. You’re making the place look untidy.’

Frances flushed briefly, realised he had been joking, then took a few steps towards him.

‘What seems to be the problem, then?’ He was sliding his hand back and forth along the desk as if to some unheard rhythm.

‘I don’t have one.’ She straightened, stiff in her starched shirt. ‘Are you the surgeon? Mr Farraday?’

‘No.’ He gazed at her, apparently weighing up whether to enlighten her. ‘Vincent Duxbury. Civilian passenger. I’m probably not the man you had in mind. He – er – he failed to make the trip. Captain Highfield asked me to step in. And, frankly, given the standard of entertainment on board, I’m happy to oblige. How can I help you?’

‘I’m not sure that you can,’ she said, perplexed. ‘At least, not in that way. I was – I mean, I’m a nurse.’ She held out a hand. ‘Frances Mackenzie. Sister Frances Mackenzie. I heard that some of the brides were to be allowed to help out with secretarial duties and such, and I thought I might offer my services here.’

Vincent Duxbury shook her hand, and motioned to her to sit down. ‘A nurse, eh? I thought we might have a few on board. Seen much duty?’

‘Five years in the Pacific,’ she said. ‘Last posting was the Australian General Hospital 2/7 Morotai.’ She fought the urge to add ‘sir’.

‘My cousin was out in Japan, back in ’forty-three. Your husband?’

‘My? Oh.’ She looked briefly wrongfooted. ‘Alfred Mackenzie. Royal Welsh Fusiliers.’

‘Royal Welsh Fusiliers . . .’ He said it slowly, as if it had significance.

She folded her hands in front of her.

Dr Duxbury leant back in his chair, fiddling with the top of a brown-glass bottle. It looked as if he had been in the room for some time, although he was still in his jacket. Suddenly it dawned on her that the smell of alcohol was not necessarily medicinal.

‘So . . .’

She waited, trying not to look too hard at the label on the bottle.

‘You want to carry on serving. These six weeks.’

‘If I can be useful, yes.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve had special experience in burns, treatment of dysentery, and revival of impaired digestive systems. That was the POWs,’ she added. ‘We had significant experience of those.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I don’t have much specialist feminine or obstetric knowledge, but I thought at least I could help with the men. I asked someone aboard the hospital ship
Ariadne
, where I last served, and they said that aircraft-carriers sustain a disproportionate number of injuries, especially during flight training.’

‘Well researched, Mrs Mackenzie.’

‘So . . . it’s not even that I’d like to occupy my time usefully, Doctor. I would appreciate the chance to gain a little more experience . . . I’m a good learner,’ she added, when he didn’t speak.

There was a brief silence. She looked at him, but was discomfited by the intensity of his gaze.

‘Do you sing?’ he said eventually.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sing, Mrs Mackenzie. You know, show tunes, hymns, opera.’ He began to hum something she didn’t know.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said.

‘Pity.’ He wrinkled his nose, then slapped his hand on the desk. ‘I thought we might get some of the girls together and put on a show. What a perfect opportunity, eh?’

The brown bottle, she saw, was empty. She still could not make out what was written on the label, but now the scent of what it had contained burst softly on to the air with his every utterance.

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure that would be a . . . a useful idea, Doctor. But I really wondered whether we could just discuss—’

‘“Long ago and far away” . . . Do you know “Showboat”?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Pity. “Old Man River” . . .’ He closed his eyes and continued to sing.

She sat, her hands clasped in her lap, unsure whether or not to interrupt. ‘Doctor?’

His singing segued into a low melodic humming. His head was thrown back.

‘Doctor? Do you have any idea of when you might like me to start?’

‘“He just keeps rollin’ . . .”’ He opened an eye. Continued to the end of the line. ‘Mrs Mackenzie?’

‘I can start today, if you’d like. If you’d find it . . . useful. I have my uniform in my dormitory. I kept it deliberately in my small bag.’

He had stopped singing. He smiled broadly. She wondered if he would be like this every day. She’d have to start secretly counting bottles, as she had with Dr Arbuthnot.

‘You know what I’m going to say to you, Frances? May I call you Frances?’ He was pointing at her now with his bottle. He looked as if he was enjoying his moment of possible munificence. ‘I’m going to tell you to go away.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He laughed. ‘That got you, didn’t it? No, Frances Mackenzie. You’ve been serving your country and mine for five years. You deserve a little break. I’m going to prescribe a six-week holiday.’

‘But I want to work,’ she said.

‘No buts, Mrs Mackenzie. The war’s over. In a few short weeks you’re going to be engaged in the hardest job of your career. You’ll be raising children before you know it and, believe me, those sick soldiers will look like a holiday then. That’s the real work. Take it from someone who knows. Three boys and a girl. Each one a little dynamo.’ He counted them off on his fingers, then shook his head, as if lost in distant appreciation of his offspring.

‘That’s the only work I want you interested in from now on.
Real
women’s work. So, much as I enjoy the company of an attractive young woman, right now I’m going to insist you enjoy your last days of freedom. Get your hair done. Watch some movies. Make yourself look pretty for that old man of yours.’

She was staring at him.

‘So go. Go on – now.’

It took her several seconds to grasp that she had been dismissed. He waved away her offered hand.

‘And enjoy yourself! Come and sing a few tunes! “Make way for tomorrow . . .”’

She could hear him singing the entire length of the gangway.

That evening the marine arrived at a minute before nine thirty. A slim man with dark, slicked hair, who moved with the economy of someone used to making himself invisible, he positioned himself at the entrance to their dormitory, placed his feet a little more than eighteen inches apart and stood with his back to the door, eyes focused on nothing. He was responsible for watching over the two cabins on each side of theirs, and the five above. Other marines were posted at similar intervals by the others.

‘Trust us to have one actually outside our door,’ muttered Margaret.

The brides had been lying on their bunks reading or writing, and Avice had been painting her nails with a polish she had bought at the PX shop in the wardroom lounge. It was not a particularly pretty shade, but she had felt she needed a treat to help her through what was already proving a testing journey.

Hearing his footfall, able to see a sliver of his body through the half-open door, they glanced at each other. Almost unconsciously, Margaret looked down at her sleeping dog. They waited in case he uttered some greeting or perhaps an instruction, but he just stood there.

At a quarter to ten Jean stepped outside with her cigarettes, and offered him one. When he refused, she lit one for herself and began to ask him questions: where was the cinema? Did the men get the same food as the brides? Did he like mashed potato? He answered monosyllabically, smiling only once when she asked him what he did when he needed to visit the dunny. (‘Oh, Jean,’ muttered Avice, behind the door.) ‘I’m trained not to,’ he said drily. ‘So, where do you sleep?’ she asked coquettishly, leaning against one of the pipes that ran up the wall.

‘My mess, ma’am.’

‘And where’s that?’

‘Official secret,’ he said.

‘Don’t come the raw prawn,’ said Jean.

The marine looked straight ahead.

‘I’m only curious . . .’ She stepped closer to him, peering into his face. ‘Oh, come on, I’ve had toy soldiers that talked more than you.’

‘Ma’am.’

She apparently assessed her remaining firepower. Conventional weapons were going to be ineffective. ‘Actually,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette, ‘I wanted to ask you something . . . but it’s a bit embarrassing.’

The marine looked wary. As well he might, thought Avice.

Jean traced a pattern on the floor with her toe of her shoe. ‘Please don’t tell anyone, but I keep getting lost,’ she said. ‘I’d like to walk around but I’ve got lost twice already, and it’s made me a bit of a joke with the other girls. So I don’t really like to ask them. I even missed dinner because I couldn’t find the canteen.’

The marine had relaxed a little. He was intent, listening.

‘It’s because I’m sixteen, you see. I didn’t do too good at school. Reading and stuff. And I can’t . . .’ she let her voice drop to a whisper ‘. . . I can’t understand the map. The one of the ship. You couldn’t explain it to me, could you?’

The marine hesitated, then nodded. ‘There’s one pinned up on that noticeboard. Want me to talk you through it?’ His voice was low, resonant, as if he was about to break into song.

‘Oh, would you?’ said Jean, a heartbreaking smile on her face.

‘Golly, Moses, she’s brilliant,’ said Margaret, who was listening from behind the door. When Margaret and Avice looked out the pair were standing in front of the map, fifteen or so feet along the gangway. Margaret, carrying an oversized washbag, gave them a merry wave as she hurried along in her dressing-gown. The marine saluted her, then turned back to Jean to explain how she might use the map to get from the hangar deck to, for example, the laundry. Jean was apparently concentrating intently on whatever he had to say.

‘It’s not ideal,’ said Margaret afterwards, sitting down heavily on her bunk as the dog plodded round the dormitory, sniffing at the floor. ‘It’s not like a proper walk for her. I mean, she’s used to fields.’

Avice stifled the urge to remark that she should have thought of that beforehand. She was now smoothing cold cream into her face in front of her little travelling mirror. The sea air was meant to do terrible things to one’s skin, and she was darned if she was going to meet Ian looking like a strip of Bombay duck.

The door opened.

‘Great,’ said Margaret, as Jean came in, grinning, and closed it behind her. ‘You were great, Jean.’