Ship of Brides (29 page)

Behind them, the other fighter planes stretched across the deck, their smooth surfaces radiating heat. As redundant as the rest of the ship.

‘Highfield?’

‘Get your man to speak to my number one,’ Highfield said, eyes still fixed on the deck below. ‘We’ll send over a passenger list and you can let me know who your boys want to speak to. We’ll see if we can organise something.’

He put down his headphones. Then he turned to the radio operator. ‘Get me the commander-in-chief of the British Pacific Fleet. And whoever deals with the Lend-lease Agreement.’

The cabin had been empty that evening; Avice was at a fabric-flower-making session, which apparently counted towards the Queen of the
Victoria
contest. Having decided Irene Carter was now her sworn enemy, she was intent on beating her to the title.

Jean, having whined about the oppressive heat, and tired of her reading lesson, was watching a film with two brides from the dormitory above.

Frances, having enjoyed an hour’s solitude and made a fuss of the old dog, was feeling restless, a little too warm for comfort. In the airless confines of the dormitory, her blouse lay stickily against her skin and the sheets moved tackily against the bedroll. She went to the bathroom and splashed her face several times with cold water.

She was about to leave the dormitory for the flight deck when Margaret burst in, flushed and breathless. ‘Ohmygoodness,’ she was saying, one plump hand at her throat. ‘Ohmygoodness.’

‘Are you all right?’ Frances leapt towards her.

Margaret mopped a faint sheen from her face. A heat rash had spread from her chest to her neck. She sat down heavily on her bunk.

‘Margaret?’

‘I’ve been summoned to the radio room. You’ll never guess – I’m to speak to Joe!’

‘What?’

Margaret’s eyes were wide. ‘Tonight! Can you believe it? The
Alexandra
is just a short distance away, apparently, and we can pick her up on radio. There’s me and about five others who they say can speak to our husbands. I’m one of the lucky ones! Can you believe it? Can you?’

She grabbed the dog from her bed and kissed her vigorously. ‘Oh, Maudie, can you believe it? I’m going to speak to Joe! Tonight!’ Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror Avice had propped beside the door and groaned. ‘Oh, no! Look at the state of me. My hair always goes mad in the humidity.’ She lifted the unruly fronds in her fingers.

‘I don’t think he’ll be able to see you over the radio,’ Frances ventured.

‘But I still want to look nice for him.’ Margaret attacked her hair with Avice’s brush, vigorous strokes that left it springing up in electric bursts of benign rebellion. She pursed her lips. ‘Will you come with me? I feel so wobbly – I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Would you mind?’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s almost three months since I spoke to him. And I need someone to remind me not to swear in front of the captain.’

Frances looked at her feet.

‘Oh, golly, Moses, I’m sorry. I’m being tactless. I don’t mean to gloat. I’m sure you’d love to be speaking to your husband. I just thought if anyone was to be with me I’d like you.’

Frances took her hand. It was damp with either heat or nervous excitement. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.

‘Joe?’

Around her the light dimmed. Margaret shifted awkwardly, and asked in a whisper whether she was standing in the right place. The radio operator, earphones clamped to his head, fiddled with the myriad dials in front of him. Then, apparently satisfied by a series of chirrups and whistles, he adjusted the microphone in front of her. ‘Put your face close to there,’ he said, placing his hand gently on Margaret’s back to encourage her in. ‘That’s it. Now try again.’

‘Joe?’

In the little room tucked beneath the bridge, the handful of chosen brides, some accompanied by friends, nudged each other. The radio room was too small for so many people, and they stood stiffly, arms pressed close to their sides, a few fanning themselves with magazines, their faces shining in the heavy heat. Outside the sky had blackened, and somewhere, many miles away, the objects of their desire floated in the darkness.

‘Mags?’ The voice was distant, crackly. But, from Margaret’s expression, definitely his.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath, the sound a child might make when confronted by a Christmas tree. Margaret had been first up and it was as if until the brides heard this evidence it had been impossible to believe in the proximity of their men, that they might be able, after months of silence, to exchange a few precious words. Now they beamed at each other, as if their joy was contagious.

Margaret put out a hand to the microphone. Then, after a brief, embarrassed smile, ‘Joe, it’s me. How are you?’

‘I’m grand, love. Are you keeping well? Are they looking after you?’ The disembodied voice broke into the silence.

Margaret closed her hand round the microphone. ‘I’m fine. Me and Joe Junior both. It – it’s good to hear you,’ she faltered, evidently conscious that just as she was surrounded by strangers it was likely he was too. None of the women wanted to embarrass their men in front of their mates or superiors.

‘Are they feeding you well?’ came the voice, and the occupants of the radio room laughed. Margaret’s eyes flicked towards the captain, who stood back, arms crossed. He was smiling benignly. ‘They’re looking after us just fine.’

‘Good. You . . . watch out in this heat. Make sure you drink lots of water.’

‘Oh, I am.’

‘I’ve got to go, sweetheart, give the next fellow a turn. But you take care now.’

‘You too.’ Margaret moved in to the microphone, as if she could somehow get closer to him.

‘I’ll see you in Plymouth. Not long now.’

Margaret’s voice broke. ‘Not long at all,’ she said. ‘’Bye, Joe.’

As she turned from the microphone, she sagged and Frances stepped forward to hold her, alarmed by the tears coursing down Margaret’s cheeks. It had been a pretty mean exchange, she thought. She should have been allowed a few more minutes at least and perhaps some privacy, so that she could say what she felt. There was so much Margaret had needed to say to Joe, Frances thought, about freedom, being a wife, motherhood.

But when Frances looked at her now, Margaret’s smile was bright enough to illuminate the darkness. ‘Oh, Frances, that was wonderful,’ she whispered.

Frances heard the raw love in Margaret’s voice, the evidence of so much gained from so little. And she held her friend for a minute, her mind both blank and racing, as Margaret tried in whispers to revisit what they had said to each other, exclaiming that her mind had gone blank – that in hearing his voice, she had had no idea what to say. ‘But it doesn’t matter, does it? Oh, Frances, I hope you get the chance to talk to your man soon. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. Did you hear Joe? Isn’t he the best?’

All eyes were on the dark girl in the blue dress who had burst into noisy tears at the sound of her husband’s voice and was being comforted by the Red Cross officer. So it was only the captain who caught the expression of the tall girl in the corner, who had been jokingly introduced to him as ‘unofficial midwife’. He didn’t like to look too hard at any of the women, didn’t want things to be misconstrued. But there was something compelling about her erect stance. And in her eyes, which reflected shock, as if she had discovered some great loss. He felt, unaccountably, as if they mirrored his own.

Nicol walked along the lower gallery, past the ordnance spares and gun room, past the hangar where normally one might find several aircraft and attendant trunks of spare parts, instead of rows of doors. Most were propped open in the vain hope of attracting a stray breeze, and from behind them emanated the sounds of murmuring women, cards flipping on to makeshift tables or magazine pages turning. Careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, he moved along them and ran silently up the stairs, conscious that tonight even that small exertion caused his skin to stick to his shorts. Nodding at the chaplain, he moved along the half-lit gangway towards the lobby, trying to make himself inconspicuous as he passed the captain’s rooms. Finally, with a quick glance to left and right, he opened the hatch door beside the lieutenant commander’s office and emerged on to the unlit deck.

He had been told where to find her. He had knocked on the door rather awkwardly (it felt like an intrusion, even speaking into this feminine lair) to tell them what had been decided. To get them, like the others, to prepare. Perhaps he had told them early because he wanted them to have the best spot. They had laughed, incredulous. Made him say it twice before they would believe it. Then, with Avice and Jean galvanised into action, Margaret, still glowing from her radio contact, had whispered confirmation to him of what he already suspected.

The sky was mostly covered with cloud, revealing only a handful of stars, so it was several minutes before he saw her. At first he had thought it a wasted journey, had prepared to turn and leave. Strictly speaking, he should not have been away from his post. But then a shadow shifted, and as a cloud slid back to bathe the deck in moonlight, he found he could just make out her angular shape under the furthest Corsair, her arms wrapped round her knees.

He stood still for a moment, wondering if she had seen him and whether the mere act of him having located her would make her uncomfortable. Then, as he drew closer and she turned to him, he felt a rush of relief. As if her presence there could reassure him of something. Constancy, he supposed. Perhaps even some strange sense of goodness. He thought suddenly of Thompson, of his bloodied face when he was stretchered back on board several days previously. He must have got into a brawl during his shore leave, his mess man said. Stupid boy, ending up on his own. They had drummed it into them from their earliest days that in new territory they should stick together.

Nicol saw that she had been crying. He watched her draw her hand across her eyes, her shoulders straighten, and his pleasure in seeing her was clouded by awkwardness. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Your friend told me I might find you here.’

She made as if to stand, but he gestured that she should stay where she was.

‘Is everything all right?’

She looked so alarmed that he realised his sudden unannounced presence might have suggested a feared telegram and cursed himself for his insensitivity. ‘Nothing wrong. Please.’ He motioned again for her to remain seated. ‘I just wanted to tell you . . . to warn you . . . that you won’t be alone for long.’

Something even more strange happened then. She looked almost appalled. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Captain’s orders. It’s too hot in the liftwells – your cabins, I mean. He’s ordered that everyone should sleep out here tonight. Well, you brides, anyway.’

Her shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Sleep out here? On deck? Are you sure?’

He found himself smiling. It sounded pretty daft even to him. When the OX had told him he had made it clear from his careful use of words that he thought the captain had finally gone mad. ‘We can’t have you all boiling down there. It’s about as hot as it gets. We’ve had one of our engineers pass out in the starboard engine room this evening, so Captain Highfield has decided all brides are to bring their bedrolls up here. You can sleep in your swimwear. You’ll be a lot more comfortable.’

She looked away from him then, out at the dark ocean. ‘I suppose this means I’ll have to stay away from here now,’ she said wistfully.

He could not take his eyes off her profile. Her skin, in the milky blue moonlight, was opalescent. When he spoke, his voice cracked and he coughed to disguise it, to pull himself together. ‘Not on my account,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t be the first to need a few minutes alone with the sea.’

Alone with the sea? Where had that come from? He didn’t talk like that. She probably thought him a fanciful fool. There was something about her self-containment that had made him stumble like that, like an idiot.

But she didn’t seem to have noticed. When she turned to him, he saw that her eyes glistened with tears. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said dully. ‘It wasn’t working tonight anyway.’

What wasn’t? he wanted to ask. But instead, he said quietly, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. And as she stood abruptly, brushing her skirt for non-existent dust, the clouds drew back across the moon and her expression was once more hidden from his gaze.

Highfield couldn’t help but laugh privately at Dobson’s face when the first girl emerged on to the deck, her bedroll under her arm, dressed in a frilled bright pink two-piece swimsuit, the kind of thing that would previously have had him spluttering into his collar. She stopped at the main hatch, glanced warily at the captain, then as he nodded, stepped out and motioned behind her to her friends. She tiptoed across the deck to where a marine was pointing.

She was followed quickly by two more, giggling and bumping into each other under the spotlights, steered into designated spaces, as the aircraft had been on previous voyages. Soon they were pouring out of the open hatches, the larger ones modest in oversized cotton shirts, some a little embarrassed to be seen so publicly in such intimate apparel. He had said that those who felt uncomfortable were welcome to sleep in their dormitories, but he was certain that, the heat being as oppressive as it was, most would prefer the sweet breezes of a deck moving through air to the stuffiness below. And so it proved: they kept on coming, some chattering, some exclaiming as they tried to pitch their bedroll and found there was already not enough room, in their shapes and sizes and hairstyles and manner an endless example of the infinite variety of womanhood.

The marines would watch over them. Oddly enough, it had been one of the few occasions on which the men had not groaned at news of an unexpected night watch. Highfield looked at the marines’ faces as they moved around the flight deck; even they, normally poker-faced, could not help laughing and joking with the women at this improbable turn of events. ‘What the hell?’ Highfield muttered to himself periodically, the rare expression making his own mouth turn up at the corners. What the hell?