Ship of Brides (52 page)

She was so close he could feel her breath upon him. Her body was rigid, listening, her hand still unwittingly in his. Her cool skin was blistering.

‘“My merry band” . . . la la la
la
.’ If it hadn’t been that she had chosen that moment to look up at him he might never have done it. But she had raised her face, lips parted, as if in a question, and put her hand to the cut above his brow, tracing it with her fingertips. Instead of stepping away from her, as he had intended, he raised his hand to hers, touching it, and then, more firmly, enclosing it within his own.

The singers outside increased in volume, then broke into conversation. Someone fell over and from a distance there was a muffled ‘You there!’, the brisk steps of someone in authority.

Nicol hardly heard them. He heard instead her faint exhalation, felt the answering tremble in her fingertips. His skin burning, he brought her hand down, let it slide across his face, feeling no pain even as it touched those places that were sore and bruised. And then he pressed it, hard, to his mouth.

She hesitated, and then, with a sound that was like a little gasp of despair, she pulled back her hand and her mouth lifted to his, her hands gripping his now as if she would make them stay on her for ever.

It was sweet, so sweet as to be indecent. Nicol wanted to absorb her into him, to fill her, enclose her, take her in to his very being. I knew this! some part of him rejoiced. I know her! Fleetingly, as he became aware of the heat of his own desperate need, he felt a hint of danger, something condemnatory, and was unsure whether it was directed at her or himself. But then his eyes opened and locked with hers, and in their infinite pain and longing there was something so shocking, so honest that he found he could not breathe. And as he lowered his face to hers again it was she who pulled back, one hand raised to her lips, her eyes still on his. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’ She glanced briefly at Avice, still asleep on the bed, then lifted a hand fleetingly to his cheek, as if imprinting the sight and feel of him on some hidden part of her.

Then she was gone, the men outside exclaiming as they tried to grasp what they had seen. The storeroom door closed gently but firmly between them, the dull metallic clang like that of a prison gate.

The ceremony was carried out at nearly half past eleven on Tuesday night. In different circumstances, it would have been a beautiful night for a wedding: the moon hung low and magnified in a tropical sky, bathing the camp in a strange blue light, while the whispering breeze barely disturbed the palm trees, but offered discreet relief from the heat.

Aside from the bride and groom, there were just three people in attendance: the chaplain, the matron and Captain Baillie. The bride, her voice barely audible, sat by the groom for the entire service. The chaplain crossed himself several times after the ceremony, and prayed that he had done the right thing. The matron shushed the captain’s own thoughts that he might not be, and reminded him that, given the state of the world around them, this one small act should not play on his conscience.

The bride sat, head bowed, and held the hand of the man beside her, as if in apology. At the end of the service she placed her pale face in her hands and sat still for some time, until her face emerged again, gasping slightly, like a swimmer breaking through water.

‘Are we done?’ said the matron, who seemed the most composed of them all.

The chaplain nodded, his brow still furrowed, eyes cast down.

‘Sister?’ The girl opened her eyes. She seemed unable, or unwilling, to look at the people around her.

‘Right,’ said Audrey Marshall, looking at her watch and reaching for her notes. ‘Time of death, eleven forty-four.’

24

When the aircraft carrier
Victorious
reached Plymouth last night . . . some of the girls were so eager to get a glimpse of Britain that they crowded against a stanchion till it collapsed and twenty of them fell eight feet to the deck below. They were unhurt. One bride could not share the general excitement. She learnt at the end of her 13,000-mile journey that her husband who was to have met her had been posted missing after a flying accident.

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 drew 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.