Ship of Brides (7 page)

‘Even old Mrs P seemed a bit concerned. Think she’s worried about her young ladies arriving in England wearing overalls and covered with fuel. Not quite the impression she wants for Australia’s finest.’

‘An aircraft-carrier?’ Avice felt a little wobbly. She reached for a nearby wall and sat down.

Jean seated herself comfortably beside her. ‘That’s what she is. I never bothered to check the name of it. I just assumed . . . Oh, well, they’ll have modified it a bit, I should think.’

‘But where will we sleep?’

‘Dunno. On the deck with the planes?’

Avice’s eyes widened.

‘Strewth, Avice, you’re even more gullible than I thought.’ Jean cackled, stubbed out her cigarette, stood up and began to walk on.

It might have been her imagination but Avice thought she sounded increasingly coarse.

‘They’ll find some way to fit us on. Got to be better than sticking around here, anyway. We’ll get a bed and our food, and the Red Cross will look after us.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Avice’s face had clouded. She walked briskly. If she rang now she might catch her father before he left for his club.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t possibly travel on something like that. My parents wouldn’t have it, for a start. They thought I’d be travelling on a liner. You know, one of the ones that had been requisitioned for transport. That’s almost the only reason they let me go.’

‘You take what you’re given in times like these, girl. You know that.’

Not me, said Avice silently. She was now running towards the hotel. Not a girl whose family owned the biggest radio manufacturer in Melbourne.

‘They’ll be providing us with engineers’ uniforms too, just in case they need us to do a little scrubbing down.’

‘I don’t think that’s very funny, actually.’

‘You’ve got to laugh.’

Go away, you horrid girl, Avice thought. I wouldn’t set foot on the same ship as you for a trip round Sydney Harbour, even if it were the
Queen Mary
.

‘Don’t worry, Avice. I’m sure they’ll be able to fix you up with a first-class berth in the boiler room!’ She could still hear Jean’s unpleasant cackle half-way down the street.

‘Mummy?’

‘Avice darling, is that you? Wilfred! It’s Avice!’ She could hear her mother yelling down the hallway, could picture her on her telephone seat, the Persian rug on the parquet floor, the ever-present vase of flowers on the table beside her. ‘How are you, sweetheart?’

‘Fine, Mummy. But I need to speak to Daddy.’

‘You don’t sound all right. Are you really fine?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has Ian sent any word yet?’

‘Mummy, I need to speak to Daddy.’ Avice struggled to keep her impatience out of her voice.

‘You would tell me?’

‘Is that my littlest princess?’

‘Oh, Daddy, thank goodness. There’s a problem.’

Her father said nothing.

‘With the transport.’

‘I spoke to Commander Guild myself. He promised me you’d be on the next—’

‘No, that’s not it. He’s got me on a boat.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

She could hear her mother behind her father: ‘It’s the young man. Ten to one it’s the young man.’

And Deanna: ‘Has he told her not to come?’

‘Tell them it’s nothing to do with Ian. It’s the ship.’

‘I don’t understand, Princess.’

‘It’s an aircraft-carrier.’

‘What?’

‘Maureen,’ he hissed. ‘Be quiet. I can’t hear a word she’s saying.’

Avice let out a short sigh.

‘Exactly. It’s an aircraft-carrier. They’re expecting us to sail to England on an
aircraft-carrier
.’

There was a brief silence. ‘They want her to travel on an aircraft-carrier,’ her father told her mother.

‘What? An aeroplane?’

‘No, you stupid woman. One of the ships they put the planes on.’

‘A warship?’

Avice could almost hear her reeling theatrically in horror. Deanna had started laughing. She would: she hadn’t forgiven Avice for marrying first.

‘You’re going to have to get me on to something else,’ Avice said urgently. ‘Talk to whoever it was who got me on. Tell him I need to travel on something else. Get me on another ship.’

‘You never said anything about an aircraft-carrier!’ her mother was saying now. ‘She can’t travel on one of those. Not with all those planes going off the deck all the time. It’ll be dangerous!’

‘Daddy?’

‘They sank the
Vyner Brooke
, didn’t they?’ her mother clamoured. ‘The Japs might try to sink the aircraft-carrier, like they sank the
Vyner Brooke
.’

‘Shut
up
, woman.

‘What’s the matter? Are you the only girl on board, Princess?’

‘Me? Oh, no, there’s six hundred or so wives travelling.’ Avice frowned. ‘It’s just that it will be awful. They’ll have us sleeping on bedrolls and there won’t be any facilities. And, Daddy, you should see the kind of girls they’ve got me going over with – the language! I can hardly say—’

Her mother broke through on to the line. ‘I knew it, Avice. They’re just not your sort. I really don’t think this is a good idea.’

‘Daddy? Can you sort it out?’

Her father sighed heavily. ‘Well, it’s not as easy as that, Princess. I had to pull quite a few strings to get you on board. And most of the brides have gone now, anyway. I’m not sure how many more transports there are going to be.’

‘Well, fly me over. I’ll go with Qantas.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, Avice.’

‘I can’t go on that awful ship!’

‘Listen, Avice, I paid a lot of money to get you on to it, you hear me? And I’m shelling out a damn sight more to keep you in that ruddy hotel because you didn’t fancy naval lodgings. I can’t pay out even more for a flight to Blighty just because you don’t like the facilities on board the ship.’

‘But, Daddy—’

‘Sweetheart, I’d love to help, really, but you’ve no idea how hard it was to get you on board.’

‘But, Daddy!’ She stamped her foot and the receptionist glanced at her. She lowered her voice to a whisper: ‘I know what you’re doing – don’t think I don’t know why you’re refusing to help me.’

Her mother broke in, her voice firm. ‘Avice, you’re right. I think the ship thing is a very bad idea.’

‘You do?’ Avice felt a flicker of hope. Her mother understood the importance of travelling comfortably. She knew that things should be done properly. What would Ian think if she turned up looking like a navvy?

‘Yes. I think you should come home today. Get on a train first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Home?’

‘The whole thing has just too many ifs and buts. This ship business sounds absolutely awful, you haven’t heard from Ian in goodness knows how long—’

‘He’s at sea, Mummy.’

‘—and I just think all the signs are against you. Cut your losses, darling, and come home.’

‘What?’

‘You know nothing about this man’s family. Nothing. You have no idea if there’s even going to be anyone to meet you at the other end. That’s if this warship even gets there. Come home, darling, and we’ll sort it all out from here. Plenty of girls change their minds. You read about them all the time.’

‘Plenty of girls get dumped too,’ called Deanna.

‘I’m married, Mummy.’

‘And I’m sure we can do something about that. I mean, hardly anyone over here even knows.’

‘What?’

‘Well, it was only a little do, wasn’t it? We could have it annulled or something.’

Avice was incredulous. ‘Annulled? Ugh! You’re both such hypocrites! I
know
what you’re doing. You got me on the rottenest old ship you could find just so I wouldn’t want to travel.’

‘Avice—’

‘Well, too bad. You’re not going to make me change my mind about Ian.’

The receptionist had given up any pretence of not listening and was agog, leaning over her counter. Avice placed her hand over the receiver and raised her eyebrows at the girl. Embarrassed, she busied herself with some paperwork.

Her father broke back in: ‘You there? Avice?’ He sighed heavily. ‘Look, I’ll wire you some money. Leave it a while, if you want. Sit tight at the Wentworth. We’ll talk about this.’

Avice could hear her mother still wittering in the background. Her sister was demanding to know why she was staying at Sydney’s best hotel. ‘No, Daddy,’ she said. ‘Tell Mummy and Deanna I’ll be on the damned ship to meet my husband. I’ll get there my own way, even if it does mean swimming in diesel fuel and stinking troops, because I love him.
I love him
. I won’t ring again, but you can tell her – tell Mummy I’ll wire her at the other end. When Ian – my husband – has met me.’

3

To be eligible for an appointment in the Australian Army Nursing Service, the applicant had to be a trained registered nurse, a British subject, single, without dependants . . . medically fit and of good character and personal attributes essential to the making of an efficient army nurse.

Joan Crouch, ‘A Special Kind of Service’,

The Story of the 2/9 Australian

General Hospital 1940–46

Morotai, Halmaheras Islands, South Pacific, 1946

One week to embarkation

There was a full moon over Morotai. With a melancholy lucidity, it illuminated the still night, the heat so stifling that even the gentle sea breezes that could normally be relied on to filter through the sisal screens were deadened. The leaves of the palm trees hung limp. The only sound was a periodic muffled thud as a coconut hit the ground. There was no one left to take down the ripe ones, and they fell unchecked, a hazard to the unwary.

For the most part now the island was dark, only a few lights winking in the buildings that lined the road, which stretched the length of the peninsula. For the past five years that end of the island had been clamorous with the traffic of the Allied Forces, the air filled with the roar of aircraft engines and the belch of exhaust fumes, but now there was silence, broken only by bursts of distant laughter, the crackle of a gramophone and, just audible in the still night, the clink of glasses.

In the tented confines of the nurses’ mess, a few hundred yards from what had been the American base Matron, Audrey Marshall of the Australian General Hospital, finished her day’s entry in the Unit War Diary.

– Hospital ship movements for POW evacuation from Morotai in hand.

– Movement orders to hand for unit – 12 POWs and 1 nursing sister move to Australia per
Ariadne
tomorrow.

– Bedstate: occupied 12, vacant 24.

She gazed at the last two figures, wondering at the years of entries in which those figures had been reversed, at the hundreds of days in which she’d had another column to enter: ‘those deceased’. The ward was one of the few still open: forty-five of the fifty-two were now closed, their patients restored to families in England, Australia, or even India, nurses discharged, supplies waiting to be sold to the occupying Dutch authorities. The
Ariadne
would be the last hospital ship, carrying with it this raggle-taggle of men, some of the last POWs to leave the island. From now on it would be just the odd car accident and civilian illnesses until she, too, received her orders to return home.

‘Nurse Frederick says I should tell you Sergeant Wilkes is foxtrotting Nurse Cooper around the operating theatre . . . She’s fallen over twice already.’ Staff Nurse Gore had stuck her head round the sheeted doorway. Her complexion, which always bloomed in the heat, was flushed with excitement and the last of the whisky. With the hospital so close to abandonment, the girls were skittish and silly, singing songs and re-enacting scenes from old movies to entertain the men, their former reserve and authority evaporating in the moisture-filled air. Although, strictly speaking, they were still on duty, she didn’t have the heart to reprimand them – not after what they’d seen these last weeks. She couldn’t forget their shocked, drained faces when the first POWs arrived from Borneo.

‘Go and tell the silly girl to bring him back in. I couldn’t care less if she injures herself, but he’s only been on his feet forty-eight hours. We don’t want him breaking a leg to add to his troubles.’

‘Will do, Matron.’ The girl was gone, the curtain falling back limply into place. Her face reappeared briefly. ‘Are you coming? The boys are asking where you are.’

‘I’ll be along shortly, Nurse,’ she said, shutting her book, and raising herself from the folding stool. ‘You go along now.’

‘Yes, Matron.’ With a giggle she departed.

Audrey Marshall checked her hair in the little mirror she kept above the wash-basin, then blotted her face with a towel. She slapped at a mosquito that had launched itself into the back of her arm, straightened her grey cotton slacks and walked out through the nurses’ mess, past the operating theatres (now, thankfully, silent) towards Ward G, thinking what a rare pleasure it was to be following the sound of laughter and music rather than the howling of men in pain.

The majority of beds in the long tent known as Ward G had been moved back so that half of the room now formed an unofficial, sand-based dance floor and those men still confined to their beds could see it. On the desk in the corner the gramophone huskily issued the songs that had not been scratched to nothing through years of sand and overuse. An impromptu bar had been set up at what had been the dressings station, the drips converted for use with whisky and beer bottles.

Many were out of uniform tonight, the women in pale blouses and floral skirts, the men in shirts with trousers that had to be winched round their waists with narrow belts. Several sisters were dancing, some with each other, a couple with the remaining Red Cross staff and physiotherapists, stumbling over the more elaborate moves. A couple stopped when Audrey Marshall entered, but she nodded at them in a way that suggested they should carry on. ‘I suppose I should do my final rounds,’ she said, her voice mock-stern, which prompted a weak cheer from the tent’s occupants.

‘We’ll miss you, Matron,’ said an emotional Sergeant Levy in the corner. She could just make out his face behind his raised legs, which were still in plaster.