Ship of Brides Read online

  23

  There were romances and several weddings took place and, as it was Dutch Territory, many pieces of paper had to be signed . . . The dentist usually made the wedding ring with his drill, and wedding frocks ranged from creations out of white mosquito nets to AANS ward uniform . . . According to army policy, the bride returned to Australia soon after.

  A Special Kind of Service Joan Crouch

  Morotai, Halmaheras Islands, 1946

  ‘I know it’s irregular,’ said Audrey Marshall, ‘but you saw them. You saw what it’s done to her.’

  ‘I find it all rather hard to believe.’

  ‘She was a child, Charles. Fifteen, from what she told me.’

  ‘He’s very fond of her, I’ll grant you.’

  ‘So what harm would it do?’

  The matron pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle of pale brown liquid. She held it up and he nodded, declining the addition of chlorinated water that sat in a jug on her desk. They had meant to talk earlier, but there had been an accident on the road to the American radar unit: a jeep had collided with a Dutch supplies lorry and overturned, killing one man and injuring two others. Captain Baillie had spent more than an hour with the Dutch authorities, filling in forms and discussing the incident with the Dutch CO. One of the men had been his batman; he was shaken and exhausted.

  He took a sip, plainly not wanting to have to consider this new problem on top of everything else. ‘It could cause all sorts of trouble. The man doesn’t know his own mind.’

  ‘He knows he loves her. It would make him happy. And, besides, what can she do? She can’t stay in nursing now everyone knows. She can’t stay in Australia.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s a big place.’

  ‘Someone found her here, didn’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  Matron leant over the desk. ‘She’s a good nurse, Charles. A good girl. Think what she’s done for your men. Think of Petersen and Mills. Think of O’Halloran and those wretched sores.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What harm? The boy’s got no money, has he? You said he had no family to speak of.’ Her voice dropped a little. ‘You know as well as I do how ill he is.’

  ‘And you know I’ve tried jolly hard to discourage this kind of thing. All that bloody paperwork for a start.’

  ‘You’re on good terms with the Dutch. You’ve told me yourself. They’ll sign whatever you hand them.’

  ‘You’re convinced that this is a sensible idea?’

  ‘It would bring him some happiness and give her a lifeline. She’d be entitled to go to England. She’ll make a superb nurse over there. What harm can that do?’

  Charles Baillie sighed deeply. He put down his glass on the desk and turned to the woman opposite. ‘It’s hard to refuse you anything, Audrey.’

  She smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knows the battle is won. ‘I’ll do what I have to do,’ she said.

  The chaplain was a pragmatic man. Weary of the pain and suffering he had seen, he had been easily persuaded to help. The young nurse, a favourite of his, was a perfect illustration of the redemptive powers of marriage, he told himself. And if it enabled the poor soul beside her to be even partly lifted from the horrors of his last weeks, he felt pretty sure his God would understand. When the matron had thanked him, he had replied that he thought the Almighty was more of a pragmatist than any of them knew.

  Congratulating themselves on their solution, and with perhaps the faintest curiosity as to how their plan would be received by its subjects, the three sat in the matron’s office long enough to celebrate their good sense with another drink. For medicinal purposes, of course, the matron said with a grin, remarking on the pallor of Captain Baillie’s face. She couldn’t stand to see a man with a pale face: she always wanted to check them for blood disorders.

  ‘Only problem with my blood is there’s not enough whisky in it,’ he muttered.

  They toasted Sister Luke, her future husband, the end of the war and Churchill for good measure. Shortly after ten o’clock they walked out into the tented ward, a little more erect, a little less relaxed, as they stood before their charges.

  ‘She’s in B Ward,’ said the sister, who was reading a letter at the night desk.

  ‘With Corporal Mackenzie,’ said the matron, turning to Captain Baillie not a little triumphantly. It would work out well for everyone. ‘There, you see?’

  They walked through the sandy pathway between the beds, careful not to wake those men already sleeping, then pushed back the curtain to enter the next ward, Captain Baillie pausing to slap, with a curse, the mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck. Then they stopped.

  Sister Luke glanced up as she heard them enter. She looked at them with wide, unreadable eyes. She was leaning over Alfred ‘Chalkie’ Mackenzie’s bed, three-quarters of which was still covered by a mosquito net. She was pulling a white Navy-issue sheet over his face.

  Avice was sleeping when the marine returned with two new, still-hot cups of tea. He knocked twice and entered, watching his feet as he crossed the little room. He placed the two mugs on the table between the beds. He had been half hoping that the WSO would be with them.

  Frances had been standing over Avice and jumped, evidently having not expected to see him. A little colour rose to her cheeks. He thought she looked exhausted. A few hours ago he might have given in to the urge to touch her. Now, having heard her words, he knew he would not. He moved back towards the door and stood, legs apart, shoulders square, as if to reaffirm something to himself.

  ‘I – I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d been called off to do something else.’

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’

  ‘Dr Duxbury’s given me the all-clear. I’m just getting my things together so I can go back. Avice will probably spend tonight in here. I may come back to make sure she’s okay. They’re a bit overstretched.’

  ‘She all right?’

  ‘She’ll get there,’ Frances said. ‘I was going to find Maggie. How is she?’

  ‘Not too good. The dog . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, no. And she’s all by herself?’

  ‘I’m sure she’d be glad of your company.’ She still hadn’t changed her clothes and he ached to wipe the dark smudge from her cheek. His hand tightened behind him.

  She stepped forward, glanced back at the sleeping Avice. ‘I thought about what you said,’ she said, her voice low and conspiratorial, ‘that the war has made us all do things we’re not proud of. Until you said that, I had always thought I was the only one . . .’

  He had not anticipated this. He took a step backwards, not trusting himself to speak, half wanting to cry to her not to go on. Half desperate to hear her words.

  ‘I know we haven’t always been able to speak . . . honestly. That it’s . . . complicated, and that other loyalties might not always . . .’ She tailed off, and her eyes flashed up at him. ‘But I wanted to thank you for that. You’ve . . . I’ll always be glad you told me. I’ll always be so grateful that we met each other.’ The last words were rushed, as if she had had to force them out while she still had the courage to say them.

  He felt suddenly small, wretched. ‘Yes. Well,’ he said, when he could form words, ‘it’s always nice to have made a friend.’ He felt mean even opening his mouth as he added, ‘Ma’am.’

  There was a little pause.

  ‘Ma’am?’ she repeated.

  The shy smile had disappeared; a movement so delicate he thought only he could have detected it. I have no choice, he wanted to shout at her. It is for you I’m doing this.

  She searched his face. What she found there made her look down and away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now. Things to do. But . . . you’ll like England.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve heard a lot about it from the lectures.’

  The rebuke in her words felt like a blow. ‘Look . . . I hope you’ll alway
s think of me . . .’ his hands were rigid at his sides ‘. . . as your friend.’ That word had never sounded so unwelcome.

  She blinked a little too swiftly, and in shame he made himself look away.

  ‘That’s very kind, but I don’t think so, Marine,’ she said. She let out a small breath, then turned, and began to refold the clothes in the little pile on her bed. Her voice, when it shot back, was sharp with hurt: ‘After all, I don’t even know your name.’

  Margaret stood towards the aft end of the flight deck by the lashings, a cardigan stretched round her thickened waist, a headscarf trying and failing to stop her hair whipping too hard round her face. Her back was to the bridge and her head was dipped over the bundle in her arms.

  The skies were grey now, rain-laden clouds hanging heavy and sullen in the sky. Huge, wheeling albatross tailed the boat, riding the therms as if they were attached by invisible wires. From time to time she looked down at the little bundle and more tears plopped on to the woollen fabric, darkening it in small, irregular spots. She wiped them gently with a thumb and uttered another silent apology to the stiff little body.

  The wind and her headscarf meant that she didn’t hear Frances arrive beside her. When she saw her she could not be sure how long she’d been there. ‘Burial at sea,’ she said. ‘Just trying to pluck up the courage to actually do it, you know?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Maggie.’ Frances’s eyes were bleak. The hand she reached out to Margaret was tentative.

  Margaret wiped her eyes with her palm. She shook her head and let out a little ‘Gah!’ of despair at her inability to control herself.

  There seemed to be no clear distinction between the sea and the sky; the dark, unwelcoming seas lightened at the far horizon, greyed, then disappeared into the rolling clouds. It was as if they were sailing towards nothing; as if navigation itself could only be an act of blind faith.

  Some time later, long before she felt ready, Margaret stepped forward. She hesitated for a moment, holding the little body tight to her, tighter than she would have dared if there had still been life in it.

  Then she stooped, a little noise escaped her throat, and she dropped the little bundle into the sea. There was no sound.

  She held the rail with white-knuckled fingers, even now shocked at how far above the waves she stood, fighting the urge to stop the ship, to retrieve what she had lost. The sea seemed suddenly too huge, a cold betrayal rather than a peaceful end. Her arms felt unbearably empty.

  Beside her, Frances pointed silently.

  The beige cardigan was just visible, far below them on the surface, a tiny scrap of pale colour. Then it dipped under the foamy wake. They did not see it again. They stood in silence, letting the breeze mould their clothes to their backs, watching Victoria’s wake foam, then rise, separate and disappear.

  ‘Have we been mad, Frances?’ she said, at last.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What the bloody hell have we done?’

  ‘I’m not sure what—’

  ‘We’ve left everything, all the people we love, our homes, our security. And for what? To be assaulted and then branded a trollop, like Jean? To be quizzed over your past by the bloody Navy, like some kind of criminal? To go through all this and then be told you’re not wanted? Because there’s no guarantee, right? There’s nothing says these men and their families are going to want us, right?’

  Her voice caught on the wind.

  ‘What the hell do I know about England? What do I really know about Joe or his family? About babies? I couldn’t even look after my own bloody dog . . .’ Her head dipped.

  They were oblivious to the damp deck beneath them, the stares of the dabbers painting on the other side of the island.

  ‘You know . . . I have to tell you . . . I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I got carried away with the idea of something, maybe escaping from cooking and cleaning for Dad and the boys. And now I’m here, all I want is my family. I want my family back, Frances. I want my mum.’ She was crying bitterly. ‘I want my dog.’

  Eyes blinded by tears, she felt Frances put her thin, strong arms round her. ‘No, Maggie, no. It’s going to be fine. You have a man who loves you. Really loves you. It will be fine.’

  Margaret wanted to be convinced. ‘How can you say that after everything that’s happened here?’

  ‘Joe is one in a million, Maggie. Even I know that. And you have a wonderful life ahead of you because it’s impossible for them not to love you. And you’re going to have a beautiful baby and you will love him or her more than you ever imagined. Oh, if you only knew how much I . . .’

  Frances’s face contorted and volcanic hiccups exploded from her chest, with an unstoppable, messy torrent of tears, and the hug she gave Margaret in comfort became an attempt to comfort herself. She tried to apologise, to pull herself together, waved her hand in mute apology, but she could not stop.

  Margaret, shocked into togetherness, held her. ‘Hey now,’ she said weakly. ‘Hey now, Frances, c’mon . . . c’mon, this isn’t like you . . .’ She stroked the hair, still pinned back from the night before. It must be the shock, she thought, remembering the sight of the two girls dropping into that churning sea. She felt sick with guilt that she hadn’t checked that Frances was all right. She held her, in mute apology, waiting for the storm to subside.

  ‘You’re right. We’ll be okay,’ she murmured, stroking Frances’s hair. ‘We might end up living near each other, right? And you write me, Frances. I haven’t got anyone else over here, and Avice is going to be as much use as a chocolate teapot. You’re all I’ve got . . .’

  ‘I’m not what you think.’ Frances was crying hard enough to draw attention now. A small group of sailors stood at the far end of the flight deck, watching and smoking. ‘I can’t begin to tell you . . .’

  ‘Ah, c’mon, it’s time to leave all that behind.’ She wiped her own eyes. ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a great girl. I know what I need to know, and a little bit that I didn’t. And you know what? I still think you’re a great girl. And you’d better bloody keep in touch with me.’

  ‘You’re . . . very . . . kind.’

  ‘You were going to say round, right?’

  Despite herself, Frances smiled.

  ‘Hey! You two! Come away from there!’

  They turned to see an officer standing by the island, waving them in. Margaret turned back to Frances. ‘Ah, c’mon, girl. Don’t get sappy on me now. Not you of all people.’

  ‘Oh, Maggie . . . I’m so . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is our new start, Frances. New everything. Like you said, it will be all right. We’ll make it all right.’

  She hugged Frances close to her as they began to walk across the huge deck. ‘Because it can’t be for bloody nothing, can it? We’ve got to make it all right.’

  The men were still working as they went down to the dormitory after dinner; scrubbing, polishing, painting, grumbling, their conversations audible in the passageways despite the excited chatter of brides collecting their belongings. Couldn’t see the point, the men muttered to each other. Ship was going to scrap anyway. Didn’t see why bloody Highfield couldn’t have given them one day’s bloody rest. Didn’t he know the war was over? Frances was comforted, in spite of it all: she had not seen him since the fire and the ratings’ words told her everything she needed to know about how he was.

  As they came through the hatch into the dormitory area, a small part of her hoped the marine would be standing there. That even though there were to be none on duty tonight he might be outside, his feet locked in their habitual position, his eyes sliding to hers in silent complicity.

  But the corridor was empty, as was the one above it, but for women wheeling backwards and forwards, reclaiming borrowed cosmetics, offering up disembarkation outfits for each other’s opinion. Perhaps it was for the best. She felt as if her emotions were running too close to the surface, as if the hysteria and fearful anticipation that ran through the ship had infecte
d her too.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Mackenzie.’ It was Vincent Duxbury, in a cream linen suit. ‘I understand we may be seeing you in the infirmary later. Nice to have you on duty.’ He tipped his hat to them, and walked jauntily on, whistling, she thought, ‘Frankie and Johnny’.

  Mrs Mackenzie. Sister Mackenzie. And there was no point wishing things were different, she told herself, as she helped Margaret into the little room. There never had been. She, more than anyone, knew that.

  She had left Margaret in the dormitory some time after nine thirty, grief and the exhaustions of pregnancy conspiring to produce sweet narcolepsy. Most nights Margaret had to get up, two or three times lately, to pad sleepily to the women’s lavatories down the corridor, nodding a greeting to those marines still on duty. Tonight she had failed to wake, and Frances, making her way back to Avice in the infirmary, was glad of it.

  She walked along the silent passageway, her soft shoes making almost no noise as she passed the closed doors. In other cabins tonight the air was thick with the scent of face cream liberally applied, the walls bright with carefully laundered dresses, sleep disturbed by the prickle of rollers, hairpins and excited dreams. Not in our little cabin, Frances thought. Margaret had attempted to pin her hair and then, swearing, given up. If he didn’t want her now, looking like this, she had reasoned, there was little chance that having hair like Shirley bloody Temple was going to make a difference.

  And Frances walked, her hair unrollered, her thoughts dark as the seas outside, her mind trying to close hatches against what must not be considered, like a seaman trying to stop a flood. She tripped up the steps towards the infirmary, nodding to a solitary rating hurrying by with a package under his arm.

  She heard the singing before she reached the infirmary. She listened, working out its provenance. From the hoarse sound of the voices and the words of the songs, she deduced that Dr Duxbury had the men singing show tunes. From the loose quality of the harmonies, she thought perhaps the infirmary might be a little lighter on sterile alcohol than it had been the previous day. In another time, she might have reported him – or gone in and addressed the matter herself. Now she stayed mute. There were just a few hours left on board. Just a few hours left of this ship. Who was she to judge whether the men should sing or not?