Ship of Brides Page 42

  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.

  Widowed?

  ‘Look at that. Hardly worth going to sleep now. Here, Nicol, come and have a drink with me.’

  Widowed? The word held a glorious resonance. He wanted to shout, ‘She’s a widow!’ Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t she told anyone? ‘Nicol? What do you fancy? Glass of Scotch?’

  ‘Sir?’ He glanced towards the hatch, desperate suddenly to get back to her cabin, to tell her what he knew. Why didn’t I tell her the truth? he thought. She might have confided in me. He understood suddenly that she had probably believed her status as a married woman offered her the only protection she had ever had.

  ‘Your devotion to duty is admirable, man, but just this once I’m ordering you. Let your hair down a little.’

  Nicol felt himself lean towards the hatch. ‘Sir, I really—’

  ‘Come on, Marine, indulge me.’ He waited, until he was sure Nicol was heading towards his cabin. Then he glanced at him, a rare, sly conspiracy in his smile. ‘Besides, how will that little dog get any rest if it’s always listening to you shuffling around outside the door?’

  As he turned in, Highfield wagged an admonishing finger. ‘Not a lot gets past me, Nicol. I might be about to be pensioned off, but I’ll tell you this – there’s not much goes on on this ship that I don’t know about.’

  By the time he leaves the captain’s rooms it is too late to wake her. He does not mind now: he knows he has time. His stomach full of whisky, and his mind still ringing with that word, he has all the time in the world. He squints against the too-bright blue of the skies as he heads across the flight deck, slows along the hangar deck, and then, as he reaches the women’s area, he stops, savouring the dawn silence, the sound of the gulls crying from Plymouth Sound, the sound of home.

  He stares at the door, loving that rectangular slab of metal as he has never loved anything. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he turns, places his hands behind his back, and stands outside, his feet planted on the smoke-damaged floor, blinking slowly, head a little muzzy from the drink and cigars.

  He is the only marine who will, tomorrow morning, be wearing an unpressed, unpolished uniform. He is the only marine to be disobeying orders by being in close, illegal proximity to the brides.

  He is the only marine on duty the entire length of the hangar deck, and there is a look of something proud and proprietorial, mixed with unutterable relief on his face.

  25

  Australian brides – 655 of them – of British sailors stepped into England last night when the 23,000-ton aircraft carrier Victorious anchored at Plymouth. They brought with them these stories:

  ADVENTURE – Mrs Irene Skinner, aged 23, descendant of the Rev. Samuel Marsden, who settled in Australia in 1794, said: ‘We may settle in Newfoundland, in England or in Australia, or in fact anywhere where we will find adventure and contentment.’

  ROMANCE – Mrs Gwen Clinton, aged 24, whose husband lives in Wembley, spoke of her marriage: ‘He was billeted with me in Sydney. I was fascinated by him, and that was the end of it.’

  PESSIMISM – Mrs Norma Clifford, 23-year-old wife of a naval engineer: ‘They tell me you cannot get any shoes at all in England.’ She brought 19 pairs with her.

  Daily Mail, 7 August 1946

  Plymouth

  ‘I’m not coming out. I tell you – I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Come on, Miriam. Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I tell you, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve had another look at my photographs and I’ve decided I don’t like the look of him.’

  Margaret sat on the edge of her bunk, listening to the urgent exchange coming from the next cabin. The women had been shouting at each other for almost half an hour now; the unfortunate Miriam appeared to have bolted herself in, and none of the others who shared the room, all of whom had been queuing for the bathroom at the time, could get dressed.

  As some of the WSOs had predicted, it was chaos. Around the unfortunate inhabitants of 3F, brides ran up and down the corridors, shrieking over mislaid belongings or missing friends. There had been an endless stream of piped instructions to the men, all in preparation for disembarkation, while the air was filled with the sound of seamen calling to each other as they performed last-minute tasks. The WSOs were already congregating at the gangplank, ready for their final duties: to confirm that each bride had been checked off, was in possession of all her cases, that she would be passed into safe hands.

  ‘Brides’ second sitting, last call for the canteen, last call for the canteen.’ The Tannoy hissed and clicked off.

  Insulated from all the activity, and without Avice and Frances, the dormitory was silent. Margaret glanced down at her outfit; she could only squeeze into one of her dresses now, and it was straining at the seams. She rubbed at a little oil mark, knowing it would do no good.

  ‘Just pass me my slip, then, Miriam, will you? We can’t stand out here all morning.’

  ‘I’m not opening the door.’ The girl’s voice was hysterical.

  ‘It’s a bit late for that. What are you planning to do? Flap your arms and fly home?’

  Her small suitcase, neatly packed, stood at the end of her bunk. Margaret smoothed the blanket beside it where Maudie had lain and took a deep, wavering breath. This was the first morning she had not been able to eat even a piece of dry toast. She felt sick with nerves.

  ‘I don’t care! I’m not coming out.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Look, get that marine there. He’ll help. Hey! You!’

  Margaret sat still, conscious of a shuffling against her door. Puzzled, she opened it and stepped back as the marine fell into the cabin, in a heavy tumble of limbs.

  ‘Hello,’ said Margaret, as he tried to push himself upright.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A woman padded up to Margaret’s door, her hair in a towelling turban. She addressed Nicol: ‘Miriam Arbiter’s locked herself in our cabin. We can’t get at our clothes.’

  The marine rubbed his head. It was obvious to Margaret that he was barely awake. She sniffed, noting with some surprise the faint whiff of alcohol that emanated from him, then bent down a little, to make sure he was who she thought he was.

  ‘We’re meant to be ready to go ashore in less than an hour, and we can’t even get at our things. You’ll have to fetch someone.’

  Suddenly he seemed to register where he was. ‘I need to speak to Frances.’ He scrambled to his feet.

  ‘She’s not here.’

  He looked startled. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘How have I missed her?’

  ‘Look, Marine, please can you sort this out? I need to set my hair or it’ll never be dry in time.’ The girl in the doorway pointed at her watch.

  ‘She came back last night and then she went again.’

  ‘Where is she?’ He grasped Margaret’s wrist. His face was alive with anxiety, as if he had only just worked out how close they all were to dispersing. ‘You’ve got to tell me, Maggie.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then she understood something that had been nagging at her for weeks. ‘I guess I thought she might be with you.’

  Avice stood in the infirm
ary bathroom, applying a final coat of lipstick. Her eyelashes, under two layers of block mascara, widened her marble-blue eyes. Her skin, which had been ghostly pale, was now apparently glowing with health. It was always important to look one’s best, especially at an occasion, and that was the marvellous thing about cosmetics. No one would know what awful things were going on inside one, given some pressed powder, rouge and a good lipstick. No one would know that one still felt a little shaky, even if there were mauve shadows under one’s eyes. Underneath the dark red two-piece, firmly enclosed by a quality girdle, there was no clue that one’s waist had been even an inch wider than it was now, or if what remained of one’s dreams was still bleeding away into unmentionable wads of cotton padding. No one would need to know if secretly one felt like one had been literally turned inside-out.

  There, she thought, as she stared at her reflection. I look – I look . . .

  He would not be there to meet her. She knew this as surely as she believed that now, finally, she knew him. He would wait until he had heard from her, until he knew which way the land lay. If she said yes, he would fall on her with protestations of eternal love. He would probably spend years telling her how much he loved her, how he adored her, how anyone else (she could not bring herself to use the words ‘his wife’) meant nothing to him. If she told him she didn’t want him, she suspected he would grieve for a few days, then probably consider himself to have had a lucky escape. She pictured him now, at the kitchen table, his mind already on this ship, bad-tempered and distant with this uncomprehending Englishwoman. A woman who, if she knew Ian as well as Avice did, would choose not to ask too many questions as to the cause of his foul mood.

  The WSO, for whom the word ‘brisk’ might have been coined, stuck her head round the door. ‘You all right, Mrs Radley? I’ve arranged for your small suitcase to be taken up to the boat deck for you so you won’t have to carry anything.’ She smiled brightly. ‘There, now. Don’t you look a hundred per cent better than yesterday? Everything all right?’ She nodded towards Avice’s stomach and lowered her voice discreetly, even though they were the only people in the room: ‘Did you have any more undergarments you wanted me to fetch from the laundry room?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Avice. After everything else she had been forced to endure, she was not prepared to suffer the indignity of discussing her underwear with a stranger. ‘I’ll be ready in two minutes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  The WSO withdrew.

  Avice placed her lipstick back in its case and dusted a last layer of fine powder over her face. She stood for a moment, turned a few degrees to each side, checking her reflection – a well-practised movement – and then, just for a second, her face fell and she gazed baldly at herself, seeing beyond the carefully pinked cheeks, the disguised eyes. I look, she thought . . . wiser.

  Highfield stood on the roof of the bridge, flanked by Dobson, the first lieutenant and the radio operator, and gave orders down the intercom to the coxswain as the great old warship negotiated her way by degrees into the narrower water, and the English coastline, at first a misty hint, grew into solid reality around them. Below him the sailors, dressed in their number-one uniforms, stood in perfect lines round the outside edge of the flight deck, while officers and senior ranks manned the island area – a ‘Procedure Alpha’, or Prod A, as it was known to the men. They stood in near silence, feet apart, hands behind their backs, immaculate dress somehow disguising the tired, shabby vessel they travelled on. Coming alongside was traditionally one of the finest moments of a captain’s journey: it was impossible not to be filled with pride, standing on a great warship with one’s men below, the noise of the welcoming crowd already in their ears. Highfield knew that there wasn’t a man among them for whom the last few months weren’t briefly forgotten in the well-ordered pleasure of such a ceremony.

  Not so Victoria. Engine hiccuping, rudder threatening intermittently to jam, the battered ship laboured in, bullied by the engineers and tugs, oblivious to the beauty of the hills of Devon and Cornwall that swelled on each side of her. When he had visited the starboard engine room earlier that morning, the chief engineer reported that it was probably just as well they were finally home. He wasn’t sure he would be able to get her going again. ‘She knows she’s done her job,’ he observed cheerfully, wiping his hands on his overalls. ‘She’s had enough. I got to say, sir, I know how she feels.’

  ‘Port bridge, alter course to zero six zero.’

  He turned to the radio operator and heard his command repeated back to him.

  The light was peculiarly bright, the kind of light that heralds a fine, clear day. Plymouth Sound was beautiful, an appropriate send-off for the old ship, and a good welcome, he thought, for the brides. A few white clouds scudded across the blue sky, the sea, flecked with white horses, glinted around the ship, somehow reflecting her in a little of their glory. After Bombay and Suez, after the endless muddied blue of the ocean, everything looked an impossible green.

  The docks had begun to fill almost at first light. First a few anxious-looking men, their collars turned up against the cold, smoking or disappearing briefly to refuel with tea and toast, then larger groups, families, standing in huddles on the dockside, occasionally pointing at the approaching ship. Waving at those brides who were already on the deck. The radio operator had had an exchange with the harbourmaster and members of the British Red Cross. He had reported that some of the husbands had been forced to sleep in doorways; there was not a room to be had in the whole of Plymouth.

  ‘Hands to harbour stations, hands to harbour stations, hands out of the rig of the day, clear off the upper deck, close all doors and hatches.’ The Tannoy closed off. It was the last command before they came into harbour.

  The captain stood, his hands on the rail in front of him. They were coming home. Whatever that meant.

  Nicol had checked the infirmary, the deck canteen and the brides’ bathroom, prompting a shrieking near-riot in the process. Now he ran swiftly along the hangar deck towards the main brides’ canteen, oblivious of the curious glances of the last women returning from breakfast. Arm in arm they walked, their hair set, their dresses and jackets pressed into razor-sharp creases, their shoulders hunched with excitement. Twice he had passed other marines as they headed for the flight deck; seeing him at speed, and knowing his reputation, they had assumed him to be on some urgent official duty. Only afterwards, as they registered the crumpled state of his uniform, his unshaven face, might they have remarked that Nicol was looking a bit rough. Amazing how some men felt able to let themselves go once they knew they were headed home.

  He skidded to a halt at the main doorway, and scanned the room. There were only thirty or so brides still seated: so close to disembarkation, most were finishing their packing, waiting on the boat deck or in turrets, skirts billowing in the stiff sea breeze. He paused for a moment, waiting for this girl to turn, or that one to look up, making sure neither of them was her. Then he cursed his befuddled head.

  Where would he start his search? There were people milling around everywhere. In half an hour, how was he meant to find one person in a ship, a rabbit warren of rooms and compartments, among sixteen hundred others?

  ‘Trevor, Mrs Annette.’ The WSO stood at the top of the gangway and waited for Mrs Trevor to fight her way to the front of the group. There was a brief hush before a suitcase was held aloft by a blonde woman, hair set in huge ringlets, hat askew as a result of her struggle through the others. ‘That’s me!’ she squealed. ‘I’m getting off!’

  ‘Your belongings have been cleared by Customs. Your trunks will be on the dockside, and you will need proof of identity when you collect them. You may disembark.’ The WSO moved her clipboard to her left hand. ‘Good luck,’ she said, and held out a hand.

  Mrs Trevor, her eyes already on the bottom of the gangplank, distractedly shook it and then, hoisting her case to her hip made her way down, wobbling in her high heels.

  The noise was deafening. On board the wom
en’s voices rose in a swell of anticipation, their heads bobbing as they fought to catch a glimpse of a loved one in the crowd. Around the bottom of the gangplank, several marines now stood firm, holding back the crowds pressing forward to meet them.

  On the dockside, a brass band played ‘Colonel Bogey’, and a loudhailer tried vainly to direct people away from the edge of the quay. Jostling groups cheered and waved, trying to attract attention, shouting messages that were carried away on the breeze, lost in the general cacophony.

  Margaret stood in the queue, her heart thumping, hoping it wouldn’t be too long before she could sit down. The woman in front of her kept jumping up and down in an attempt to see over the others’ heads and had twice barged into her. Normally this would have been enough for Margaret to mutter a salty word or two in her ear, but now her mouth was dry, nervousness rooting her to the spot.

  It all seemed so abrupt, so rushed. She had had no chance to say goodbye to anyone, not Tims, not the cook at the flight-deck canteen, not her cabin-mates, both of whom had vanished into thin air. Was this it? she thought. My last links with home, just vanishing on the breeze?

  As the first bride reached the bottom of the gangplank a cheer went up, and the air was lit with a battery of flashbulbs. The band struck up ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

  ‘I’m so nervous I think I’m going to wet myself,’ said the girl next to her.

  ‘Please let him be there, please let him be there,’ another was muttering into a handkerchief.

  ‘Wilson, Mrs Carrie.’ The names reeled off, faster now. ‘Your belongings have been cleared by Customs . . .’

  What have I done? Margaret thought, staring out at this strange new country. Where was Frances? Avice? For weeks this had been a distant dream, a holy grail to be grasped at in dreams, imagined and reimagined. Now it was here she felt unbalanced, unready. She thought she had never felt more alone in her life.