The Ship of Brides Read online

  'She was a wonderful woman, Queen Mary,' said Mrs Proffit, from the end of the table. 'Such a lady.'

  'You've got your orders?' A freckled girl on the other side of the table was frowning at Jean.

  'Last week.'

  'But you're low priority. You said you didn't even put in your papers until a month ago.'

  There was a brief silence. Around the table, several girls exchanged glances, then fixed their eyes on their embroidery. Mrs Proffit looked up; she had apparently picked up on the subtle cooling in the atmosphere. 'Anyone need more thread?' she asked, peering over her spectacles.

  'Yes, well, sometimes you just get lucky,' said Jean, and excused herself from the table.

  'How come she gets on?' said the freckled girl, turning to the women on each side of her. 'I've been waiting nearly fifteen months, and she's getting on the next boat out. How can that be right?' Her voice had sharpened with the injustice of it. Avice made a mental note not to mention her own orders.

  'She's carrying, isn't she?' muttered another girl.

  'What?'

  'Jean. She's in the family way. You know what? The Americans won't let you over once you're past four months.'

  'Who's doing the penguin?' said Mrs Proffit. 'You'll need to keep that black thread for whoever's doing the penguin.'

  'Hang on,' said a redhead threading a needle. 'Her Stan left in November. She said he was on the same ship as my Ernie.'

  'So she can't be in the family way.'

  'Or she is . . . and . . .'

  Eyes widened and met, accompanied by the odd smirk.

  'Are you up for a little roo, Sarah dear?' Mrs Proffit beamed at the girls and pulled some pieces of fawn felt out of her cloth bag. 'I do think the little roos are rather sweet, don't you?'

  Several minutes later Jean returned to her chair, and folded her arms rather combatively. She seemed to realise that she was no longer the topic of conversation and visibly relaxed - although she might have wondered at the sudden industriousness of the toy-making around her.

  'I met Ian, my husband, at a tea-dance,' said Avice, in an attempt to break the silence. 'I was part of a young ladies' reception committee, and he was the second man I offered a cup of tea to.'

  'Was that all you offered him?'

  That was Jean. She might have known. 'From what I've heard I don't suppose everyone's idea of hospitality is quite the same as yours,' she retorted. She remembered how she had blushed as she poured; he had been staring conspicuously at her ankles - of which she was rather proud.

  Petty Officer Ian Stewart Radley. At twenty-six, a whole five years older than her, which Avice considered just right, tall and straight-backed with eyes the colour of the sea, a gentlemanly British accent and broad, soft hands that had made her tremble the first time they ever brushed hers - even holding a shortbread finger. He had asked her to dance - even though no one else was on the floor - and with him being a serviceman, she had thought it mean-spirited to refuse. What was a quickstep or a Gay Gordons when he was looking death in the face?

  Less than four months later they were married, a tasteful ceremony in the Collins Street register office. Her father had been suspicious, had made her mother quiz her - in a discreet woman-to-woman way, of course - as to whether there was any reason for such a hasty marriage other than Ian's imminent departure. Ian had told her father, rather honourably, she thought, that he was happy to wait, if that was what Avice's parents wanted, that he would do nothing to upset them, but she had been determined to become Mrs Radley. The war had hastened everything, foreshortened the natural timescale of such things. And she had known, from that first cup of tea, there was no one else in the world she could envisage marrying; no one else upon whom she could consider bestowing her many gifts.

  'But we know nothing about him, dear,' her mother had said, wringing her hands.

  'He's perfect.'

  'You know that's not what I mean.'

  'What do you need to know? He's been out there holding the Brisbane line, hasn't he? Doesn't protecting our country, putting his own life at risk twelve thousand miles from his home to save us from the Japs, make him worthy of my hand?'

  'No need to be melodramatic, sweetheart,' her father had said.

  They had given in, of course. They always did. Her sister Deanna had been furious.

  'My Johnnie was billeted with my aunt Vi,' said another girl. 'I thought he was gorgeous. I sneaked into his room the second night he was there and that was that.'

  'Best to get in early,' said another, to raucous laughter. 'Stake your claim.'

  'Especially if Jean's around.'

  Even Jean found that funny.

  'Now, who wants to practise making one of these lovely necklaces?' Mrs Proffit held up an uneven-looking chain of aluminium coils. 'I'm sure it's what the best-dressed ladies are wearing in Europe.'

  'Next week it'll be how to make couture evening cloaks from horse blankets.'

  'I heard that, Edwina.' Mrs Proffit placed the necklace carefully on the table.

  'Sorry, Mrs P, but if my Johnnie saw me wearing one of those he wouldn't know whether to kiss me or check my rear to see if I'd laid an egg.'

  There was an explosion of laughter, an outburst of barely suppressed hysteria.

  Mrs Proffit sighed and laid down her craftwork. Really! It was only to be expected, as embarkation drew closer - but really! These girls could be so wearying.

  'So, when are you out?'

  Jean's host family were two streets away from the Wentworth, and the girls had ended up walking back together, dawdling. Despite the air of mutual dislike between them, they were reluctant to sit alone in their rooms for yet another evening.

  'Avice? When are your orders for?'

  Avice wondered whether to answer truthfully. She was pretty sure that Jean - immature and coarse as she was - was not the kind of girl she would normally want to associate with, especially if what had been said about her condition was true. But neither was Avice a girl used to self-restraint, and the effort involved in keeping quiet for an entire afternoon about her own plans had been a strain. 'Same as you. Three weeks. What's she called? The Victoria?'

  'It's a bugger, isn't it?' Jean lit a cigarette, cupping her hands against the sea breeze. As an afterthought, she offered one to Avice.

  Avice wrinkled her nose and declined. 'What did you say?'

  'It's a bugger. They get the bloody Queen Mary and we get the old tin can.'

  A car drove past slowly, and two servicemen hung out of the windows, shouting something crude. Jean grinned at them, waving her cigarette, as the car disappeared round the corner.

  Avice stood in front of her. 'I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean.'

  'Didn't you hear Mrs Proffit? The one who's married to the commander?'

  Avice shook her head.

  Jean laughed humourlessly. 'I don't think it's quite hair salons and first-class cabins for you and me, girl. Our Victoria is a bloody aircraft-carrier.'

  Avice stared at the girl for a minute, then smiled. It was the kind of smile she reserved at home for the staff when they did something particularly stupid. 'I think you must be mistaken, Jean. Ladies don't travel on aircraft-carriers.' She pursed her lips, as smoke trickled her way. 'Besides, there'd be nowhere to put us all.'

  'You really don't know anything, do you?'

  Avice fought back irritation at being addressed in this manner by someone who had to be at least five years younger than herself.

  'They've run out of decent transport. They're going to stick us on anything to get us over there. I reckon they figure whoever really wants to go will put up with whatever they throw our way.'

  'Are you sure?'

  '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.
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  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 sta
ying 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.