فصل 10

10

The voyage was a nightmare. Due to breakdowns, it took eight weeks. We had one murder, one suicide, one Airforce Officer who went crazy etc. All of this against the background of a crew neglecting their work in order to have time to pursue brides and later to engage in virtually public, gymnastic sexual activity with them. They appeared to use every available location on the ship, including one couple who specialised in the Crows Nests.

from the papers of the late Richard Lowery, naval architect

Sixteen days

The first Not Wanted Dont Come arrived on the morning of the sixteenth day the brides had been on board. The telegram arrived just after eight a.m. in the radio room, shortly after the longrange weather reports. Its content was noted by the radio operator. He carried it swiftly to the captain, who was eating toast and porridge in his rooms. He read it, then summoned the chaplain, who summoned the relevant WSO, and all three spent some time pontificating on what was known of the character of the bride concerned, and how well – or otherwise – she was likely to take the news.

The subject of the telegram, a Mrs Millicent Newcombe née Sumpter was called in to the captains office at ten thirty a.m. – it had been thought only fair to let the girl enjoy a good breakfast first many had not yet entirely recovered from seasickness. She arrived whitefaced, convinced that her husband, a pilot, flying Seafires, had been shot down and was missing, presumed dead. So great had been her distress that none of the three was quick enough to tell her the truth, and merely stood uncomfortably as she sobbed into her handkerchief. Eventually Captain Highfield put matters straight, telling her in a sonorous voice that he was terribly sorry but it wasnt that. It really wasnt that at all. Then he had handed her the telegram.

Afterwards, he told his steward, she had gone quite pale – paler even than when she had suspected her husbands death. She had asked, several times, whether they thought it was a joke, and when she heard that all such telegrams were investigated and verified as a matter of course, she had sat down, squinting at the words in front of her as if they didnt make sense. Its his mother, she said. I knew shed do for me. I knew it.

Then, as they stood in silence around her, I bought two pairs of new shoes. They cost me all my savings. For going ashore. I thought hed want to see me in nice shoes.

Im sure theyre very nice shoes, the chaplain murmured helplessly.

Then, with a heartbreaking look round the room, she said, I dont know what I do now.

Captain Highfield, along with the womens officer, had wired the girls parents, then contacted London, who had advised that they should put her off at Ceylon where a representative of the Australian government would take charge of the arrangements to bring her home. The radio operator would make sure that her parents or other family members had any relevant information. They would not let her go until they were sure that arrangements were in place to meet her at the other end. These procedures were laid out in the paperwork recently sent from London and had been put in place for the earlier return of GI brides.

Im very sorry, she said, once the arrangements had been made, thin shoulders straightening as she pulled herself together. To put you all to so much trouble, I mean. Im very sorry.

Its really no trouble, Mrs . . . erm . . . Millicent.

The womens officer had placed an arm round the girls shoulders to steer her out it was hard to tell whether the gesture was protective or merely indicative of her determination to get her away from the captains office.

For several moments after she had left the room was silent, as if, in the face of such emotional devastation, no one knew what to say. Highfield, sitting down, the girls forlorn voice still echoing round his walls, found he was developing a headache.

Ill get on to the Red Cross in Ceylon, sir, said the chaplain, eventually. Make sure theres someone who can stay with her a little. Give her a bit of support.

That would be a good idea, said Highfield. He scribbled something meaningless on the notepad in front of him. I suppose we should contact the pilots supervising officer as well, just to make sure there are no extenuating circumstances. You take charge of that, Dobson, will you?

Yes, sir, said Dobson. He had entered just as Millicent was leaving, and was whistling a jaunty tune that Highfield found intensely annoying.

He wondered whether he should have spent more time with the girl, whether he should get the WSO to bring her to dinner. A meal at the captains table might be consoling after her humiliation. But he had always found it difficult to judge these things.

Shell be all right, Dobson said.

What? said Highfield.

Shell probably have found another young dope by the time she leaves Ceylon. Pretty girl like that. He grinned. I dont think these Aussie girls are too fussy, as long as they find someone to get them off the old sheep farm.

Highfield was speechless.

Besides, its one less bride on board, eh, Captain? Dobson laughed, apparently pleased with his own humour. Bit of luck we could have jettisoned the lot by the time we reach Plymouth.

Rennick, who had been standing in the corner, briefly met his captains eye, then quietly left the room.

Until that point the world as the brides had known it had steadily receded by nautical miles, and the Victoria had become a world of its own, existing discretely from the continuing life on land. The routines of the ship had become the routines of the women, and those faces who daily moved around them, scrubbing, painting or welding, their population. This new world stretched from the captains office at one end to the PX store purveyors of lipstick, washingpowder, writing paper and other essentials – without a ration book at the other, and from the flight deck, surrounded by its endless blue horizon to the bowels of the bilge pumps, the port and starboard engines.

The days were marked off for some women by letterwriting and devotions, for others by lectures and movies, punctuated by walks round the free sections of the blustery deck or by the odd game of bingo. With food provided, and their lives dictated by the rules, there were few decisions to make. Marooned on their floating island, they became passive, surrendered themselves to these new rhythms, surrounded by nothing except the slowly changing climate, the increasingly dramatic sunsets, the endless ocean. Gradually, inevitably, in the same way as a pregnant woman cannot imagine the birth, it became harder to look forward to their destination, too much of a struggle to imagine the unknown.

Still harder to think back.

In this stilled atmosphere, news of the Not Wanted Dont Come filtered through the ship as rapidly and pervasively as a virus. The collective mood, which had taken on a hint of holiday as the girls felt less nauseous, was suddenly, distantly, fraught. A new low note of anxiety underlay the conversation in the canteen a spate of headaches and palpitations presented themselves to the sick bay. There was a rapid rise in the number of queries about when the next batch of letters was to arrive. At least one bride confided in the chaplain that she thought she might have changed her mind, as if by saying the words, and hearing his reassurance, she could ward off the possibility of her husband doing the same.

That one piece of paper, and its four bald words, had brought home to them rudely the reality of their situation. It told them that their future was not necessarily their own, that other unseen forces were even now dictating the months and years to follow. It reminded them that many had married in haste, and that no matter what they felt, what sacrifices they had made, they were now waiting, like sitting ducks, for their husbands to repent at leisure.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the arrival that afternoon of King Neptune and his cohorts prompted an atmosphere on board that could at best be described as fevered and at worst as manic.

After lunch Margaret had dragged the others up on to the flight deck. Avice had declared she would rather rest on her bunk, that she was feeling too delicate to enjoy herself. Frances had said, in her cool little voice, that she didnt think it was her kind of thing. Margaret, who had not failed to notice the chill in the air between the two, and a little unbalanced herself by the discovery in the bathroom that morning of a weeping girl convinced – in the face of no evidence – that she was about to get a telegram, had determined it would do them all good to go.

Her motives were not entirely selfless she didnt want to act as a buffer for the others jangling moods, couldnt face yet another afternoon ricocheting aimlessly between the canteen and the confines of the dormitory.

Jean, at least, had needed no persuading.

When they had emerged outside, the flight deck – normally deserted apart from rows of attentive seagulls, lost brides, or lonely pairs of seamen scrubbing their way backwards in steady formation – was a seething mass of people, the sun bouncing off the deck around them, their chatter lifting above the sound of the engines as they seated themselves around a newly constructed canvas tank. It was several seconds before Margaret noticed the chair suspended above it from the mobile crane.

Good God! Theyre not going to stick us in that, are they? she said.

Need a dockyard crane for you, said Jean, as she pushed, elbows out like elephants ears, through the crowd, oblivious to sharp looks and muttering. Come on, girls. Plenty of room over here. Mind your backs! Pregnant lady coming through.

Now that most were seated, Margaret could see that the crowd was mixed. It was the first time since they had slipped anchor that so many men and women had been gathered together without formal separation. The officers, though, stood apart in their whites. The heat on the deck evoked an expectant, festival atmosphere, and as she lumbered through the crowd, she was conscious of the womens bare arms and legs, the bolder attention of the men.

A short distance away another heavily pregnant woman was looking for somewhere to sit, a sun hat on her head, her pale skin mottled in some uncomfortable reaction to the heat. She caught sight of Margaret and her face twisted into acknowledgement, part smile, part sympathy. Behind her, a man in overalls offered a laughing girl a paper cup, and she thought wistfully of Joe, buying her lemonade at a local fair on one of the first times they had walked out together.

She lowered herself into the space Jean had cleared for her, trying to prop herself on the hard surface in a way that wouldnt make her limbs ache. Minutes later she found herself ducking inelegantly as a large crate was passed over the womens heads by one of the ratings to a moustachioed engineer, whom she recognised from Denniss mess. There you go, missus, he said, placing it beside her. Sit yourself on that.

Very civil of you, she said, embarrassed, a small part of her resentful that her condition meant she required it.

Not at all, he said. Were drawing lots over there, and none of us wanted the job of hauling you to your feet.

Considering Margarets facility with bad language, it was perhaps fortunate that at that moment Neptune arrived, in a wig made of unbraided rope, his face painted a violent green. He was surrounded by a number of equally outlandishly dressed companions, who were introduced as a rather hairy Queen Amphitrite, the Royal Doctor, Dentist and Barber, and the oversized Royal Baby, modesty protected by a towelling napkin and slathered in a layer of the grease more commonly associated with a welltuned engine. Behind them, accompanied by the redhaired trumpetplayer, came a band of barechested men, cheered loudly by the assembled troops and women, who were apparently to act as enforcers. They were introduced without explanation as Bears.

Id dare to bear. Hey! Id bear all for you, mate! Jeans face was glowing with excitement. Look at him! Hes as fit as a Mallee bull!

Oh, Jean, sighed Avice.

Despite her air of exasperation, it was clear to everyone that Avice was feeling better. It was apparent in the way she had spent a full twenty minutes doing her hair, even without the aid of a proper mirror or hairspray. It was apparent in the way that she sprayed herself so liberally with scent that Maude Gonne had sneezed for almost half an hour. But it was mostly apparent in the sudden lifting of her spirits at being in mixed company. Look. Theres all sorts of ranks here, she said happily, neck craned to make out who was in the crowd. Look at all the stripes! I thought it was just going to be a load of horrid old engineers.

Margaret and Frances exchanged a look.

And horrid old engineers wives? said Margaret, drily, but Avice didnt appear to hear.

Oh, I wish Id got out my dress with the blue flowers, she said, to no one in particular, as she eyed her cotton skirt. Its so much nicer.

You all right? said Frances, nodding at Margarets belly. Despite her large, floppy sunhat, she seemed ill at ease.

Fine, said Margaret.

Need a drink or anything? Its quite warm.

No, said Margaret, a little impatiently.

I dont mind going to the canteen. It was as if Frances was desperate to go.

Oh, stop fussing, said Avice, straightening her hem. If she wants something, shell ask for it.

Ill speak for myself, thanks. Im fine, said Margaret, turning to Frances. Im not ill, for goodness sake.

I just thought—

Well, dont. Im perfectly capable of looking after myself. She lowered her head, fighting her illtemper. Beside her, Frances had gone very still, reminding Margaret uncomfortably of Letty.

Hear ye, hear ye, said Neptune, lifting his trident so that it glinted in the sun. Slowly the noise subsided to a barely suppressed communal giggle, the odd whisper rippling through the crowd like a breeze across a cornfield. Satisfied that he had the womens full attention, he lifted a scroll of paper.

You ladies now by Britain claimd

Will find our company is shamed.

And offences grave and numerous here

Old Neptunes court has come to hear.

Rating, captain, all the same,

Before our sea kings judgement famed

And all will find their sins are met

With punishment both foul and wet,

Whether failing to share with friends his grog

Or being termed a pollywog,

Youll hear the charge, and then well see

How Neptune choose to punish thee.

Its hardly Wordsworth, is it? sniffed Avice.

Who? said Jean.

Now our ratings, our tadpoles, pollywogs

Will have to fight like cats and dogs

To save themselves from Neptunes pack

And earn the right to be Shellback.

Captain, chaplain, or humble docker,

Theyve sent too many to Davy Jones locker.

So we will decide, O ladies fair,

Just who gets a spell in our dunking chair.

Eventually, after much catcalling and something that might have qualified as a scuffle, the first tadpole was called up a young rating whose squint was explained by the spectacles borne aloft like a prize behind him. His guilt, apparently, was predicated on it being only his second time of crossing the line – the first had been in wartime, and had not been commemorated. As the women howled their approval, he was first charged with failing to acknowledge the territory of Neptune, then, as the enforcers held him down, the Royal Dentist filled his mouth with what looked like soapsuds, leaving him gagging and choking. He was then lifted into the chair and, at the lowering of Neptunes trident, summarily ducked, as the women clapped and cheered.

Its not very dignified, is it? said Avice, leaning forward for a better view.

At this point, the Bears moved into the crowd, eyeing the women with theatrical intent. The brides, in turn, shrieked obligingly and clutched each other, vowing loudly and without any intent whatsover, to protect each other. They were melodramatic enough for Margaret to roll her eyes. Beside her, Frances didnt flinch. But, then, she seemed so little moved by the presence of men that Margaret wondered how she had ever come to be married at all.

One of the Bears stopped in front of them. His chest still wet from some previous assault, greenfaced with a string of shells around his neck, he bent low and peered at the women. What sinners and miscreants do we have here, then? he said. Which of you is deserving of punishment? He was met by a collective shriek as the brides parted like biblical waves around him.

Except Frances. As he paused in front of her, she sat very still and stared back at him, until, realising he would get no sport from her, he turned to Margaret. Aha! he cried, advancing towards her. Margaret was about to protest smilingly that there was no way they were putting her in that bloody chair when he swivelled round, like a pantomime villain, to face the delighted audience around him. I see I shall have to find another victim, he said, thrusting a hand towards her, for it is Neptunes law that one must not offend a whale!

The brides around them fell about. Margaret, who had been about to make some smart retort, found herself tonguetied. They were all laughing at her. As if her pregnancy made her some kind of joke. Oh, rack off, she said crossly. But that only made everyone laugh louder.

She sat there as he prowled off after other game, her eyes filled inexplicably with tears. Francess hat was pulled low on her head, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Bloody eejit, Margaret muttered, then louder Bloody eejit. As if saying it might make her feel better.

The sun grew fiercer and she could feel her nose and cheeks burning. Several other ratings were brought forward, and similarly charged some were writhing and swearing, or carried bodily, allegedly having attempted to hide in different parts of the ship. Most laughed.

Margaret envied Frances her hat. She shifted on her crate, one hand raised to her hairline as she watched the entertainment, the staged misfortunes of others gradually forcing aside her own bad mood. Youve been on ships before. Is it always like this? she said to Frances, who was now wearing sunglasses. She couldnt bear an atmosphere.

Frances forced a smile, and Margaret felt ashamed for having been so sharp with her. I couldnt tell you, she murmured. Ive always been working. Then she was distracted by something off to her right.

Who are you nodding at?

Thats our marine, Frances said.

It is? Margaret squinted at the darkhaired man standing a short distance away from them. She hadnt ever really looked at his face, had been too busy hurrying past him, hunched over her concealed dog. He looks bloody awful. Shouldnt he be asleep if hes on watch all night?

Frances didnt answer. The marine had spotted them and her eyes were now on her feet.

Hes nodding at you, said Margaret, waving cheerfully. There! You not going to wave back?

But Frances didnt appear to have heard.

Look! interrupted Jean, grabbing Margarets elbow. Bloody hell! Theyve got one of the officers!

And hes no ordinary officer, said Avice. Hes the executive officer. Hes terribly high up, you know. Oh, my goodness! Her mouth twitched under her hand, as if she thought that, for the sake of propriety, she shouldnt be seen to enjoy this quite so much.

Swearing and spluttering, the XO had been carried from beside the captain to the ducking stool and strapped in. There, set upon by Bears, his shirt was removed and, as the brides shrieked their approval, he was smothered in grease and his face plastered with what might have been oatmeal.

Several times he twisted in the seat, as if to appeal to someone behind him, but syrup was rubbed into his hair and feathers scattered on top. With every humiliation the noise level grew higher, until even the gulls circling the scene were shrieking. It was as if, having been made brutally aware of their own lack of control over their lives, the women took a cathartic pleasure in determining what happened to someone elses.

Off! Off! Off! yelled the crowd, mens voices mingling with womens.

Margarets own humiliation was forgotten. She was grinning and shouting, reminded of her brothers roughhousing, of the way, as children, they had pinned each other to the dirt and forced cow dung into each others mouths.

She was distracted by a tap on her shoulder. Frances was mouthing something at her. It was impossible to hear what she was saying, but she seemed to be gesturing that she was leaving. She looked pale, Margaret thought, then turned back to the XOs misery.

Look at him, yelled Avice, marvelling. He looks absolutely furious.

Mad as a cut snake, said Jean. I didnt think theyd do it to someone that high up.

Are you okay— Margaret began, then saw that Frances had already gone.

At the urging of the now delirious crowd, the Royal Barber applied foam to the officers hair, then took a pair of oversized scissors and hacked at it. Then his mouth was cranked open by gleeful men and he was fed what Neptune announced as seafarers medicine. As he retched and spluttered, his face now all but unrecognisable, one of the Bears walked round the assembled women, proudly detailing its ingredients – castor oil, vinegar, soapsuds, and powdered egg. Two rotting fish were stuck into the XOs ears, a womans scarf tied around his neck. There was a brief countdown, and then he was ducked, emerging twice to express his outrage.

Youll all bloody well pay for this, he was shouting, through the suds. Ill get your names and take this up with your superiors.

Hold your tongue, Dobbo, ordered Queen Amphitrite, or you may find something even fishier on it.

The women laughed louder.

I really cant believe theyre meant to do that, said Avice fizzing with excitement. Im sure someone so high up isnt meant to be included. Then she took on the stillness of a gundog scenting sport. Oh, my goodness! Thats Irene Carter!

Neptunes court – and her companions – forgotten, she stood up and pushed her way through the jeering crowd, one hand raised to her hair as she went. Irene! Irene! Its Avice!

Do you think the captain will report them for it? Jean said, wideeyed, as the noise subsided and the spluttering victim was unstrapped from the ducking chair. Youd think someone like that was offlimits, wouldnt you?

Ive no idea, said Margaret.

She scanned the deck for Frances and spotted the captain. He was standing beside the island, his face partially obscured by the men around him. A shorter man with a heavily lined face stretched up to mutter something into his ear. It was hard to tell from that distance, what with the captain wearing his cap, and with so many people moving around, but she could have sworn he was laughing.

It was almost two hours before she found Frances. National Velvet was playing and she was seated alone in the cinema, several rows from the front, her sunglasses pushed back on her head, apparently absorbed in the sight of Mickey Rooney drunk in a saloon bar.

Margaret paused at the side of the little aisle, squinting in the dark to confirm to herself that it was Frances, then went over to her You all right? she said, easing in beside her.

Fine, Frances murmured.

Margaret thought she had never met someone so determinedly emotionless in her life. The ceremony was a good laugh, she said, raising her feet on to the seat in front. The chef was charged with cooking inedible food. They stuck a dead squid on his head and made him eat yesterdays slops, all mixed up. I thought it was a bit unfair. I mean, I couldnt do any better.

In the light from the screen she saw Frances smile in a way that suggested a complete lack of interest.

Margaret continued doggedly Jeans gone to take tea with the able seamen. Oh, and Avice has left us. Found some old friend and they fell on each other like longlost sweethearts. They even looked like each other – perfect hair, lots of makeup, that kind of thing. My guess is shell drop us like a hot brick now. I got the feeling we were a bit of a disappointment to her. Or I was, she said hurriedly. You know, the fat old milkmaid with the stinky little dog. Probably not her idea of a social scene. The baby was kicking. Margaret shifted, scolding it silently.

I . . . was wondering why you left, she said. I thought . . . well, I just wanted to check you were all right.

At this point Frances evidently realised she was not going to be allowed to watch the film. Her posture softened a little and her head dipped towards Margaret. Im not very good with crowds, she said.

That it? said Margaret.

Yes.

Elizabeth Taylor mounted her horse with the kind of easy leap that suggested weightlessness, a joy in the simple act of movement. Margaret watched her, reminded of her mothers badtempered mare, remembering how, months earlier, she had been able to vault lithely on to its back, and then, showing off to her brothers, spin round athletically to face its rear. She had been able to do handstands on the older, quieter horse.

Im sorry, she muttered. About being a bit sharp earlier.

Frances kept her eyes on the screen.

I just find – I find being pregnant a bit difficult. Its not really me. And sometimes . . . I say things without thinking. Margaret rested her hands on her belly, watching as they lifted with the babys squirms. Its because of my brothers. Im used to being direct. And I dont always think about how it comes across.

Frances was looking down now and the screen was illuminated briefly by cinematic sunlight. It was the only sign by which she could tell that the other woman was listening. Actually, she continued, the darkness and their solitude allowing her to say the things she had kept to herself for so long, I hate it. I shouldnt say that but I do. I hate being so big. I hate not being able to walk up two bloody stairs without puffing like an old codger. I hate the look of it, the idea that I cant do a bloody thing – eat, drink, walk around in the sun – without having to think of the baby.

She fiddled with her hem. She was heartily sick of this skirt and of wearing the same things day after day. She had hardly worn a skirt in her life until she had become pregnant. She smoothed it distractedly.

Eventually she spoke again. You know, almost as soon as Joe and I got married he was gone and I was living with Dad and my brothers. Married in theory, I guess you could call it. It certainly didnt feel like being married. But I didnt complain because we were all in the same boat, right? None of us had our men with us. And then the war ended. And then I discovered . . . you know . . . She looked down. And instead of finally getting my passage overseas and meeting Joe again and just being able to enjoy me and him being together, finally being together, which was all I really wanted, weve already got this thing to take into account. No honeymoon. No time to ourselves. By the time its born well have been alone together for about four weeks of our married life.

She rubbed her face, grateful that Frances couldnt see it. You probably think Im awful for saying all this. Youve probably seen all sorts of death and sickness and babies and are sitting there thinking I should be grateful. But I cant be. I just cant. I hate the thought that Im meant to feel all these feminine, maternal things that I cant make myself feel. Her voice caught. Most of all, I hate the thought that once its born Im never going to be free again . . .

Her eyes had filled with tears. Awkwardly she tried to wipe her eyes with her left hand so that Frances would not know. This was what it was turning her into a stupid, weeping girl. She blew her nose on a damp handkerchief. Tried to get comfortable again and flinched as the baby delivered another sharp kick to her ribs, as if in retribution. It was then that she felt a cool hand on her arm.

I suppose its to be expected, Frances said, that well get a bit tense with each other. I mean, living so close and all.

Margaret sniffed again. I didnt mean to cause offence.

It was then that Frances turned to her. Margaret could just discern her huge eyes. She swallowed, as if what she had to say required effort. None taken. And, after the briefest of squeezes, she took her hand back into her lap and returned to the film.

Margaret and Frances walked back along the hangar deck, having joined the second shift, rather than their allotted one, for dinner, due to the late finish of the film. This request had prompted as much cheeksucking and illtempered acquiescence among the womens officers, Margaret said, as if they had asked to eat in the nude. Lukewarm cornedbeef pie as opposed to warm cornedbeef pie. It hardly requires an international treaty, does it?

Frances had smiled for the second time that evening Margaret had noted it because each time her face had been transformed. That porcelain stillness, the melancholy air of withholding, had evaporated briefly and this sweetly beautiful stranger had broken through. She had been tempted to comment on it, but what little she knew of Frances had told her that any remark would bring down the shutters again. And Margaret was not a stickybeak.

Frances was talking about life on board a hospital ship. As her quiet, precise voice detailed the rounds, the injuries of a young marine she had treated outside the Solomon Islands, Margaret thought of that smile, then of Letty. Of the brief, blushing youthfulness of her, that strange almostprettiness that beset her features when she had dared briefly to believe in a future with Murray Donleavy. She pushed away the memory, feeling darkly ashamed.

The temperature had not cooled as much as it had on previous evenings, and a balminess in the air reminded her of summer at home, of sitting out on the front porch, bare feet warm against the rough boards, the sound of the occasional slap as one of her brothers abruptly ended the night flight of some carnivorous insect. She tried to imagine what they would be doing that night. Perhaps Daniel would be sitting on the porch skinning rabbits with his penknife . . .

Suddenly she became aware of what Frances was telling her. She stopped. Got Frances to repeat herself. Are you sure? He knows? she said.

Francess hands were thrust deep into her pockets. Thats what he said. He asked whose she was.

Did you tell him?

No.

So what did you say?

I didnt say anything.

What do you mean, you didnt say anything?

I didnt say anything. I shut the door.

They fell back against the pipelined wall as two officers walked past. One tipped his hat, and Margaret smiled politely. She waited until they were far down the gangway before she spoke again. He told you he knew about the dog and you didnt ask him whether he was going to tell on us? Or how long he had known? Nothing?

Well, he hasnt told on us yet, has he?

But we dont know what hes going to do. Francess jaw, Margaret realised, was peculiarly set.

I just . . . I didnt want to get into a discussion about it.

Why not? Margaret asked incredulously.

I didnt want him to get any ideas . . .

Ideas? About what?

Frances managed to look furious and defensive at once. I didnt want him to think he could use the dog as a bargaining ploy.

There was a lengthy silence, Margaret frowning in incomprehension.

Its a big deal. I thought he might want something . . . in return. She seemed faintly embarrassed now, as if she had understood how this logic might sound.

Margaret shook her head. Jeez, Frances. Youve got a strange view of how people go about things.

They had arrived at their cabin. Margaret was trying to think whether there had been some hidden meaning in the way the marine had waved to them and was about to suggest that she should be the one to talk to him when he arrived, but she was distracted by the sight of a girl running up the passageway. She had shoulderlength dark hair secured off her face with bobby pins, one of which had become detached and was hanging loose. She skidded to a halt when she reached them, and scanned their door. You live here? 3G? she panted.

Yeah. Margaret shrugged. So?

You know a girl called Jean? she asked, still breathless. And when they nodded You might want to get downstairs. Keep an eye on your little mate, before someone official finds her. Shes got herself into a bit of trouble.

Where? said Margaret.

Seamens mess. E Deck. Go left by the second flight of stairs. Its the blue door near the fire extinguisher. Ive got to go. The marines are going to be here in a minute. Youll have to hurry.

Ill go, said Frances to Margaret. Ill be faster. You catch me up. She slipped off her shoes, dumped her cardigan and bag at their door, then sprinted down the passageway, her long thin legs flying up behind her as she went.

There were all manner of hardships one could endure, Avice thought, if one happened to be in the right company. Since she had found Irene Carter that afternoon, and had been invited to join her and her friends for tea, then a lecture Irene had sewn some simply marvellous pegbags and finally supper, they had talked for so long and so animatedly that she had forgotten not only the time but how much she detested the old ship.

Irene Carters father owned Melbournes most prominent tennis club. She was married to a sublieutenant just returned from the Adriatic the son of here Avice paused for breath someone high up in the Foreign Office. And she had brought no less than eleven hats with her, in case one couldnt get them in England. Irene Carter was most definitely the right sort. And, with a rigour Avice suspected was rather lacking in her own character, she had determined to surround herself only with other girls of the right sort, in one case going so far as to organise a bunk swap so that the darkskinned girl with glasses had been reallocated to a cabin where she would find girls like herself. She hadnt needed to spell out what criteria this might include. Avice, looking at Irene and the perfectly lovely girls around her, could see that they were all alike, not just in dress and manner but in their attitudes.

Of course, you know what happened to Lolicia Tarrant, dont you? Irene was saying, her arm lightly linked through Avices as they tripped down the steps into the main hangar. The others were walking a couple of steps behind.

No. Irenes shoes were the same as the ones Avices mother had seen in a Paris magazine. She must have had them flown over.

Well, you know she was engaged to that pilot? The one with the . . . unfortunate moustache? No? Well . . . he wasnt five weeks in Malaya when she took up with an American soldier. She lowered her voice. Awful man. So coarse. You know what he used to say about Melbourne? Half as big as New York Citys largest cemetery – and twice as dead. Ugh. Used to repeat it endlessly, as if he were being terribly original every time.

So what happened? Avice was wideeyed, picturing Lolicia with the American.

Well, that was it. Her fiancé came back and was not best pleased to find Lolly promenading around with this GI, as you can imagine. Lets just say it was more than the Brisbane line hed been holding, you get my drift?

Goodness, said Avice.

And nor was Lollys father best pleased when he found out. Theyd been wary of the Americans since the murders, of course. All of the girls remembered the scandal there had been when four Melbourne women were murdered by Private Edward J. Leonski and Australias relationship with the GIs had soured.

He wasnt a murderer.

Oh, Avice, you are funny! No. But he did let all his GI friends know what hed been up to with Lolly. In the most graphic detail. And his commanding officer apparently got the wrong end of the stick and sent Lollys father a letter, suggesting he keep better watch on his daughter.

Oh, my goodness!

Her reputation was shredded. Her fiancé wants nothing to do with her, even though half of what this officer said was untrue, of course.

Is she all right?

I dont know, said Irene.

I thought you and she were friends, said Avice.

Now? Irene pulled a face and she shook her head, as if she were trying to dislodge an annoying insect. There was a long silence. So, she continued, are you going to enter for Queen of the Victoria? Theyre having a Miss Lovely Legs contest next week, you know.

They were halfway along the hangar deck when they came across Margaret. She was leaning against a noticeboard, one hand above her head, palm down, as if to support herself, while the other was clutching the point where her giant belly took a rightangled leap from her body.

Are you all right? said Avice, paralysed with the fear that the farm girl was about to give birth. She would have to get involved. Goodness only knew what Irene would think.

Stitch, said Margaret, through gritted teeth.

Avice felt almost faint with relief.

Would you like some help getting back to your cabin? asked Irene, courteously.

No. Margaret looked at Avice, then at her friend. Her nose, Avice noticed, had reddened with the sun. Ive got to go downstairs. Jeans got herself involved in a little . . . episode.

She shares our cabin, Avice explained.

You want some help? said Irene. She had bent her knees to look into Margarets flushed face.

I need to catch my breath.

Well, you cant possibly go and get your friend like that. Not down all those stairs. Well come with you.

Avice began to remonstrate No . . . I dont think we should . . . I mean, Jean is . . .

But Irene had already slid her arm from Avices and was reaching for Margaret. Better? Come on, take my arm. Well have a little adventure.

Come on, girls, she had said. Havent had the remotest bit of excitement since setting foot on board. Lets go and rescue a damsel in distress. And Avice heard Jeans bawdy laugh in her ears, heard her saying that Margaret was as itchy as an itchybug in Itchyville or some such and watched Irene – her only lifeline to a proper social life during this voyage – prepare to float away from her on a mist of disapproval. She closed her eyes, rehearsing her excuses and ways to distance herself from Jeans vulgarity.

But Jean, when they found her, was not laughing. She wasnt even standing.

They saw her legs before they saw her, emerging awkwardly from behind a stack of canisters by the overheated starboard engine room, her shoes, half on her feet, pointing towards each other. As they came closer their voices, which had been hushed down the long, narrow gangway, stilled as they took in the tableau before them. They could see enough of her top half to gather that she was drunk – drunk enough to murmur incoherently at nobody in particular. Drunk enough to half sit, half lie, legs splayed, on the hard, oily floor. Drunk enough not to care that her blouse was unbuttoned and a small pale breast had spilled out of a dislodged brassière.

Frances stood over her, her usually pale, grave face flushed and animated, her hair somehow uncoiling from its usually severe pinning, her being radiating electricity. A man, possibly a seaman, equally drunk, was reeling away from her, clutching his shoulder. His flies were undone, and there was a flash of something purple and obscene in the fleshy gap they exposed. As the new arrivals stared in mute, shocked horror, another man peeled out of the shadows behind Jean and, with a guilty glance at them, straightened his dress and rushed away. Jean stirred, muttered something, her hair in dark, sweaty fronds over her face. Amid the shocked silence, Margaret knelt down and tried to pull Jeans skirt over those pale thighs.

You bastard, Frances was screaming at the man. They could see she was holding a large spanner in her bony hand. He moved and her arm came down, the spanner connecting with his shoulder in an audible crack. As he ducked away, tried to shelter, the blows rained down on him with the relentless, manic force of a jackhammer. As one hit the side of his head, a fine arc of blood spattered into the air from above his ear.

Before they had a chance to digest this scene, to let its meaning, the ramifications, sink in, Dennis Tims was running towards them, his taut bulk bringing renewed threat. What the hells going on? he said, cigarette still in hand. Mikey said—What the hell . . . ? Oh, Jesus, he said, taking in Frances, the mans trousers, Jean on the floor, now supported by Margaret. Oh, Jesus. Jesus . . . Thompson, you bloody— He dropped his cigarette and grabbed at Frances, who tried to shake him off, her face contorted. You bastard! she yelled. You dirty bastard!

All right, girl, he said. All right now. All right. As his mate pulled the man away from her, he closed his broad forearms around Francess collarbone and pulled her back, until the spanner was waving futilely in the air.

Timss mate released the man who, too shocked or perhaps too inebriated to react, fell like a stone. The noise of the engines was deafening, a neverending timpani of thumping and grinding, yet even over this the sound his head made was a sick, echoing thud, like that of a watermelon when it is dropped to the floor.

Irene shrieked.

Tims let go of Frances and shoved the man on to his side, at first, one might have suspected, to inflict further damage. But he was roughly checking the head wound, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Two of the girls who, until then, had been whispering together ran off, hands pressed to their faces.

Avice was shaking. Tims was on his knees, shouting at the man to get up, get up, damn him.

Margaret, behind the men, had begun to haul Jean away.

Frances was standing, legs hipwidth apart, the spanner loose in her fingers, shaking convulsively. She was possibly unaware that she was weeping.

We should call someone, said Avice to Irene. There was a terrible energy in the air. Her breath emerged in short bursts, as if, even as an observer, she had been overfilled with adrenaline.

I dont . . . I . . .

It was then that they caught sight of the womens officer running towards them, her feet echoing on the metal floor. What is going on here? Scrapedback dark hair, large bosom. She was still twenty feet from them.

Tims stopped, a fist raised. One of his mates said something to him, put a hand to his elbow, then the man melted into the darkness. Tims straightened, ran a hand through his short, strawcoloured hair. He looked at Margaret, as if he had only just noticed she was there, his eyes wide and strained, his hand still moving involuntarily. He shook his head, as if to say something, to apologise perhaps. And then she was there, in front of them all, her eyes darting between them, a regulatory air emanating from her like a bad perfume.

What is going on here?

At first she didnt seem to see Jean on the floor, Margaret still trying to make her decent. Her stockings, Avice saw were looped round her knees.

Bit of an accident, said Tims, wiping bloodied hands on his trousers. He did not look at the woman. Weve just been sorting it out. He mouthed the words as much as spoke them.

The officer looked from his hands to Avice, to Margaret, was briefly distracted by Margarets belly. What are you girls doing down here?

She waited for an answer. No one spoke. Beside her, Avice realised, Irenes hand was pressed to her chest, clutching a handkerchief, in the manner of a consumptive heroine. Her social assurance and confidence had deserted her and her mouth hung a little open.

When she turned back Tims had disappeared. The injured man now sat lopsidedly on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.

You do know there are grave penalties for being in the mens area?

There was a heavy silence. The officer bent down, took in the state of the man, the fact that the other had vanished. Then she saw Jean. Oh, my goodness. Please dont tell me this is what I think it is.

Its not, said Margaret.

The womans eyes moved to her. Oh, my goodness, she said again. The captain will have to be informed.

Why? It wasnt us. Avice had yelled to be heard over the engines. We only came to get Jean.

Avice! Frances was scrambling to her feet. She stood between the woman and Jeans prostrate form. Leave it to us. Well get her back to her room.

I cant do that. Ive been told to report any parties, any drinking, any . . . misdemeanours. Ill need all your names.

But it wasnt us! said Avice, with a glance at Irene. Its only Jean whos disgraced herself!

Jean?

Jean Castleforth, said Avice, desperately. We really are nothing to do with it. We just came down because we heard she was in trouble.

Jean Castleforth, said the woman. And yours?

But I havent so much as looked at another man! I dont even like alcohol!

I said well take her home, said Frances. Im a nurse. Ill look after her.

Youre not suggesting I ignore this? Look at her!

Shes just—

Shes no better than a brass, is what she is!

How dare you? Frances was surprisingly tall when she stood straight. Her features had sharpened. Her fists, Avice noted, were balled. How dare you?

Are you telling me they forced her to come down here? The woman wrinkled her nostrils against the smell of alcohol on Jeans breath.

Why dont we all just—

Quivering with rage, Frances turned on Avice. Get out of here! Just get away from me. And listen, you – you womens officer, or whatever you are – you cant report her for this, you hear? It wasnt her fault.

My orders are to report any misdemeanours.

Shes sixteen years old. Theyve obviously got her drunk and . . . abused her. Shes sixteen!

Old enough to know what shes doing. She shouldnt be down here. None of you should be.

They got her drunk! Look at her! Shes virtually unconscious! You think she should lose her reputation, possibly her husband, because of this?

I dont—

You cant ruin the girls whole life because of one drunken moment! Frances was standing over the woman now, some sense of barely concealed – what was it?

Avice, shocked by this unrecognisable Frances, found herself instinctively stepping backwards.

The officer could see it too she had squared up a little, in a manner that suggested some defensive strategy. As I said, my orders are to—

Oh, shut up about your bloody orders, you officious—

It was impossible to say why Frances, flushed and electric, had lifted her arm but Margaret was already pulling her backwards. Frances, she was murmuring, calm down, okay? Its okay.

It was a few moments before Frances appeared to hear her. She was rigid, filled with tension. No, its not okay. Youve got to tell her, she said, her eyes glittering.

But youre not helping her, said Margaret. You hear me? Youve got to back off.

Something in Margarets eyes stayed Frances. She blinked several times, then let out a deep, shuddering breath.

Irenes hand – she was still clutching the handkerchief – was shaking. As Avice looked away from it, the officer had turned and, as if grateful for the means of escape, was walking briskly, with purpose, down the passageway.

Shes just a kid! Frances yelled. But the woman was gone.