فصل 11

11

Congratulations to Mrs H. Skinner and Mrs H. Dill who both have wedding anniversaries this week. Mrs Skinner has been married two years and Mrs Dill a year and although this happy occasion may find them separated from their husbands we sincerely hope that this will be the last anniversary they will spend apart and wish them every happiness in their future life.

Celebration Time, Daily Ship News,

from the papers of Avice R. Wilson, war bride,

Imperial War Museum

Eighteen days

At sea, it was impossible to say at what time dawn broke, not because it varied from day to day, or continent to continent, but because across the flattened arc of a marine horizon the glowing crack that sheared into the darkness could be seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles away, long before it might be visible on land, long before it meant a new day. And, more importantly, because below decks, in a narrow passageway without windows or doors, without anything but artificial light, it was impossible to tell whether it had happened at all.

This was one, but not the only, reason Henry Nicol did not like the hour between five and six in the morning. Once he had enjoyed the early watch, when the seas had been new and magical to him, when, unused to living in such close quarters with other men, he had relished the quietest time aboard ship those last dark minutes before the ship segued into the mechanics of its day and woke, by degrees, around him. The one time he could imagine himself the only person in the world.

Later, when he had been home on leave and the children were babies, one or both would inevitably wake at this time, and he would hear his wife slide heavily out of bed, half seeing, if he chose to open an eye, her hand reaching unconsciously to her pin curls, the other reaching for her dressinggown as she whispered, Hold on, Mothers coming. He would turn over, pinned to his pillow by the familiar mix of guilt and impatience, aware even in halfsleep of his own failure to feel what he should for the woman padding across the linoleum gratitude, desire, even love.

For some time now 0500 had become not the herald of a new dawn but a bald figure of timing for conversion in America, it would be five oclock the previous evening. And in America, his 1900 hours would be wakingup time for his boys. But this time the distance in geography would be only half of it their whole lives would be running on different time lines. He had often wondered how they would remember him, if they could not imagine him existing half a day, even a whole day ahead. Now there would be no more thinking of them in the present tense, imagining, as he sometimes did, Theyll be having breakfast now. Theyll be brushing their teeth. They might be outside, playing with a ball, a car, the wagon I made for them from bits of wood. Now he would think of them historically.

Some other mans hands throwing the ball.

On the other side of the steel door a woman murmured in sleep, her voice rising as if in a question. Then silence.

Nicol stared at his watch, adjusted the previous day as they entered another time zone. My hours are speeding towards nothing, he thought. No home, no sons, no heroic return. I have given up my best years and watched my friends freeze, drown and burn. I have given up my innocence, my friends their lives, so that I might grieve for what I was never sure I even wanted. At least, until it was too late.

Nicol leant back, hardened his mind against the familiar thoughts, trying to dislodge the huge weight that had settled upon him, that pulled on his heart and lungs. Willing the last hour to pass faster. Willing the dawn to come.

Off caps!

The paymaster failed to look up as the seaman stepped forward, swivelled his cap from his head and laid it on the table before him. The two men at his side were flicking through drawers of banknotes, passing each other handwritten slips.

Andrews, sir. Air mechanic, first class. Seven two two one nine seven two. Sir.

As the younger man stood expectantly before him, the paymaster flipped pages, then ran his finger swiftly down his accounts book. Three pounds twelve shillings.

Three pounds twelve shillings, repeated the paymasters assistant, beside him.

The mechanic cleared his throat. Sir – with respect, sir – thats less than we were getting before Australia, sir.

The paymaster wore the expression of one who had heard every complaint, every financial tryon not once but several thousand times. We were serving in the Pacific, Andrews. You were getting extra pay for operating in a war zone. Would you like us to organise a couple of kamikaze guests to warrant your extra two shillings?

No, sir.

No . . . Dont spend it all ashore. And steer clear of those women. Dont want a queue outside the sick bay in two days time, do we, lads?

The money was counted, pushed across the table. The cap was replaced on the mechanics head and he walked off, a little pink, counting the notes between keen fingers.

Off caps!

Nicol.

Lost in the gentle rhythm of the line that snaked along what remained of the hangar deck, he heard his name spoken twice before he registered it. He was bleary from another night of lost sleep and deep in unwelcome thoughts.

Tims, a broad, taut figure, stood beside him, smoking, for several seconds before he spoke again. Nicol knew him as a bluff man, one of those largerthanlife sorts who liked to be thought of as a mess character. There were rumours that he was involved in moneylending, and those who fell foul of him often became terribly accident prone. Nicol had tended instinctively to steer clear of him, recognising that with someone like Tims it was often better not to get too close or, indeed, know too much. One neither wanted to make an enemy of him nor find oneself indebted to him. These men, with their strange charisma, their intricately built power bases, were to be found on every ship. It was, he supposed, inevitable in a selfcontained world that relied on silence and hierarchy.

Now, however, Tims was subdued when he spoke, his words were careful and considered. There might be a bit of bad blood between the seamen and the stokers, he said. There had been an incident with a woman a couple of nights ago. He had shaken his head as he said this, as if even he could not believe the foolishness of the Aussie girls. Things, he said, had got a little out of hand.

Such a bald admission was out of character. And at first Nicol wondered if he was asking him obliquely to make an arrest. But before he had a chance to ask why this should be of any more than passing interest to him, Tims spoke again Its your lot who were involved.

Your lot. What a strange, almost familial intimacy the phrase suggested. Nicol had felt a flush of incomprehension that the reserved bride who had chatted with him that evening might have been the cause of some kind of drunken fracas. That was women for you, he thought bitterly. Unable to stay faithful – sober, even – for a sixweek voyage.

Then Tims, a bloodsoaked bandage visible round his knuckles, explained further. It had not been the tall girl, Frances, but the young silly one Nicol had spoken to on his first watch. The one who was always giggling. Jean.

He was somehow less shocked and, although disturbed by what he heard, felt something that might have been relief. Frances hadnt seemed the type. Too awkward in company. Too selfconscious. He supposed he wanted to believe that there were still good women out there. Women who knew how to behave.

Women who understood the notion of loyalty.

I need you to do us a favour, Marine. I cant go along there, obviously. Here Tims jerked a thumb towards the cabins. Just make sure Maggies all right, will you? The one whos expecting. Shes a nice girl, and she was a bit shocked. What with her condition and all . . . Well, I dont like to think of her being troubled.

Shell go to the sick bay if shes shook up, surely.

Tims grimaced. To see that idiot? Hes been drunk as a skunk every day hes been on board so far. I wouldnt trust him with a splinter. Tims stubbed out his cigarette. No. I think it would be a good idea if you kept an eye on her. And if anyone says anything, the girls were in their bunks all night. Right?

It was not the norm for a marine to be addressed in such a way by a stoker. And something in Timss tone might normally have caused Nicol to bristle. But he suspected this unusual confidence was prompted by chivalry, perhaps even genuine concern, and he let it go. No problem, he said.

Now he thought back, there had been some subtle change in atmosphere that evening. From the other side of the door he had heard none of the usual intermittent conversation, but instead urgent whispering. At one point, there had been the sound of crying, a brief argument. The tall girl had been out three times for water and barely muttered a hello. He had assumed it was one of those bouts of feminine hysteria. They had been warned that such things could happen once they were on board, especially with the women unused to living at close quarters.

I tell you, Tims was saying, Thompsons lucky I didnt get to that spanner first.

Spanner? He glanced behind him.

One of the girls had it. The tall one. By all accounts it was her who got the bastard off. Gave him a good crack on the shoulder, then tried to stove his head in for good measure. Tims laughed humourlessly. Youve got to hand it to these Aussie girls, theyre not short of balls. You couldnt imagine an English girl doing the same, could you? He took a long drag of his cigarette. Then again, I suppose you wouldnt get an English girl heading below decks with a load of foreign johnnies.

Dont be too sure, muttered Nicol, and regretted it.

Anyway, Im going to lie low for a bit. The mess is closed to visitors for a while. But tell Mags Im sorry. If Id got to her little mate first . . . well, it wouldnt have happened.

Wheres Thompson? said Nicol. In case they ask. Is he in custody?

Tims shook his head.

Shouldnt we be taking him in?

Think about it, Nicol. If we haul him in for what hes done, the girl gets done too, right? The WSO who came down didnt have a clue, only got Jeans name. But little Jeans not going to tell the truth about what went on. Not if she wants to get to Blighty and her old man without a fuss, which Im pretty sure she does. He stubbed out his cigarette. Sides, Im sure you dont want a fuss made about your girls getting into trouble. Cant look good on you, can it? Them all being down in the engine rooms that close to the start of your watch . . . He kept his voice soft, at odds with the implied threat in his words. Im just letting you know, out of courtesy, like, that me and the boys will deal with Thompson and his shabby little mate our way. Even if we have to wait till were ashore.

Itll get out, said Nicol. You know it will.

Tims glanced behind him at the long queue. When he turned back, his eyes held something that made Nicol feel vague pity for the unknown offender. Not if everyone keeps their gobs shut it wont.

Margaret leant over the rail as far as her belly would allow, and hauled up the wicker basket, murmuring to herself as it bumped off the sides of the ship. Below her, in the glinting waters, lithe brown boys dived over the sides of their small craft for coins that the sailors threw from the deck. Alongside them slim canoes, hollowed from single treetrunks, wobbled under the movements of thin, tanned men holding armfuls of trinkets. The port of Colombo, Ceylon, shimmered in the heat, punctuated by the occasional tall building and set behind with dense, dark forest.

There had been several reported cases of smallpox and it had been announced earlier that it was not considered wise for the women to go ashore. Here, anchored in the clear blue waters several hundred feet from shore, was as close as they were going to get to Ceylon.

Margaret, who had been desperate to leave the ship, who had spent days anticipating the feel of solid earth under her feet, had been furious. Your man at the PX says theyre still going to allow the men ashore so its okay for us to catch the bloody smallpox off our own. She had almost wept with the unfairness of it.

I suppose its because the men are inoculated, said Frances. Margaret chose not to hear her.

Perhaps in consolation, one of the storemen had lent them a cable to which he had attached a basket. They were to lower it and pull it up when it was full, so they could examine the goods at their leisure. He had pointed out two other warships anchored in the harbour, where she could see clusters of little boats involved in the same activity. French and American. Youll find most of the traders end up round the Americans. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, grinning and raising an eyebrow. If you can swing your basket that far you might get yourself some new stockings.

This batch looks good, girls. Get your purses ready.

Margaret, puffing with exertion, brought the basket carefully over the rail, then placed it on the floor of the gun turret where they were seated. She rummaged through, holding up beads, strings of shell and coral that rippled through her fingers. Motherofpearl necklace, anyone? Better than that thing with all the chicken rings, eh, Jean? Jean raised a thin smile. She had been silent all morning. Before the wakeywakey call, Margaret had heard her exchanging whispered words with Frances. Then they had disappeared to the bathroom for some time. Frances had taken her medical kit. No one had talked of what might have taken place, and Margaret hadnt liked to ask, wasnt sure even of the question. But now, pale and subdued, looking frighteningly young, Jean sat mutely between them. When she walked, she did so gingerly.

Look, Jean. This would go well with your blue dress. See how the motherofpearl catches the light.

Nice, said Jean. She lit another cigarette, her shoulders hunched around her ears as if she were cold, despite the heat.

We should get something for poor old Avice. Might make her feel better.

She heard her voice, determinedly cheerful, and in the answering silence the suggestion that Frances might not want Avice to feel better.

There had been a terrible argument between the two after they had returned to the cabin the previous night. Frances, her normal reserve dissolved, had screamed at Avice that she was selfish, a traitor, merely concerned with saving her own skin. Avice, flushed with guilt, had retorted that she couldnt see why she should jeopardise her future because Jean had the morals of an alleycat. They would have found out her name in the end. Her own temper had been sharpened because her friend Irene had vanished. It had been all Margaret could do to stop the pair coming to blows. The following morning, when Avice had left the cabin, the others had assumed they would probably not see her again that day.

The voices of the traders floated up to them Mrs Melbourne! Mrs Sydney! They gestured prices with their fingers. In the midst of their boats, a small boys head broke through the shining surface of the water. He was grinning as he held aloft something metallic. Then he looked closely at it and his face darkened. He hurled it at the ship. It pinged off the side like a bullet.

Whats that all about? said Margaret, peering down.

The sailors throw them old nuts and dowels. They let them dive thinking theyre coins, said Frances. Their idea of fun. She stopped. They had new views on sailors ideas of fun.

But Jean didnt appear to have heard. She had been examining a little pearl necklace, and now stuffed it into her pocket.

Want me to get that for you? said Margaret. I dont mind if you forgot your purse.

Jeans eyes were still pinkrimmed. Nah, she said. Im not paying. More fool them for sending it up.

There was a brief silence. Then, wordlessly, Margaret got up, removed a few coins from her purse and lowered them, with the remaining trinkets, to the boat below. Then, perhaps to comfort herself as much as the younger girl, she said to Jean, Did I ever tell you how Joe proposed to me?

She sat down, nudged her. Thisll make you laugh. Hed already decided he wanted to ask me. Hed got Dads permission. And hed bought a ring. Oh, Im not wearing it now, she explained. Fingers are too swollen. Anyway, he decides Wednesdays the day – its his last but one day before the end of his shore leave, and he turns up, nervous, his boots shining like mirrors and his hair slicked. Hes got it all planned in his head. Hes going to go down on one knee and make the one romantic gesture of his life.

Wasted on you, said Frances.

Well, he knows that now, Margaret grinned, so, anyway, he gets to ours, and he knocks on the door, and just as hes stepping in, Im screaming at Daniel about him not leaving all his clothes on the floor because Im darned if Im going to run around after him like Mum did. Poor old Joes standing in the hallway and me and Dan are going at each other hammer and tongs. Then Dad runs in, yelling that the cows have got out. Joes standing there, still in shock at the sight of me swearing like a navvy, and Dad grabs him and says, Come on, lad. Look alive, and hauls him out to the back.

Margaret leant back. Well, she said, it was chaos. Theres around forty of them out and theyve brought down one of the fences, and theres two tearing up whats left of Mums garden, so Dads beating them with a stick, tears falling down his face, trying to prop up Mums flowers. Theres Colm racing down the track in the truck, horn blaring, trying to head off the ones stampeding towards the road. Liams on one of the horses, acting like John Wayne. And then theres me and Joe trying to corner the rest of them in the shed.

She looked around the faces opposite her. Ever seen a frightened cow, girls? She lowered her voice. They shit like youve never seen. And where theyre wheeling around, its going everywhere. Poor old Joe is covered with it, top to toe, his beautiful shoes, everything.

How disgusting, said Jean, raising a small smile.

And then, to add insult to injury, our biggest girl decides to make a break for it, and she goes straight over him. Dont get me wrong, hes no pushover – but the way she went into him it was as if he wasnt even there. Bam. She mimed falling backwards.

Even Margaret, supposedly immune to the farmyard smell, had held her nose when she helped him get up, tried to wipe him down. She had thought he was swearing, but eventually realised he was saying, The ring, the ring. The two of them had spent almost half an hour on their hands and knees in the cowshed, trying to find Joes token of everlasting devotion in the slurry.

And you – you still wear it?

Cow dung included. To me thats part of the romance. Then, as Jeans hand went to her mouth, Oh, Jean! Of course I washed it before I put it on. I had to do the same for Joe. My first evening as his fiancée was spent washing and ironing his uniform so that he wouldnt get into trouble back at base.

Stan asked me while we were at a dance, said Jean. I reckon I was the youngest there – I was still fifteen. But it was lovely. I was wearing a blue shantung silk twopiece, it belonged to my friend Polly, and he said I was the most beautiful girl in the room. Hed had a few, but when they struck up with You Made Me Love You he turned to his mate and said, This is the girl Im going to marry. You hear that? And then he said it louder. And I made out I was dead embarrassed but, to be honest, I really liked it.

Im sure you did, said Frances, smiling.

He was the first person to tell me he loved me. Her eyes glittered with tears. No one ever told me that. Not my mum. Never even met my dad. She pushed her hair off her face. Nope. I got nothing back there, nothing. Hes the best man I ever met.

They had sat, in near silence, for almost half an hour more, Margaret calling to the traders to come closer, to take these back, bring those over. She had bought, at ridiculous cost, two necklaces for Letty, telling herself they would be a lovely gift, knowing it was a feeble attempt to atone. As the heat grew fiercer, and the sun moved across, taking their vantagepoint out of the shade, she thought about moving. But no entertainments had been planned for the day, owing to the former expectation that they would be ashore, and the thought of them bickering with each other in the little dormitory was unbearable.

She was squinting listlessly at a small propeller craft humming towards them, the naval cap of its skipper, the clumsy grey shapes on board, watching them become increasingly distinct at it drew closer. She heard exclamations along the length of the ship as other women realised what it was.

Girls! she yelled. Its the post! Weve got post!

An hour later, they sat in the canteen, the normally cabbagescented air now thick with anticipation, as a Red Cross officer collected all mail to be sent and distributed small bundles of letters from a trestle table at the end. The announcement of each name was greeted with squeals from the recipient and her friends, as if she was being called up to collect an award, rather than correspondence. Around them the windows were propped open to allow the sea breezes to penetrate the room. The light bounced off them, echoing the glimmering ocean low.

Jean had been among the first called to the table her impressive seven letters from Stan had restored some of her vitality. She had handed them to Frances, who read them aloud in her low, sonorous voice, while Jean puffed nervously at a cigarette. Did you hear that? she kept interrupting. My name tattooed on his right arm. In two colours! And it hurt like buggery.

Margaret and Frances had exchanged a glance. And, Frances continued, hes won four pounds in a boxing match. He says the other fellows idea of boxing involved trying to block Stans punches with his nose.

Hear that? Jean nudged Margaret. Trying to block punches with his nose! If her laughter was a little too high to suggest genuine mirth, no one said anything. It was enough that she was laughing at all.

Later Frances would confide that she had left out several paragraphs those that warned Jean to behave herself, and the story of a sweetheart deserted by one of his friends once he heard she had been playing fast and loose.

Margaret OBrien?

Margaret was out of her chair with a speed that belied her cumbersome frame. Breathless, she launched herself at the sheaf of letters proffered towards her, and returned, glowing and triumphant, her failure to get ashore forgotten. She wondered, briefly, whether she could go to the cabin and read them in private without causing offence. But just as she was about to ask, she heard a chair scrape back, and looked up from the envelopes to see Avice seat herself carefully in front of them.

There was a brief pause. Margaret, a little taken aback that Avice had chosen to seat herself among them after the previous evenings quarrel, wondered if she might be about to apologise.

Ive got news, Avice said.

So have I, said Jean. Look. Seven letters. Seven!

No, said Avice. She had a contained smile on her face, as if she harboured some great secret. It was a different Avice from the furious, tightlipped girl who had left their cabin several hours earlier. I have real news, she said, her chin jutting out. Im expecting.

There was a stunned silence.

Expecting what? said Jean.

A baby, of course. Ive been to the doctor.

Are you sure? said Frances. Dr Duxbury doesnt strike me as . . . the most reliable . . . She thought of the last time she had seen him, singing blindly into a stores cupboard.

Oh, so nurses know more than doctors now, do they?

No, Im just—

Dr Duxbury has taken a blood test, but in the meantime he asked me lots of questions and did an examination. Hes pretty certain. She smoothed her hair and glanced around, perhaps hoping to impart such momentous news to a wider audience.

I guess it makes sense, said Margaret, now I think about it.

The two other women looked at each other.

Avice couldnt retain her composure. Her face lit up, cheeks pink with excitement. A baby! Can you imagine? I knew I couldnt be seasick. Ive been yachting loads of times and that didnt make me ill. Margaret, you must tell me everything I need to buy. Do you think they sell baby clothes in England? I shall have to get Mummy to send over all sorts of things.

Margaret stood up and reached over the table to hug her. Avice, she said, its great news. Congratulations. How wonderful for you both.

Strewth, said Jean, wideeyed. So all that seasickness was really you expecting? She looked genuinely pleased. Frances hasnt told her of Avices betrayal, Margaret thought, and felt suddenly sad for her.

He thinks Im already nine or ten weeks along. I was rather shocked when he told me. But Im so excited. Ians going to be thrilled. Hell be such a good father, Avice trilled, one slim hand resting on her flat stomach, already lost in a vision of future family life.

Margaret marvelled at her ability to wipe out the events of the past hours.

Stan got a tattoo of my name, Jean told her, but Avice didnt hear.

I think I shall put in a special request to the captain to wire my family and tell them the news. I dont think I can bear to wait until we reach England. Her name, called in clipped tones, echoed through the canteen. Letters! she said, standing. Letters! In all the excitement I hadnt even thought – oh, you two have got yours. She looked at Frances, as if suddenly remembering, and said nothing.

Congratulations, said Frances. She didnt look at Avice.

Francess name was called an hour later it was almost the last, and cut across the canteen when the oncepacked room was nearly empty. Margaret had thought several times about leaving them all to drink in Joes words in private, then reexamine them with the benefit of silence, but there was such bad blood between the other girls now, and Jean was still fragile, that she felt obliged to wait.

Avice had received two letters from her family, and two very old ones from Ian, sent only days after he had left Sydney. Look at the date on them, she had said crossly. She had seemed to count it as a personal insult that Jean and Margaret had received more than she had. Ians are nearly six weeks old. Honestly, youd think the least the Navy could do is make sure we get our letters on time. How on earth am I meant to tell him about the baby if hes going to get my next letter a week after we reach Plymouth?

She studied the postmark badtemperedly. Its really not on. I should have had lots more by now. Theyre probably piled up in some godforsaken outpost somewhere.

I think you were just unlucky, Avice, said Margaret, absently. She had reread Joes first several times now. He had numbered them thoughtfully so that she could read them in the correct order. Hello, love, he had written. Hoping by the time you get this youll be on board the Victoria. Couldnt believe it when you told me youd be on that old girl. Keep a lookout for Archie Littlejohn. Hes a radio man. We trained together back in 44. Good chap. Hell look out for you. Then again I reckon theres not a man on board who wont look out for you girls. Theyre a good bunch on the Vic.

Margaret gulped as his words became audible in her imagination, and thought of Joes trusting faith in the good nature of the men around him. She sneaked a look at Jean, who was gazing intently at Stans letters. Want me to teach you? she asked. While were on board? Bet we could have you reading by the time we disembark.

Really?

Nothing to it, said Margaret. An hour or two a day and youll be a regular bookworm.

Stan doesnt know . . . about the reading. I always got my mate Nancy to write letters for me, see? she said. But then I remembered when I came aboard that if anyone else writes them itll be in different handwriting.

All the more reason to get you started, said Margaret. Youll be able to write your own And I bet you Stan wont know any different.

Jeans obvious delight lightened the mood. You really think I could do it? she kept saying, and grinning when Margaret responded in the affirmative. Her mother had always told her she was thick, Jean revealed, her eyes darting between them. Mind you, shes gotta be the thick one. Shes stuck back there working in the cracker factory, and Im on a ship to Blighty. Right?

Right, said Margaret, firmly. Here, give us your envelope. Ill write out your ABCs.

Frances had arrived back at the table. Avice glanced up from her letters at Francess hand. Only one? she said loudly. She failed to keep the smile off her face.

Frances was unperturbed. Its from one of my old patients, she said, with shy pleasure. Hes home and walking again.

How lovely, said Margaret, patting her arm.

Nothing from your husband?

Avice . . . said Margaret, warningly.

Well, Im only asking.

There was a brief silence.

Margaret made as if to speak, then couldnt think of anything to say. Oh, well. Perhaps he was overcome at the thought of seeing you again, she said. Avice raised her eyebrows, stood up and strolled away.

Having failed to elicit a reply from you to any of my correspondence, I am writing out of courtesy to let you know that I have applied for a divorce, on grounds of three years desertion. While you and I know this might not be quite correct, I am hoping you will not contest. Anton is paying for the childrens and my passage to America, so that we can join him there. We leave Southampton on the 25th. I would have liked us to do this in a civilised manner, for the childrens sake as much as anything, but you are obviously determined to show me the same lack of concern as you have displayed the whole time you have been gone.

Where is your humanity? Perhaps there is nothing left of you underneath your rules and regulations. I know things must have been hard for you. I know you have probably seen and coped with no end of horrors. But we, here, are living. We would have been your lifeline if you had let us.

Now I feel no guilt in choosing life, a better life, for me and my children . . .

Whats the matter, Nicol? You look a bit pale. Got a Not Wanted Dont Come? JonestheWelsh was lying on his hammock, flicking through a dozen or so letters. They would be from a dozen or so women.

Nicol stared, unseeing, at his. Crumpled it into his pocket. No, he said, then coughed to stop his voice cracking. No . . . just a bit of news from home.

A few of the men around him exchanged glances. No one ill? said Jones.

No, said Nicol. His tone halted further enquiries.

Well, you look terrible. In fact, youve looked like buggery for weeks. Working middle watch does that to you, doesnt it, lads? You know what you need, man? Here he punched Nicols arm. You need a bit of R and R. Youre off tonight, right? Come ashore with us.

Ah . . . I think Ill just sleep.

Its called leave, man. Believe it or not, Nicol, even you are meant to go off duty occasionally.

Ill stay here. Got a bit of make and mend to catch up on.

Sorry, man, cant have it. Youve got a pocket full of dosh and a face like a smacked arse. Dr Jones here says the only cure is to lighten the pair of them. Get a couple of hours kip now. Then youre coming out with us. And were going to get absolutely pissed.

Nicol began to refuse, then felt inexplicably relieved by Joness goodnatured bullying. The thought of standing outside that metal door, alone with his thoughts at another dawn, was too much. Okay, he said, strung up his hammock and hopped lithely into it. Youre on. Wake me up half an hour before you want to head off.

They had eaten together – less, Margaret suspected, out of any great desire on Avices part to share her meals with them but because Irene and her friends had made it clear, by their whispers and cold stares, that she was no longer welcome in their set. She had watched Avice preparing to bounce over to their table and announce her news until she realised they were being discussed – not in a good way. She had deflated a little, her eyes darting to them at every peal of laughter. Then she had smoothed her hair and sat down opposite Margaret. You know, she said lightly, Ive just remembered what I couldnt stand about that Irene Carter. Shes terribly rude. I cant imagine what I ever saw in her.

Its nice for us all to eat together for a change, Margaret said equably, ignoring Francess silence.

Nice not to have Avice puking anyway, said Jean.

Did they make a mistake with your post, Frances, said Avice, or did you really get just one letter?

Do you know what, Avice? said Margaret, loudly. She pushed away her plate. We had a lovely chat earlier about how our husbands proposed to us. I bet youd love to tell us how Ian proposed to you, wouldnt you?

Margaret caught Francess look. It might have been of gratitude or something else entirely.

Have I not told you? Really? Oh, it was the best day of my life. Well, next to our wedding, of course. Thats always a girls best day, isnt it? And in our case we couldnt have the kind of wedding I might normally have expected – with my familys position in society and all . . . No, it had to be a bit more intimate. But, oh, Ians proposal. Oh, yes . . . She closed her eyes. Do you know? It still comes back to me so vividly, almost like a scent . . .

A bit like Margarets, then, said Jean.

I knew he was the one as soon as I saw him. And he says the same about me. Oh, girls, hes so sweet. And its been so long since we spoke – I cant bear it. Hes the most romantic man alive. I didnt think Id marry into the services, you see. I wasnt one of those uniformhunters, always fluttering her eyelashes at anything in whites. But I was helping out at one of the tea dances – perhaps you had something similar where you were? – and I saw him and that was it. I knew I had to be Mrs Radley.

So what did he do? said Jean, lighting a cigarette.

Well, he was terribly gentlemanly. We knew we loved each other – he told me he was actually obsessed with me at one point – can you imagine? – but he was worried about whether I could cope with being a services wife. I mean, what with all the separations and insecurity . . . He told me he didnt know if it was fair to put me through that. But I told him, I may look like a delicate flower – thats what my father used to call me, his little jasmine blossom – but Im actually quite strong. Really. Im very determined. And I think even Ian recognised that in the end.

So, what happened? said Margaret, sucking her teaspoon.

Well, we were both in agony. Daddy wanted us to wait. And Ian didnt want to upset him, so he said he would. But I couldnt bear the thought of us leaving each other simply engaged.

Worried hed bugger off with someone else? said Jean.

So he got permission from his commander and we just ran off and got married in front of a justice of the peace. Just like that. It was terribly romantic.

What a lovely story, Avice, said Margaret. Im going to get some tea. Anyone want a cup?

Outside the sky was darkening. The sunsets happened rapidly here, day fading into night with some impatience. The ship was quieter than usual, despite the presence of the women, as if the absence of the men had seeped into each deck, subduing them.

Ill go and see if theyre going to show anything at the cinema, said Jean.

They might have decided to put something on with us all being here.

Theres nothing, said Avice, just a sign saying the next ones tomorrow afternoon.

The men will be ashore now, said Margaret, staring out of the window. Lucky things.

What about your bloke, Frances? Jean rested her chin on her hands, her head tilted to one side. How did he propose?

Frances stood up, began gathering plates on to a tray. Oh, its not very interesting, she said.

Im sure wed be fascinated, said Avice.

Frances gave her a hard look.

Margaret thought she should probably try to steer the conversation towards some other course, but she had to admit to a sneaking curiosity.

So they waited. And Frances, after a moments hesitation, sat down, the dirty plates piled high in front of her. She told them in quiet, unemotional tones, her words the polar opposite to Avices gush of love. She had met him in Malaya while she had been nursing. Private Engineer Chalkie Mackenzie, twentyeight years old. From a town called Cheltenham. He had shrapnel wounds, which had become infected because of the tropical humidity. She had nursed him and, over the weeks, he had grown fond of her.

Sometimes, when he had a fever, he became delirious and thought we were already married. We werent meant to form attachments with the men, but his captain, who was in the next bed, indulged him. We all did. We went along with all sorts if it made the men feel better.

So, when did he ask you? said Jean. Above her, the neon lights came on abruptly, illuminating the womens faces.

Well . . . he asked me lots of times, actually. There wasnt really one occasion. I think it was about sixteen before I agreed.

Sixteen times! said Avice. It was as if she couldnt believe Frances could provoke such persistence.

What made you say yes? said Margaret. In the end, I mean.

What made him keep asking? muttered Avice.

But Frances stood up and glanced at her watch. Goodness, Maggie! Look at the time. That dog of yours will be desperate for her walk.

Oh, darn. Youre right. Better get back downstairs, said Margaret. With a nod to the others, she and Frances half walked, half ran towards the cabin.

The girls were kissing. They did it once, briefly, then turned to look at him, and laughed at his failure to react. The shorter one leant back on her bar stool, eyeing him lazily, then stretched out a bare leg. The other, in a green dress several sizes too big for her slight frame, muttered something he didnt understand, and leant forwards to ruffle his hair. Two two. She held up two fingers. Very nice time. Two two. Initially, he had ordered them both another drink. It had taken him several minutes to understand what she was suggesting. Then he shook his head, even when she reduced the price to almost a third of the original amount. No more money, he said, his words sounding strange and unfocused to his ears. All gone.

No no, the girl in the green dress said. It was as if she had heard refusals too many times, and that they had all been meaningless. Two two. Very nice time.

At some point in the evening he had lost his watch, and no longer had any idea what time it was. Men catcalled or fought incompetently in the street outside. Girls disappeared upstairs, came down again and chattered or squabbled with their colleagues. Outside, the neon bar sign cast the blue light of a cold grey dawn across the entrance.

On the wall behind the girls he could see a picture of Eisenhower, probably donated by some visiting GI. What time was it in America? Nicol tried to recall how he had calculated the difference earlier that evening.

Across the room, half seated, half lying on a banquette, JonestheWelsh was placing cigarettes in a girls mouth and laughing as she coughed them out again. Dont inhale so much, he was saying, as she hit him playfully with a slim hand. Youre making yourself ill. He caught Nicol watching him. Ah . . . no . . . Dont tell me you like Annie here too? he called. Greedy bastard. Youve got two of your own already.

Nicol tried to formulate some reply, but it turned to powder in his mouth.

To wives and sweethearts, JonestheWelsh announced, his drink aloft. May they never meet.

Nicol raised his glass to his mate and took a slug. And no rubbish tip, he muttered. Jones, just about hearing him, burst out laughing.

Their last visit to Ceylon had comprised duty, not leave, and they had been charged with the drunk patrol, looking for ratings who, weighed down by their paypackets but unencumbered by either sense or inhibition, took advantage of their few hours freedom to drink as much as possible of whatever local brew they could find with disastrous results. Shortly before dawn, he and Jones, having emptied several of the local brothels, had found several young hands lying comatose at the base of a local rubbish tip. Over the course of their night out, they had evidently been relieved of money, watches, paybooks and even station cards, and were now incapable of either thought or speech. Not knowing without those documents who the men were, he and Jones, after some discussion, had dumped them, soiled, stinking uniforms and all, on the nearest Allied ship. There they would await a double dose of wrath – from the superiors of their adopted ship and from those they belonged to.

Too right. No rubbish tip for us, mate, said Jones, lifting a glass. Just remember to say Viceroy. Got it? Just you remember the name of your ship. Viceroy. And he burst out laughing again.

You come now.

The girl in the green dress was tugging his sleeve. The other had vanished. She closed her hand round his with the proprietorial confidence of a child and led him up the stairs. He had to let go of her to negotiate them, clutching the banister as the wooden steps rose and fell beneath his feet like a deck in a storm.

The door of the room was paper light in his hand the fragility of the dividing walls apparent in the noises he could hear from the next room.

Nice time, uh? The girl followed his gaze and giggled.

He felt suddenly weary, and seated himself heavily on the side of the bed, watching as she undid her dress. The knobs of her spine were distinct under her pale skin. It made him think of Frances, of her bony fingers as she had held the picture of his boys.

You help me? she said, twisting nimbly to look at him, and gesturing towards her zip.

The thin coverlet was immaculately laundered. Beside it, on a rickety table, stood a bottle with several beautifully arranged blossoms. These two domestic details, a suggestion of some desire far removed from the depravity he could hear in the next room, made his eyes fill with tears. Im sorry, he said. I dont think—

She turned, and he caught something raw in her expression. Yes, yes, she said, her smile rapidly in place again. You be happy man. I see you before? You know me. I make you happy man.

Im sorry, he said.

She clasped his hand then, in a surprisingly firm grip. Her glance towards the door told him that perhaps she had her own reasons for not wanting him to leave. You wait little while, she pleaded.

I just want to—

Just little while staystay.

He realised then that her eyes made her seem older. Something weary and resigned in them, even when she had smiled mischievously, fluttered her eyelids like a young girl. But now that he looked, her breasts were curiously undefined, as if they had not yet reached maturity. And her nails, when he looked at her hands, were bitten as his sisters once were down to the bloodied quick, childishly uncaring of their appearance. Nicol closed his eyes, feeling suddenly ashamed to have been complicit in such corruption. This is what war does, he said silently. Even we who survived. It does for us in the end.

He felt her weight upon him then, light hands stroking his face.

Please you wait little while, whispered the voice in his ear. He could smell her perfume, something heavy and cloying, at odds with her youth, the insubstantial nature of her frame.

She had reached round his neck, was pulling him down. You wait little while with me. She reached down with nimble fingers, let out a muffled exclamation into his neck when he gently stayed her hand.

Theres nothing left in me, he said. Im empty.

Then, as she lay against him, her dark eyes searching his for some sign of his intention, he lay back on the pillow. Through the partially open window he could hear shouting. The smell of something frying drifted up, sharp and gingery. He took her hand. You tell me something, he said. He could feel her breath on his neck, careful, expectant, and realised he was drifting towards sleep.

I make you happy now? she whispered.

He hesitated. Knew these would probably be the last words he said tonight What time is it in America?