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The ship has been in contact with London by telephone! This was done by a broadcast to Sydney over TBS. The TBS receiver in Sydney was fed into a microphone connected to the London–Sydney telephone line . . . This is a great advance in the communication world and promises great things for the future.

From the private journal of midshipman Henry Stamper,

13 January 1946, by courtesy of Margaret Stamper

Twentyone days

It had never happened before. She had certainly never meant it to happen at all. But Frances was forced to concede that she was falling in love.

Every evening she would tell herself that she should stay away, that it would do her no good, that by her actions she was putting her passage in danger. And in spite of that, every evening, with the minimum explanation to her cabin mates, she found herself disappearing through the metal door. With a furtive glance towards each end of the gangway, she would tread swiftly past the other cabins, lightly up the stairs and along the upper length of the hangar deck until she reached the heavy steel hatch that opened out on to the flight deck.

When she thought about it afterwards, she realised that part of it was that they had all got used to each other the sailors, the women and the routines of the ship, the air thick with longing and waiting, the never knowing. She had got used to not having a purpose in the morning, had perhaps lost a little of the institutional briskness that she had carried with her, like armour, for years. She felt easier around people. She might even venture that she liked a few. It was hard not to care about someone like Margaret.

But it was really the ship she loved the size of it, like a leviathan, surely too huge to have been created by mere men, propelled by an epic strength through the roughest seas. She loved the scars, the streaks of rust that, despite years of painting and repainting, were visible on her skin, testament to the time she had spent at sea. Frances loved the infinite space visible all around her, the sense of boundless, irrevocable movement west. She loved the sense of possibility that the ship bestowed on her. The nautical miles and unfathomable fathoms that it opened up between her and her past as it glided through the water.

If it wasnt too cold at night, she would sit on the flight deck for hours, reading a book or a magazine, glancing up occasionally to make sure she couldnt be seen by whoever was on watch at the bridge. Their attention trained on the seas, no one noticed her. Now, in the increasing heat, it offered sweet relief she would locate her favoured spot under the aircraft and enjoy in solitude the soft breezes, the ceaseless sound of the waves rushing beneath, the taste of salt on her parted lips. She liked the way you could see the skys mood changing miles away, a distant storm, its power diminished by distance. And there were the sunsets, the primeval oranges and blues that bled into the edge of the earth until you could no longer see where the sky ended and the sea began.

Occasionally, if she was lucky, she would sight a shoal of porpoises and laugh at the joy of their movement. It felt like they were complicit with the ship, the way they eyed her, moving alongside the vessel in perfect accord. But mostly she lay against one of the aircraft wheels, her widebrimmed hat tipped back, and just stared at the sky. A sky now free of droning enemy aircraft, of silent, malevolent missiles, of the screams of the wounded. Of the judgements of those who thought they knew her. There was nothing between her and her destination – no mountains, no trees, no buildings. No people.

At night, alone, she could shrug off, temporarily, both past and future. She could just sit and be, comforted by the fact that here she was just Frances – a tiny, meaningless nothing amid the sky, the sea and the stars.

So, hows your ship of brides?

The warship Alexandra was the first British vessel the Victoria had passed within radio distance since they had left Sydney. But Highfield had taken Captain Edward Baxters call with less enthusiasm than he might have done in other circumstances, having something of an inkling as to how the exchange would run.

And hows sports day? Dobson tells me youre letting the girls out for a bit of a hop, skip and jump. Or am I thinking of something else?

Highfield closed his eyes, listening to the distant rattle of laughter.

In spite of everyones best efforts, sports day, it was widely agreed afterwards, could not be described as an unequivocal success. Despite the mirrorflat sea, whose surface the Victoria glided across so smoothly that you could have balanced a penny upright on her bow halfway back to Trincomalee, the deck hockey had had to be abandoned after the pucks, in three successive matches, sailed overboard. The same went for the baton during the relay race, prompting one bride to burst into tears at the booing and jeering that greeted her mistake. Another suffered burns to her legs when she braked too late and skidded along the deck dangerously until she was hauled back from the edge. Girls, the officers observed, were not used to the specialist skills required to play sports in the confines of a ship, even one as large as Victoria.

The womens officers, growing impatient in the heat, tried to extend the games area as far as the aircraft. But it had proven impossible to run the wheelbarrow and sack races safely around the planes, and even when they were moved, hoisted around by the gantry or pushed by whistling deck hands, the women, unused to their shape, would repeatedly bang themselves on wings or knock into propellers. The absence of the liftwells meant that it was impossible to place them anywhere else. Meanwhile, as the ship maintained its course across the Indian Ocean it had found itself in the midst of a heatwave, the vast flight deck absorbing the heat of the sun, so that feet blistered on the decks, and many found it too hot to run, the drinking fountains sent up warm water and throughout the afternoon the competitors drifted away, pleading exhaustion, sunburn, or headache. The sweltering temperatures in the cabins meant they were all fractious with lack of sleep. In the midst of this, two brides one, rather unfortunately, the founder of the Brides Bible Club had helped carry a friend with a sprained ankle to the infirmary. There, Dr Duxbury was reeking of alcohol and engrossed in reading matter that, had he been in a condition to do so, he might have defended at best as medically informative. The ankle forgotten, the shaken brides had sprinted to the head of the ships Red Cross to make a formal complaint.

I thought it was important for me to be fully conversant with all aspects of female anatomy, Dr Duxbury told Captain Highfield.

Im not sure that Hollywood Starlets was quite the biological textbook our passengers had in mind, the captain replied. And decided that, unorthodox as it was, it might be best if he hung on to the infirmary keys for the foreseeable future.

It was then that two brides fell into fisticuffs over the egg and spoon. Pointless, really, as all the eggs were wooden. The Carry the Maiden race had culminated in an argument when a girl accused a rating of hoisting up her skirt. Sports day had officially ended.

I think the question all the chaps want to know is hows your water consumption?

Fine, said Highfield, thinking back to that mornings report. They had had some trouble with one of the desalination units, but the chief engineer had told him they were now running as normal.

Baxter was talking too loudly, as if conscious that he was listened to by other people at his end. Its just that we hear on the grapevine youve set up a hair salon, and we were wondering how you looked after a shampoo and set . . . He guffawed heartily, and Highfield thought he heard an echoing laugh behind him.

He was alone in the meteorological office, high above the shimmering deck and his leg had throbbed steadily all day. He had felt a vague sense of betrayal when it started for days it had given him hardly any trouble, to the point at which he had convinced himself that it was healing without the need for medical intervention.

I spoke to Dobson before they put me through to you. He says those Aussie girls are giving you all a run for your money.

What do you mean?

Causing the odd upset. Getting the men a bit agitated. Cant say I envy you, old man. Load of women littering up the place with their washing and nail varnish and frillies and whathaveyou. Wandering around in their nexttonothings, distracting the men from their work. My boys here have opened a book on how many little Victors and Victorias will be running around in nine months time.

There had been a noticeable lightening in the way senior naval personnel talked to each other since the end of the war. Now they were determined to poke fun, make jokes. Highfield, not for the first time, found himself hankering after the old ways. He tried to keep the affront from his voice. My men are conducting themselves properly.

Its not the mens behaviour Im thinking of, George. Ive heard about these colonial girls. Not quite the same reserve as their British sisters, if what Ive heard about the nocturnal activities in Sydney are anything to go by . . .

These girls are fine. Everythings under control. He thought uncomfortably of the incident the womens service officer had reported the previous week. Baxter and his like would know soon enough.

Yes. Well. My advice would be to keep em locked up as much as you can. Weve had all sorts of trouble with our younger lads and women passengers. And thats just the odd Wren or two. Dread to think what it must be like with more than six hundred. I think some of them have lost their heads now they know theyre heading home.

In Highfields answering silence, he seemed finally to acknowledge that he was not going to get the response he desired. Highfield, meanwhile, had pulled up his trouser leg. It might have been his imagination, but the colour of the skin surrounding the wound was angrier than it had been when he last examined it. He dropped the fabric, clenching his jaw, as if he could make the damn thing better by a sheer act of will.

Yes . . . weve all had a bit of a chuckle at the thought of you and the hair salon. Of all the ships . . . of all the captains, eh? Still . . . I suppose its nice to know theres some use for the old girl after she retires. You and she could set up the worlds first mobile beauty parlour.

Highfields attention snapped away from his leg. Retires?

You know, when shes decommissioned.

Victorias being decommissioned?

There was a brief silence. I thought you knew, old man. Shes done. When the engineers were all over her in Woollomooloo they decided it wasnt worth patching her up again. Shes finished when you get back to Blighty. Theyve decided they want to concentrate on a whole new class of carrier now that the wars over. Not that its going to affect you too much, eh?

Highfield sat down. Around him, the dials and maps of the meteorological office stared back mutely, oblivious of their imminent redundancy. So, he told the ship silently, you and me both. He hardly heard the other captains continuing conversation.

But jesting aside, how are you, old boy? Heard you took a knock with Indomitable. Quite the talk of the town, for a while. You had a few people worried.

Im fine.

Of course, of course. Cant dwell on these things, can you? Shame, though. Young Hart served with me a couple of years ago. Quite shocked, when I heard. Nice young man. Stood out from the crowd.

Yes. Yes, he did.

Met his wife once, when we were out in Singapore. Nice little girl. I seem to recall she had just had twins. Which rather brings me to my reason for calling. London wired me this morning. They tell me you might have a few brides on board who are married to my men. Were going to be alongside for a day or two and London thought it would be a nice gesture if we allowed them radio contact. What do you think? I dare say it would be good for my mens morale to have a quick chat with the little woman.

I dont know . . .

Well, dont decide just yet. As I understand it, theres only a handful of them anyway. I dont suppose youll have hordes of hysterical girls knocking on your door. But it would mean a lot to my boys. And it all helps keep them out of trouble. Were docking in Aden in a few days, and its always good to give the men a reminder of their responsibilities before they hit the shore. His laugh was low, guttural, confident that he would be understood.

Below on deck men in tropical rig were tidying away the last of the sportsday ropes and chairs, occasionally wiping sweat from their brows. A short distance away two young women strolled towards the deck canteen, the setting sun bouncing off their set, shining hair. They ducked together under the wing of one of the aircraft, one reaching out a slim hand to touch it as she passed and drawing it rapidly away, as if exclaiming that it was too hot. She was laughing at something the other had said and covered her mouth.

Behind them, the other fighter planes stretched across the deck, their smooth surfaces radiating heat. As redundant as the rest of the ship.

Highfield?

Get your man to speak to my number one, Highfield said, eyes still fixed on the deck below. Well send over a passenger list and you can let me know who your boys want to speak to. Well see if we can organise something.

He put down his headphones. Then he turned to the radio operator. Get me the commanderinchief of the British Pacific Fleet. And whoever deals with the Lendlease Agreement.

The cabin had been empty that evening Avice was at a fabricflowermaking session, which apparently counted towards the Queen of the Victoria contest. Having decided Irene Carter was now her sworn enemy, she was intent on beating her to the title.

Jean, having whined about the oppressive heat, and tired of her reading lesson, was watching a film with two brides from the dormitory above.

Frances, having enjoyed an hours solitude and made a fuss of the old dog, was feeling restless, a little too warm for comfort. In the airless confines of the dormitory, her blouse lay stickily against her skin and the sheets moved tackily against the bedroll. She went to the bathroom and splashed her face several times with cold water.

She was about to leave the dormitory for the flight deck when Margaret burst in, flushed and breathless. Ohmygoodness, she was saying, one plump hand at her throat. Ohmygoodness.

Are you all right? Frances leapt towards her.

Margaret mopped a faint sheen from her face. A heat rash had spread from her chest to her neck. She sat down heavily on her bunk.

Margaret?

Ive been summoned to the radio room. Youll never guess – Im to speak to Joe!

What?

Margarets eyes were wide. Tonight! Can you believe it? The Alexandra is just a short distance away, apparently, and we can pick her up on radio. Theres me and about five others who they say can speak to our husbands. Im one of the lucky ones! Can you believe it? Can you?

She grabbed the dog from her bed and kissed her vigorously. Oh, Maudie, can you believe it? Im going to speak to Joe! Tonight! Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror Avice had propped beside the door and groaned. Oh, no! Look at the state of me. My hair always goes mad in the humidity. She lifted the unruly fronds in her fingers.

I dont think hell be able to see you over the radio, Frances ventured.

But I still want to look nice for him. Margaret attacked her hair with Avices brush, vigorous strokes that left it springing up in electric bursts of benign rebellion. She pursed her lips. Will you come with me? I feel so wobbly – I dont want to make a fool of myself. Would you mind? She bit her lip. Its almost three months since I spoke to him. And I need someone to remind me not to swear in front of the captain.

Frances looked at her feet.

Oh, golly, Moses, Im sorry. Im being tactless. I dont mean to gloat. Im sure youd love to be speaking to your husband. I just thought if anyone was to be with me Id like you.

Frances took her hand. It was damp with either heat or nervous excitement. Id be delighted, she said.

Joe?

Around her the light dimmed. Margaret shifted awkwardly, and asked in a whisper whether she was standing in the right place. The radio operator, earphones clamped to his head, fiddled with the myriad dials in front of him. Then, apparently satisfied by a series of chirrups and whistles, he adjusted the microphone in front of her. Put your face close to there, he said, placing his hand gently on Margarets back to encourage her in. Thats it. Now try again.

Joe?

In the little room tucked beneath the bridge, the handful of chosen brides, some accompanied by friends, nudged each other. The radio room was too small for so many people, and they stood stiffly, arms pressed close to their sides, a few fanning themselves with magazines, their faces shining in the heavy heat. Outside the sky had blackened, and somewhere, many miles away, the objects of their desire floated in the darkness.

Mags? The voice was distant, crackly. But, from Margarets expression, definitely his.

There was a collective sharp intake of breath, the sound a child might make when confronted by a Christmas tree. Margaret had been first up and it was as if until the brides heard this evidence it had been impossible to believe in the proximity of their men, that they might be able, after months of silence, to exchange a few precious words. Now they beamed at each other, as if their joy was contagious.

Margaret put out a hand to the microphone. Then, after a brief, embarrassed smile, Joe, its me. How are you?

Im grand, love. Are you keeping well? Are they looking after you? The disembodied voice broke into the silence.

Margaret closed her hand round the microphone. Im fine. Me and Joe Junior both. It – its good to hear you, she faltered, evidently conscious that just as she was surrounded by strangers it was likely he was too. None of the women wanted to embarrass their men in front of their mates or superiors.

Are they feeding you well? came the voice, and the occupants of the radio room laughed. Margarets eyes flicked towards the captain, who stood back, arms crossed. He was smiling benignly. Theyre looking after us just fine.

Good. You . . . watch out in this heat. Make sure you drink lots of water.

Oh, I am.

Ive got to go, sweetheart, give the next fellow a turn. But you take care now.

You too. Margaret moved in to the microphone, as if she could somehow get closer to him.

Ill see you in Plymouth. Not long now.

Margarets voice broke. Not long at all, she said. Bye, Joe.

As she turned from the microphone, she sagged and Frances stepped forward to hold her, alarmed by the tears coursing down Margarets cheeks. It had been a pretty mean exchange, she thought. She should have been allowed a few more minutes at least and perhaps some privacy, so that she could say what she felt. There was so much Margaret had needed to say to Joe, Frances thought, about freedom, being a wife, motherhood.

But when Frances looked at her now, Margarets smile was bright enough to illuminate the darkness. Oh, Frances, that was wonderful, she whispered.

Frances heard the raw love in Margarets voice, the evidence of so much gained from so little. And she held her friend for a minute, her mind both blank and racing, as Margaret tried in whispers to revisit what they had said to each other, exclaiming that her mind had gone blank – that in hearing his voice, she had had no idea what to say. But it doesnt matter, does it? Oh, Frances, I hope you get the chance to talk to your man soon. I cant tell you how much better I feel. Did you hear Joe? Isnt he the best?

All eyes were on the dark girl in the blue dress who had burst into noisy tears at the sound of her husbands voice and was being comforted by the Red Cross officer. So it was only the captain who caught the expression of the tall girl in the corner, who had been jokingly introduced to him as unofficial midwife. He didnt like to look too hard at any of the women, didnt want things to be misconstrued. But there was something compelling about her erect stance. And in her eyes, which reflected shock, as if she had discovered some great loss. He felt, unaccountably, as if they mirrored his own.

Nicol walked along the lower gallery, past the ordnance spares and gun room, past the hangar where normally one might find several aircraft and attendant trunks of spare parts, instead of rows of doors. Most were propped open in the vain hope of attracting a stray breeze, and from behind them emanated the sounds of murmuring women, cards flipping on to makeshift tables or magazine pages turning. Careful to keep his gaze straight ahead, he moved along them and ran silently up the stairs, conscious that tonight even that small exertion caused his skin to stick to his shorts. Nodding at the chaplain, he moved along the halflit gangway towards the lobby, trying to make himself inconspicuous as he passed the captains rooms. Finally, with a quick glance to left and right, he opened the hatch door beside the lieutenant commanders office and emerged on to the unlit deck.

He had been told where to find her. He had knocked on the door rather awkwardly it felt like an intrusion, even speaking into this feminine lair to tell them what had been decided. To get them, like the others, to prepare. Perhaps he had told them early because he wanted them to have the best spot. They had laughed, incredulous. Made him say it twice before they would believe it. Then, with Avice and Jean galvanised into action, Margaret, still glowing from her radio contact, had whispered confirmation to him of what he already suspected.

The sky was mostly covered with cloud, revealing only a handful of stars, so it was several minutes before he saw her. At first he had thought it a wasted journey, had prepared to turn and leave. Strictly speaking, he should not have been away from his post. But then a shadow shifted, and as a cloud slid back to bathe the deck in moonlight, he found he could just make out her angular shape under the furthest Corsair, her arms wrapped round her knees.

He stood still for a moment, wondering if she had seen him and whether the mere act of him having located her would make her uncomfortable. Then, as he drew closer and she turned to him, he felt a rush of relief. As if her presence there could reassure him of something. Constancy, he supposed. Perhaps even some strange sense of goodness. He thought suddenly of Thompson, of his bloodied face when he was stretchered back on board several days previously. He must have got into a brawl during his shore leave, his mess man said. Stupid boy, ending up on his own. They had drummed it into them from their earliest days that in new territory they should stick together.

Nicol saw that she had been crying. He watched her draw her hand across her eyes, her shoulders straighten, and his pleasure in seeing her was clouded by awkwardness. Im sorry if I disturbed you. Your friend told me I might find you here.

She made as if to stand, but he gestured that she should stay where she was.

Is everything all right?

She looked so alarmed that he realised his sudden unannounced presence might have suggested a feared telegram and cursed himself for his insensitivity. Nothing wrong. Please. He motioned again for her to remain seated. I just wanted to tell you . . . to warn you . . . that you wont be alone for long.

Something even more strange happened then. She looked almost appalled. What? she said. What do you mean?

Captains orders. Its too hot in the liftwells – your cabins, I mean. Hes ordered that everyone should sleep out here tonight. Well, you brides, anyway.

Her shoulders relaxed a little. Sleep out here? On deck? Are you sure?

He found himself smiling. It sounded pretty daft even to him. When the OX had told him he had made it clear from his careful use of words that he thought the captain had finally gone mad. We cant have you all boiling down there. Its about as hot as it gets. Weve had one of our engineers pass out in the starboard engine room this evening, so Captain Highfield has decided all brides are to bring their bedrolls up here. You can sleep in your swimwear. Youll be a lot more comfortable.

She looked away from him then, out at the dark ocean. I suppose this means Ill have to stay away from here now, she said wistfully.

He could not take his eyes off her profile. Her skin, in the milky blue moonlight, was opalescent. When he spoke, his voice cracked and he coughed to disguise it, to pull himself together. Not on my account, he said. You wouldnt be the first to need a few minutes alone with the sea.

Alone with the sea? Where had that come from? He didnt talk like that. She probably thought him a fanciful fool. There was something about her selfcontainment that had made him stumble like that, like an idiot.

But she didnt seem to have noticed. When she turned to him, he saw that her eyes glistened with tears. It doesnt matter, she said dully. It wasnt working tonight anyway.

What wasnt? he wanted to ask. But instead, he said quietly, Are you all right?

Im fine, she said. And as she stood abruptly, brushing her skirt for nonexistent dust, the clouds drew back across the moon and her expression was once more hidden from his gaze.

Highfield couldnt help but laugh privately at Dobsons face when the first girl emerged on to the deck, her bedroll under her arm, dressed in a frilled bright pink twopiece swimsuit, the kind of thing that would previously have had him spluttering into his collar. She stopped at the main hatch, glanced warily at the captain, then as he nodded, stepped out and motioned behind her to her friends. She tiptoed across the deck to where a marine was pointing.

She was followed quickly by two more, giggling and bumping into each other under the spotlights, steered into designated spaces, as the aircraft had been on previous voyages. Soon they were pouring out of the open hatches, the larger ones modest in oversized cotton shirts, some a little embarrassed to be seen so publicly in such intimate apparel. He had said that those who felt uncomfortable were welcome to sleep in their dormitories, but he was certain that, the heat being as oppressive as it was, most would prefer the sweet breezes of a deck moving through air to the stuffiness below. And so it proved they kept on coming, some chattering, some exclaiming as they tried to pitch their bedroll and found there was already not enough room, in their shapes and sizes and hairstyles and manner an endless example of the infinite variety of womanhood.

The marines would watch over them. Oddly enough, it had been one of the few occasions on which the men had not groaned at news of an unexpected night watch. Highfield looked at the marines faces as they moved around the flight deck even they, normally pokerfaced, could not help laughing and joking with the women at this improbable turn of events. What the hell? Highfield muttered to himself periodically, the rare expression making his own mouth turn up at the corners. What the hell?

One of the WSOs appeared at his shoulder, accompanied by Dobson. Nearly all up, are they? Highfield asked.

I think so, Captain. But we were wondering if we could place a few closer to the aircraft. Theres not much space for so many. If the men are meant to have room to move round the edges, and if they all want room to stretch out—

No, said Highfield, abruptly. I want them well apart.

Dobson waited several seconds, as if for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he badtemperedly sent off the womens officer to sort out two girls who were arguing over ownership of a sheet. He would tell his colleagues that it was probably something to do with Hart, Highfield knew, that the Indomitable business had left the captain peculiar about risk. Let him think what he wants, Highfield thought dismissively.

It was nearly ten oclock when the last bride had trickled out, and the cabins had been checked to ensure there would be no more arrivals. Highfield stood before the women and motioned for silence. Gradually the chatter of the dimly lit crowd faded until only the distant rumble of the engines and the low hiss of the waves could be heard below.

I was going to outline a couple of rules, he said, shifting on his leg. He faced the marines, in a neat, silent row to his left. To make a few things clear about this evening. But Ive decided its too hot. And if you dont have enough common sense not to fall off the side theres not a lot of hope for you, whatever I say. So Ill ask you, as ever, not to distract the men from their work. And I hope this helps you get a better nights sleep.

His words were met with a cheerful swell of chatter from the women and a round of applause. He could see the gratitude on some faces, and felt an unfamiliar swelling of something in him. His mouth twitched into a smile.

Just make sure its only marines who are allowed up here, he said to Dobson. And then, while his good mood stalled the pain in his leg, he made his way stiffly towards his rooms.

That night, Frances thought afterwards, had been the high point of the voyage. Not just for her but for most of them. Perhaps it was something about them all being together, about the freedom and sweet release of the open sea and the sky after the days of encroaching heat and deepening illtemper, that lifted their spirits. The openness of the deck made them all, briefly, equal, prevented the cliques that made being among large numbers of women such a trial.

Avice, who for the last week had ignored her, had spent several hours making friends with the girls around them, capitalising on her new status as pregnant wife. Margaret, after fretting a little while about Maude Gonne and being reassured by Frances, who had sneaked down on a pretext and found her sleeping comfortably, had flaked out not twenty minutes after they settled and was now snoring to her left, her belly, under a paperthin mans shirt, propped on Francess pillow.

Frances was pleased to see it she had felt pangs of sympathy for Margaret, swollen and uncomfortable in the heat, twisting and turning on her bunk in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

Initially Frances had felt a little selfconscious in her bathing suit, but confronted with the exposed limbs and midriffs of several hundred women of all shapes and sizes some in the minuscule new bikinis, she soon realised that such selfabsorption was ridiculous. Once the marines had got over the shock of what they were guarding they had lost interest too several were now playing cards on crates by the bridge, while others chatted among themselves, apparently oblivious to the nearnaked sleeping bodies behind them.

Could they really be so uninterested? Frances wondered. Could any man really feel so sanguine, faced with so much bare female flesh? But, try as she might, she could see nothing in their manner to justify her discomfort. Eventually she had allowed her own sheet to drop around her, had adjusted herself so that her semiupright body caught the maximum of the breeze that whispered across the deck. And when she did see one of the men glance longingly in their direction, still dressed in his highnecked tropical rig, she was forced to the conclusion that it was probably the womens coolness that they coveted, rather than their bodies.

She must have slept for a few hours after midnight. Most of the girls around her had slept soundly, the lack of several nights sleep a demolition ball against the novel circumstances that might have kept them awake. But she couldnt help herself being among so many people made her uncomfortable. Eventually, she had sat up and decided, gracefully, to give in to wakefulness, simply to enjoy the freedom to sit out there without fear of discovery. She wrapped her cotton sheet loosely round her shoulders, and trod carefully to the edge of the group, from where she could just make out the foamed movement of the ship in the ocean. Eventually she found a spot away from everyone, and sat, thinking of nothing, staring into the distance.

You all right? It was said quietly, so that only she could hear.

The marine was standing a few feet away from her, his face carefully turned to the front.

Im fine, she murmured. She kept hers towards the sea, as if they were in mutual pretence that they were not in conversation.

He stood there for some time. Frances was acutely conscious of the stillness of his legs beside her, braced a little as if in preparation for some unseen swell.

You like it up here, dont you? he asked.

Very much. It might sound a little silly. But Ive found the sea makes me feel . . . well, happy.

You didnt look very happy earlier.

She wondered that she could talk to him like this. I suppose the emptiness of it all overwhelmed me, she said. I didnt feel comforted . . . the way I usually do.

Ah. She felt, rather than saw his nod. Well, she rarely does what you expect her to.

They were silent for a while, Frances unbalanced because they were no longer divided by a steel door. Initially she had pulled her sheet up round her neck so that she was almost totally enclosed by it. Now, she decided that was silly, a kind of extreme reaction to his presence. And she let it slide down over her shoulders. While reddening at her own audacity.

Your whole face changes when youre up here.

She glanced up at him quickly. Perhaps he grasped that he had overstepped some mark because he kept his eyes on the ocean. I know how it feels, he added. Its why I like to stay at sea.

What about your children, she wanted to ask, but couldnt frame it so that it didnt sound like an accusation. Instead she stole a peep at his face. She wanted to ask him why he seemed so sad when he had so much to return to. But he turned and their eyes locked. Her hand lifted of its own volition to her face, as if to shield herself from him.

Do you want me to leave you alone? he said quietly.

No, she said. The word was out before she had had time to think about it. And then both silenced, by awkwardness or surprise that she had said anything, he stood beside her, her personal sentry, as they stared out over the dark waters.

The first slivers of light, fierce and electric, appeared thousands of miles distant on the horizon shortly before five. He told her of how the sunrises could change, depending on which part of the equator they were travelling through, sometimes slow and languorous, a gentle flooding of the sky with creamy blue light, at others a brief, almost aggressive sparking, shortcircuiting the sky into dawn. He told her how, as a young recruit, he had been able to list nearly all the constellations, had taken some pride in it, had watched them disappear slowly at daybreak, to enjoy the magic of their reappearance hours later, but that when the war started he couldnt look for more than a minute at a night sky without hearing the distant hum of an enemy plane. Its spoilt for me now, he said. I find it easier not to look.

She told him how the exploding shells in the Pacific mimicked the colours of the dawn, and how, on night duty, she would watch through the window flap of her ward tent, wondering at mans ability to subvert nature. You could see a strange beauty even in those colours, she said. War – or perhaps nursing – had taught her to see it in just about anything. Itll come back, you know, she said. You just have to give it time. Her voice was low, consoling. He thought of her uttering similar sentiments to the wounded men she tended, and wished, perversely, that he had been among them.

Have you served on this ship for long?

It took him a minute to focus on what she was saying.

No, he said. Most of us were on Indomitable. But she was sunk at the end of the war. Those of us who got out ended up on the Victoria.

Such a few tidy words, well rehearsed now. They did little to convey the chaos and horror of the final hours of that ship, the bombs, the screams and the holds that turned into geysers of fire.

She turned her face full towards him. Did you lose many?

A good few. Captain lost his nephew.

She turned to where the captain had stood below the bridge, hours earlier, immaculate in his tropical rig, consulting a chart. Everyone has lost someone, she said, almost to herself.

He had asked her about the prisonersofwar, and had listened to her litany of injuries, of those patients she had cared for and lost. He didnt ask her how she had coped. Those who had lived through it rarely did, she remarked. It was unimportant, once you had experienced the fierce gratitude of simply being alive.

Quite a thing to choose to do, he said.

Do you really think any of us had a choice?

It was at that moment, as he looked at her pale, serious face, heard in her reply the determination not to glean even the smallest advantage from other peoples suffering that he knew his feelings for her could no longer be considered appropriate. I – I – no . . . The shock of this knowledge drove his voice from him, and he shook his head mutely. He found his thoughts suddenly, inappropriately, drawn to his last shore leave, and he felt exposed, flooded with shame.

We all have to find some way, she said, of atoning.

You? he wanted to say incredulously. You didnt start this war. You were not responsible for the damage, the torn limbs, the suffering. You are one of the good things. You are one of the reasons we all kept going. You, of all people, of all these women lying here, have nothing to atone for.

Perhaps it was the strangeness of the hour, or that her bare shoulders, in the encroaching light, glowed like something ethereal. Perhaps it was the simple fact that he had not exchanged for what seemed like years a single word that was not smothered with uniformed bluff and bravery. He wanted to crack open like the dawn in front of her, to reveal himself, faults and all, and be absolved by her warmth and understanding. He wanted to scream at her husband – no doubt some stupid, wisecracking engineer, who, even as they spoke, might be straightening his trousers as he crept out of some FarEastern brothel, exchanging sly winks with his messmates – Do you know what youve got? Do you understand?

He thought briefly, insanely, that he might try to put at least some of this into words. And then, at the corner of his eye, Captain Highfield appeared on the bridge. Following his gaze, she turned and watched as the captain consulted two officers. He gestured towards the aircraft, then straightened up as they talked to him rapidly. From their raised voices, something seemed to be up.

He drew back reluctantly from Frances. Id better go and find out whats going on, he said. He held the warmth of her answering smile close to him for the twentyfour strides it took to join the others.

Several minutes later he returned. Theyre going over the side, he said.

What?

The planes. Captains decided we all need more room. Hes just got permission from London to put them overboard.

But theres nothing wrong with them!

His voice bubbled uncharacteristically. The long night had caught him, choked him, and now, releasing him, left him emotional. The bigwigs who oversee the Lendlease Agreement are okay with it. But hes . . . hes not the kind of captain to make decisions like that. He shook his head, disbelieving.

But hes right, she said eventually. Its over. Let the sea take them.

And as dawn broke, touching the near naked bodies with its cold blue light, a few of the girls woke, pulling their sheets round them, watching mutely with sleepfilled eyes as silently, one by one, the aircraft were wheeled to the edge by pairs of engineers. Accompanied by the minimum of instruction, so as not to wake those sleeping, the planes faced the skies for the last time, wings folded upwards, some still scarred and scorched from airborne victories. They waited patiently while their last details were read out and checked off. Then they teetered on the edge, spending the shortest moment in midair before they disappeared on their concluding flight, the splash of each impact surprisingly muted as they drifted down, silently shifting against the currents of the Indian Ocean, down, down towards a final, gentle landing on some unknown unseen sea bed.