فصل 13

13

My brother brought back an English bride. Before they landed, she was lauded up to the skies as being beautiful, accomplished, helpful and brilliant . . . but instead of that we found an ugly, brownnecked, redcomplexioned, lazy hussy who had not a good word to say about anyone or anything in this country . . . Speaking personally it was a sorry day for me when an imported minx landed in our family.

Letter to Melbournes Truth newspaper, 1919

Twentytwo days

Dear Mum,

This is a hard letter to write. I guess Ive put off writing it for as long as I could. But you probably know without me having to explain what it is I want to tell you I have done, and how Ive carried it round ever since. Im not proud of myself, Mum. I gave myself all sorts of reasons to convince myself I was doing the right thing. But Im not sure who I thought I was protecting – you or myself . . .

My dearest love,

Its very strange trying to compose this letter, knowing that in all likelihood by the time you get it we will already be in each others arms. But this voyage is starting to stretch, and I feel increasingly desperate, stuck out here in the middle of the ocean, to maintain some kind of contact. To at least talk to you, even though you might not be able to listen. I suppose some of these brides are more selfsufficient than I am, able to cope with endless days of absent time. But to me, every minute I spend without you is far too long, and infinitely worthless . . .

Sometimes the unspoken conversations taking place on the Victoria became clamorous. Now, halfway through the voyage, the weight of these onesided exchanges hung heavy in the air as brides reread and composed correspondence, trying to express their longing, confiding their fears to their families or chiding their men for lack of emotion. In Cabin 3G two brides sat side by side on their bunks, each buried in thought as they committed their own pens to the tissuethin Navyissue writingpaper.

Occasionally, through the partially open door, the sound of passing footsteps was accompanied by a burst of laughter or a murmured conversation, punctuated by discreet exclamations of surprise. The heat of the previous days had broken a little with the arrival of a short storm in the early hours of that morning, and the inhabitants of the brides cabins had become active again many were out enjoying the fresher air. None of which was heard apparently by the remaining occupants of Cabin 3G, both of whom were lost in a onesided conversation with persons far from the confines of the Victoria.

. . . darling, in the circumstances it feels rather silly to be writing these words. So perhaps I shall use them simply to say how much I adore you, and how glad I am that this baby is ours. That we will bring him or her up together, and not separated, as we have been, by endless stretches of water. That I cant think of a more wonderful father than I am sure you will be.

Sometimes you can feel something so bad, be so caught up in your own unhappiness, that its hard to see whats right. Even harder to do it.

Still, I realised something last night that even after everything that happened you would never have done what I did. That the whole point was, you would have just wanted people to be as happy as they could possibly be. Its hard even to write that, without feeling ashamed sorry.

Avice, said Margaret, do you have any blotting paper?

Here, said Avice, stretching downwards. You can have that sheet. Ive got plenty. She adjusted her skirt as she settled down again, her free hand reaching absently to pat her stomach.

. . . so thats why Im going to write to Letty, and tell her the truth. That Dad, while hell never love anyone like he loved you, deserves to have a bit of company. He deserves to be looked after. Ive finally realised I dont have to protect some perfect image I have of the two of you. I dont have to feel angry with her for being in love with him all these years. I can just feel sad for her that she wasted them on someone she knew she couldnt have. Didnt even try to have.

I know youll agree with this, Mum. But I think Letty, after all her years alone, deserves to be loved.

Im going upstairs to sit on the deck for a bit. Are you all right if I leave you with Maudie?

Avice glanced up at Margaret, who was standing by the door, her completed letter in her hand. She looked, Avice thought, a little red round the eyes. Mind you, with that awful blue dress, which she must have worn for the last ten days, and those swollen ankles, her eyes were probably the least of her worries. Sure, she said.

Its not so bad up there now the heat has died down a bit.

Avice nodded and, as the door closed behind Margaret, she resumed writing.

Its very odd, perhaps you might even find it silly, but do you know what, Ian? I have felt strangely nervous about telling you. I know youre not desperately keen on surprises, but this is a truly special sort of surprise, isnt it? Of course it would have been nice for us to have a little time to ourselves, but once the baby is born we can sort out a nurse for it, and you and I can go on being just how we were in Australia – except with a darling little baby to love too. I know some men rather miss the attention of their wives once the little ones come along but, darling, I want to assure you that I AM NOT ONE OF THOSE. No baby would ever come between you and I. You are first in my heart, and always will be. The important thing is for us to be together. Thats what you always said to me. I hold those thoughts close to my heart every minute of every day. The important thing is for us to be together.

Your Avice

Avice lay back on her bunk, listening to the distant thrum of the ships engines, the occasional breaking in of the Tannoy, the shrieking of other girls engaged in some activity above. She placed her sealed letter on her chest, holding it to her with both hands, and thought back.

The checkout time would normally have been eleven a.m., but it being wartime, and needs being what they were, she had known that even at a quarter past two in the afternoon they were unlikely to be disturbed by the maid. The Melbourne Flower Garden Hotel, like many local establishments, did a brisk trade these days in what were known as extended checkouts. So extended, in fact, were checkout times that quite frequently the couples did not bother staying at the hotel overnight. It was entirely possible that many were not married. Why else would they require a hotel room? The explanations of wives coming into town especially to meet their husbands ships sounded unconvincing even to the most naïve ears. But with so many troops in town, and need being what it was, the hotel owner had been canny enough to grasp that flexibility and a blind eye would keep the dollars rolling in.

Avice calculated how much time was left before they should get up and return home. If they left in the next hour they could possibly nip into the zoo so that she wouldnt have to lie about where theyd been. Her mother was bound to ask her something pointed about Sumatran tigers or some such.

Ian had been dozing, one heavy arm pinning her to the bed. Now he opened an eye. What are you thinking?

She let her head turn slowly until their faces were only inches apart. I was thinking we were probably not supposed to do this until after the wedding.

Dont say that, gorgeous girl. I couldnt have waited that long.

Would it have been so hard?

Sweetheart, you know Ive only got a fortyeighthour pass. Wasnt this more fun than fussing about plans for flowers and bridesmaids and whathaveyou?

Avice thought secretly that she would probably have liked fussing over flowers and bridesmaids, but she didnt want to spoil the mood so she smiled enigmatically.

God, I love you.

She could feel his words on her skin, as if he were giving her tiny particles of himself even in his breath. She closed her eyes, savouring them I love you too, darling.

Youre not sorry? he said.

To be marrying you? Her eyes widened.

To have done . . . you know. I didnt hurt you or anything?

He had, a little, if she was honest. But not in any way that had made her want to stop. She blushed now, shocked at the things she had found herself doing, at how easily she had surrendered to him. She had always suspected, from what her mother had told her, that it would be something she had to endure. The Sleeping Beast, her mother had called it. Best leave it sleeping as much as possible, she had advised sagely.

You dont think any less of me . . . she murmured . . . for having let you . . . She swallowed. I mean, Im not sure I was meant to enjoy it quite as much as I did . . .

Oh, my darling girl, no! God, no, it was wonderful that you liked it. In fact, thats one of the things I love about you, Avice, Ian pulled her close to him and spoke into her hair. Youre a sensual creature. A free spirit. Not like English girls.

A free spirit. She had found herself believing this new version of herself, as Ian described it. Some time earlier, when she had found herself naked and selfconscious before him, he had said she was a goddess, the most alluring creature he had ever seen, and something else that made her blush, his eyes unfocused in admiration of her, and she had found herself determinedly becoming alluring and goddesslike when she really wanted to reach for a dressinggown.

This must mean hes right for me, she told herself. He has it in him to make me better than I am.

Outside, the traffic was picking up. Somewhere below the open window a car door slammed and a man shouted insistently, Davy, Davy, apparently unheeded.

So, she said, disentangling their legs and sliding round so that she was leaning over him, some small part of her still shocked at the feel of his naked skin against hers. You really, really love me, do you?

He smiled at her, his hair matted against the pillow. She thought shed never seen a more handsome man in her entire life. Do you really have to ask?

And I never do anything to upset you, or irritate you?

Couldnt, he said, reaching over to the bedside table for a cigarette. Impossible.

And you want to be with me for ever?

More than. For infinity.

She took a deep breath. Then Im going to tell you something, and youre not to be angry with me.

He pulled a cigarette from his packet with neat white teeth, and paused, using the arm looped round her neck to cup the flame of the match as he lit it. Mm? he said. A soft plume of blue smoke rose into the still air beside her head.

Were getting married.

He looked at her for a moment. His eyes creased upwards. Of course were getting married, my little duck.

Tomorrow.

She didnt like to think too hard about that next bit. The way those creases hardened and his eyes became less soft.

The way the notsoSleeping Beast had suddenly become more so.

What?

Ive fixed it up. With a justice of the peace. Were getting married tomorrow. At the Collins Street register office. Mum and Dad and Deanna are going to be there and the Hendersons have agreed to be our witnesses. Then, when he didnt say anything, Oh, darling, dont be cross with me. I couldnt bear the thought of you going off again and us only being engaged. And I thought seeing as you do love me and I love you and we only want to be together there wasnt any point in waiting months and months and months. And you did say youd got permission from your commander.

Ian sat up abruptly so that she fell against the pillow. She pushed herself upright against the headboard, the sheet gathered round her chest.

Ian had leant forward, his back to her. It might have been her imagination, but there appeared to be grim determination in the way he was smoking his cigarette.

Now, darling, she said, playfully, youre not to be cross. I wont have it.

He didnt move.

She waited several lifetimes, and slumped a little. The pert expression of disapproval slowly faded. Eventually, when she could bear it no longer, she put out a hand to him. His skin, where it met hers, sang to her of the previous hours. Are you really cross with me?

He was silent. He put out his cigarette, then turned back to her, running a hand through his hair. I dont like you organising things over my head . . . especially not something as – as important as this.

Now she dropped the sheet, leant forwards and put her arms round his neck. Im sorry, darling, she whispered, nuzzling his ear. I thought youd be pleased. That wasnt strictly true even as she had made the appointment, she had known that the flicker of nervousness in the pit of her stomach was not purely anticipation.

Its a mans place, after all, to arrange these things. You make me feel . . . I dont know, Avice. Who wears the trousers here? His was face clouded.

You! she said, and the last of the sheet dropped away as she slid a slim leg over him.

This isnt some joke, is it? Its all set up? Guests and everything?

She lifted her lips from his neck. Only the Hendersons. Apart from family, I mean. Its not like I organised some huge do without you knowing.

He covered his face with a hand. I cant believe you did this.

Oh, Ian, sweetheart, please dont—

I cant believe you—

You do still want me, dont you, darling? Her voice, tremulous and a little pleading, suggested more doubt than Avice felt. It had never occurred to her that Ian might change his mind.

You know I do . . . Its just—

You want to make sure youre head of the household. Of course you do! You know I think youre simply masterful. And if we had had more time I would have left it as long as anything. Oh, Ian, dont be cross, darling, please. Its only because I wanted to be Mrs Radley so badly.

She pressed her nose to his and widened her blue eyes so that he might lose himself in them. Oh, Ian, darling, I do love you so much.

He had said nothing initially, just submitted to her kisses, her murmured entreaties, the gentle exploration of her hands. Then, slowly, she felt him thaw. Its only because I love you, darling, she whispered, and as he gave himself up to her, as she slowly became lost, felt their bodies restoring him to her, as the Sleeping Beast awoke, a little part of her reflected with satisfaction that, difficult as these things could sometimes be, through intelligence, charm and a bit of luck, Avice Pritchard usually had her way.

He had been a little odd at the wedding. She knew her mother thought so. He had been distracted, selectively deaf, bit his nails even an unbecoming habit in a grown man. Given that there were only eight of them, and that he was an officer, she had thought his nervousness a little excessive.

Dont be silly, her father had said. All grooms are supposed to look like condemned men. Her mother had hit him playfully, and tried to raise a reassuring lipsticked smile.

Deanna had sulked. She had worn a blue suit, almost dark enough to be considered black, and Avice had complained about it to her mother, who had told her not to fuss. Its very hard for her, you being the first to get married, she had whispered. Do you understand?

Avice did. Only too well.

Still love me? she had said to him afterwards. Their parents had paid for everyones dinner and a night at the Melbourne Grand. Her mother had wept at the table and told her in a stage whisper, as she and Ian left to go upstairs, that it really wasnt all that bad and it might help if she had a little drink or two first. Avice had smiled – a smile that reassured her mother and irritated the bejaysus out of her sister, to whom it said, Im going to do It I shall be a woman before you. She had even been tempted to tell her sister she had already done It the previous evening, but the way Deanna had been lately, she thought she was likely to blab to their mother and that was all she needed.

Ian? Do you still love me, now that Im just boring Mrs Radley?

They had reached their room. He closed the door behind her, took another swig of his brandy and loosened his collar. Of course I do, he said. He had seemed more like himself then. He pulled her to him, and slid a warm hand chaotically up her thigh. I love you to bits, darling girl.

Forgiven me?

His attention was already elsewhere. Of course. He dropped his lips to her neck, and bit her gently. I told you. I just dont like surprises.

I reckon theres a storm brewing. JonestheWelsh checked the barometer at the side of the mess door, and lit another cigarette, then generated a shudder. I can feel it inside me. Pressure like this – its got to break some time, right?

What do you think that was this morning, Scotch mist?

Call that a storm? That was a piss and a fart in a teacup. Im talking about a proper storm, lads. A real wild woman of a storm. The kind that stands your hair on end, whips you round the chops and shreds your trousers afore you can say, Ah, come on now, love. I was just calling you her name for a joke.

There was a rumble of laughter from various hammocks. Nicol, lying in his, heard the sound as a dull harbinger of darkening skies. Jones was right. There would be a storm. He felt tense, jittery, as if he had drunk too many cups of Arab coffee. At least, he told himself it was the storm.

In his mind Nicol saw, again, the imprint of that pale face, illuminated by moonlight. There had been no invitation in her glance, no coquettishness. She was not the kind of woman who considered flirting compensation for the condition of marriage. But there was something in her gaze. Something that told him of an understanding between them. A connection. She knew him. That was what he felt.

Oh, for Gods sake, he said aloud, swinging his legs out of the hammock. He had not meant to speak, and as his feet hit the floor he felt selfconscious.

Whats the matter, Nicol, my love? JonestheWelsh put down his letter. Someone done up your corset too tight? Not arrested enough people lately?

Nicol closed his eyes. They were sore, gritty. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. It let him chase it through the daytime hours, occasionally suggesting that it would be his. Then as he relaxed, the urge evaporated and left him, with that imprint on the back of his eyelids. And an ache in his soul. How can I think like this? he would ask himself. Me of all people.

Headache, he said now, rubbing his forehead. As you said. The pressure.

He had told himself he was incapable of emotion. So shocked by the horrors of war, by the loss of so many around him that, like so many men, he had closed off. Now, forced to examine his behaviour honestly, he thought perhaps he had never loved his wife, that he had instead become caught up in expectation, in the idea that he should marry. He had had to – after she had revealed the consequence of what they had done. You married, you had your children and you grew old. Your wife grew sour with lack of attention you grew bitter and introverted for your lost dreams the children grew up and moved on, promising themselves they would not make the same mistakes. There was no room for wishful thinking, for alternatives. You Got On With It. Perhaps, he thought in his darkest moments, he found it hard to admit that war had freed him from that.

You know, Nic, the stokers are talking of having a party tonight. Now that the old ladys settled down again. He patted the wall beside him. I must say, it does seem a waste for all that female talent to miss out on the experience of a bit of good old naval hospitality. I thought I might look in later.

Nicol reached for a boot and began to polish it. Youre a dog, he said.

JonestheWelsh let out a joyous woof. Oh, whats the harm? he said. Those who dont want a bit of Welsh rarebit must be proper in love with their old men. So thats lovely. Those who find the sea air has . . . here he raised an eyebrow . . . given them a bit of an appetite, probably werent going to go the distance anyway.

You cant do it, Jones. Theyre all married, for Gods sake.

And Im pretty sure some are already a little less married than they were when they set out. You heard about the episode on B Deck, didnt you? And I was on middle watch outside 6E last night. That girl with the blonde hairs a menace. Wont bloody leave me alone. In and out, in and out . . . Ooh, Im just popping to the bathroom, dressinggown hanging open. Im sure us men are the real victims in these things. He fluttered his eyelashes.

Nicol went back to his boots.

Ah, come on, Nicol. Dont come over all married and judgemental on us. Just because youre happy living by the rule book doesnt mean the rest of us cant enjoy ourselves a little.

I think you should leave them alone, he said, closing his ears to the communal woohoo! that met his words. There was a creeping lack of respect for the women, even among men he considered honourable, that made him uncomfortable.

And I think you should buck up a bit. Lidders here is coming, arent you, boy? And Brent and Farthing. Come with us – then you can see were behaving ourselves.

Im on duty.

Of course you are. Pressed up to that dormitory door listening to those girls pant with longing. He cackled and jumped into his own hammock. Oh, come on, Nicol. Marines are allowed a bit of fun too. Look . . . think of what were doing, right, as some kind of service. The entertainment of the Empires wives. For the benefit of the nation.

With an extravagant salute, Jones leant back again. By the time Nicol had worked out an appropriately pithy response, Jones had fallen asleep, a lit Senior Service hanging loosely from his hand.

The men were boxing on the flight deck. Someone had set up a ring where the Corsairs had sat and in it Dennis Tims was battering several shades of something unrepeatable out of one of the seamen. His naked upper body a taut block of sinewy muscle, he moved without grace or rhythm around the ring. He was an automaton, a machine of destruction, his fists pounding bluntly until the darting, weaving young seaman succumbed and was hauled unconscious through the ropes and away. Four rounds in, there was such a terrible inevitability to his victories that the assembled men and brides were finding it hard to raise the enthusiasm to clap.

Frances, who had found it difficult to watch them, stood with her back to them. Tims, punching, was too close a reminder of the night of Jeans incident. There was something in the power of his swing, in the brutal set of his jaw as he ploughed into the pale flesh presented to him that made her feel cold, even in this heat. She had wondered, when she and Jean had sat down, whether they should move away, for the younger girls sake. But Jeans benign interest demonstrated that she had been too drunk to know what Tims had seen – or for that matter, what anyone else had done.

Hope they dont get too hot and bothered, Jean said now, folding herself neatly into the spot beside Margaret. She seemed to find it difficult to sit still she had spent the last hour wandering backwards and forwards between the ringside and their deckchairs. Have you heard? The waters run out.

Margaret looked at her. What?

Not drinking water, but the pump isnt working properly and theres no washing – not hair, clothes or anything – until theyve mended it. Emergency rations only. Can you imagine? In this weather! She fanned herself with her hand. I tell you theres a bloody riot in the bathrooms. That Irene Carter might think shes a right lady, but when her shower stopped you should have heard the language. Would have made old Dennis blush.

Over the past week or so, Jean had recovered her good humour, so much so that her ceaseless and largely inconsequential chatter had taken on a new momentum. You know Avice is taking Irene on for Queen of the Victoria? Theyve got the Miss Lovely Legs competition this afternoon. Avice has been down to the cases and persuaded the officer to let her get out her best pair of pumps. Fourinch heels in dark green satin to match her bathing suit.

Oh.

Tims followed an upper cut with a left hook. Then again. And again.

Are you all right, Maggie?

Frances handed Margaret the icecream she had been proffering, unnoticed, for several seconds, exchanging a brief glance with Jean as she did so.

It – its not the baby, is it?

Margaret turned to them. No, Im fine. Honest.

She looked neither of them in the eye.

Oh, Dennis is in again. Im going to see if anyone wants to have a wager with me. Mind you, I cant see that anyones going to offer odds against him. Not at this rate. Jean got up, straightened her skirt, and skipped over to the other onlookers.

Margaret and Frances sat in silence with their ices. In the distance, a tanker moved across the horizon, and they followed its steady progress until it was no longer visible.

Whats that?

Margaret looked at the letter in her hand, evidently having realised that the name of the addressee was showing.

Frances said nothing, but there was a question in her eyes. Were you . . . going to throw it into the water?

Margaret gazed out at the turquoise waves.

It . . . would be a nice thing to do. I had a patient once whose sweetheart got bombed, back in Germany. He wrote her a goodbye letter and we put it into a bottle and dropped it over the side of the hospital ship.

I was going to post it, Margaret said.

Frances looked back at the envelope, checked that shed read the name correctly. Then she turned to Margaret, perplexed. Behind her, voices were raised in shock at some misdemeanour in the ring, but she kept her eyes on the woman beside her.

I lied, said Margaret. I let you think she was dead but shes not. She left us. Shes been gone nearly two and a half years.

Your mother?

Yup. She waved the letter. I dont know why I brought it up here.

Then Margaret began to talk, at first quietly, and then as if she no longer cared who heard.

It had been a shock. That much was an understatement. They had come home one day to find dinner bubbling on the stove, the shirts neatly pressed over the range, the floors mopped and polished and a note. She couldnt take it any more, she had written. She had waited until Margarets brothers were home from the war, and Daniel had hit fourteen and become a man, and now she considered her job done. She loved them all, but she had to claw back a little bit of life for herself, while she still had some left. She hoped they would understand, but she expected they wouldnt.

She had got Fred Bridgeman to pick her up and drop her at the station, and she had gone, taking with her only a suitcase of clothes, fortytwo dollars in savings, and two of the good photographs of the children from the front parlour.

Mr Leader at the ticket office said shed got the train to Sydney. From there she could have gone anywhere. We figured shed come back when she was ready. But she never did. Daniel took it hardest.

Frances took Margarets hand.

Afterwards, I suppose, we could all have seen the signs. But you dont look, do you? Mothers are meant to be exhausted, fed up. Theyre meant to shout a lot and then apologise. Theyre meant to get headaches. I suppose we all thought she was part of the furniture.

Did you ever hear from her?

She wrote a few times, and Dad wrote begging her to come back, but when she didnt, he stopped. Pretty quickly, come to think of it. He couldnt cope with the idea of her not loving him any more. Once they accepted she wasnt coming back, the boys wouldnt write at all. So . . . he just . . . they . . . behaved as if she had died. It was easier than admitting the truth. She paused. Shes only written once this year. Maybe Im a reminder of something she wants to forget, guilt she doesnt want to feel. Sometimes I think the kindest thing I could do would be to let her go. She turned the envelope in her free hand.

Im sure she wouldnt want to cause you pain, said Frances, quietly.

But she is. All the time.

You can get in touch with her, though. I mean, once she hears where you are, who knows? She might write more often.

Its not the letters. Margaret threw the envelope on to the deck.

Frances fought the urge to pin it down with something. She didnt want a stray breeze to take it overboard.

Its everything. Its her – her and me.

But she said she loved you—

You dont get it. Im her daughter, right?

Yes . . . but—

So what am I meant to feel, if motherhood is so bad that my mum had always been desperate to run away? She rubbed swollen fingers across her eyes. What if, Frances, what if when this thing is born, what if when this baby finally gets here . . . I feel exactly the same?

The weather had broken at almost four thirty, just as the boxing finished – or as Tims grew bored it was hard to say which. The first large drops of rain landed heavily on the deck, and the women had swiftly disappeared, exclaiming from under sunhats or folded magazines, sweeping their belongings into bags and scurrying, like ants, below decks.

Margaret had retreated to the cabin to check on the dog, and Frances sat with Jean in the deck canteen, watching the rain trickling through the salt on the windows and into the rusting frames. Only a few brides had chosen to stay on deck, even under the relative shelter of the canteen a storm on the sea was a different prospect from one on land. Faced with 360degree visibility and nothing between human life and the endless expanse of rolling grey seas, with the thunderous clouds coming relentlessly from the south, it was possible to feel too exposed.

Margaret had seemed a little better once shed spoken out. She had wept a little, crossly blamed the baby for it, and then, smiling, had apologised, several times. Frances had felt helpless. She had wanted to tell her a little about her own family, but felt that to do so would require further explanation, which she wasnt prepared to give, even to Margaret. The other womans friendship had become valuable to her, which made her vulnerable. Also, it brought with it a sense of foreboding. She toyed with the metal spoon in her empty cup, hearing the ship groan, the sheets of metal straining against each other like fault lines before an earthquake. Outside the lashings clanked disconsolately, and the rain ran in tidal rivers off the deck.

Where is he now? she thought. Is he sleeping? Dreaming of his children? His wife? Just as Margarets friendship had introduced new emotions into her life, so thoughts of the marines family now brought out something in her that filled her with shame.

She was jealous. She had felt it first on the night that Margaret had spoken to Joe on the radio hearing their exchange, seeing the way Margaret had been illuminated by the mere prospect of a few words, made Frances aware of a huge chasm in her own life. She had felt a sadness that wasnt, for once, assuaged by the sight of the ocean. Now, a sense of loss was sharpened by the thought of the marine and his family. She had thought of him as a friend, a kindred spirit. It was as much as she had ever expected of a man. Now she found it had crossed into something she couldnt identify, some nagging impression of separation.

She thought of her husband, Chalkie Mackenzie. What she had felt on first meeting him had been quite different. She put down the spoon and forced herself to look at the other women. I wont do this, she told herself. There is no point in hankering for things you cant have. That you have never been able to have. She made herself think back to the beginning of the voyage, to a time when the mere fact of the journey was enough. She had been satisfied then, hadnt she?

The cook says its not going to be a bad one, said Jean, returning to the table with two cups of tea. She sounded almost disappointed. This is about as rough as its going to get, apparently. Shame. I didnt mind all that rocking when we came through the Bight. Once I stopped chucking my guts up, anyway. Still, he says well probably get more bad weather once we get the other side of the Suez Canal.

Frances was getting used to Jeans perverse enthusiasms. There cant be too many other passengers praying for rough weather.

I am. I want a real humdinger of a storm. One I can tell Stan about. Oh, I know we wont feel much on a big old girl like this, but Id like to sit up here and watch. A bit of excitement, you know? Like the movies, but real. Far as Im concerned, its all getting a bit boring.

Frances gazed out of the window. Some unfathomable distance away bolts of lightning illuminated the skies. The rain was heavier now, hammering on the metal roof so that they had to speak up to be heard. On the other side of the canteen several brides were pointing at the distant horizon.

Oh, come on, Frances. You like a bit of excitement too, dont you? Look at that lightning! You telling me that doesnt get you a bit – you know? Jean jiggled on her seat. I mean, look at it.

Just for a moment, Frances allowed herself to see the squall as Jean did, to let its raw energy flood over her, illuminate her, charge her up. But the habits of years were too strong, and when she turned to Jean, her demeanour was calm, measured. You might want to be careful what you wish for, she said. But she kept her eyes on the distant storm.

They were about to leave, standing beside each other at the canteen doorway, waiting for the rain to ease off a little so that they could bolt towards the hatch that led down to the cabins, when the rating arrived. He pushed through the door, dripping wet after having made the short journey across the deck, bringing with him a gust of the rainsoaked cool air.

Im looking for a Jean Castleforth, he said, reading from a piece of paper. Jean Castleforth. His voice had been portentous.

Thats me. Jean grabbed the mans arm. Why?

The ratings expression was unreadable. Youve been called to the captains office, madam. Then, as Jean stood still, her expression rigid, he said to Frances, as if Jean were no longer there, Shes one of the young ones, right? Ive been told its best if someone comes with her.

Those words halted any further questions. He led them on what Frances thought afterwards was the longest short walk of her life. Suddenly heedless of the rain, they strode briskly across the hangar deck, past the torpedo store, and up some stairs until they reached a door. The rating rapped on it sharply. When he heard, Enter, he opened it, stood back, one arm out, and they walked in. At some point during the walk, Jean had slid her hand into Francess and was now gripping it tightly.

The room, set on three sides with windows, was much brighter than the narrow passageway and they blinked. Three people were silhouetted against one of the windows, and two faced them. Frances noted absently that the floor was carpeted, unlike anywhere else on the ship.

She saw with alarm that the chaplain was there, then recognised the womens officer who had come across them that night in the engine area. The temperature seemed to drop and she shivered.

Jeans eyes darted round the grim faces in front of her and she was shaking convulsively. Something has happened to him, hasnt it? she said. Oh, God, youre going to tell me somethings happened to him. Is he all right? Tell me, is he all right?

The captain exchanged a brief look with the chaplain, then stepped forward and handed Jean a telegram.

Im very sorry, my dear, he said.

Jean looked at the telegram, then up at the captain. M . . . H . . . Is that an H? She traced the letters with her finger. A? You read it for me, she said, and thrust it at Frances. Her hand shook so much that the paper made a rattling sound.

Frances took it in her left hand, keeping hold of Jeans hand in the other. The girls grip was now so tight that the blood was pooling in her fingertips.

She took in the content of the telegram a second before she read it out. The words dropped from her mouth like stones. Have heard about behaviour on board. No future for us. She swallowed. Not Wanted Dont Come.

Jean stared at the telegram, then at Frances.

What? she said, into the silence. Then Read it again.

Frances wished that in the telling of those words there was some way to soften their impact.

I dont understand, said Jean.

News travels between ships, said the WSO, quietly. Someone must have told one of the other carriers when we docked at Ceylon.

But no one knew. Apart from you . . .

When we spoke to your husbands superiors to verify the telegram, they said he was rather disturbed by news of your pregnancy. She paused. I understand that, according to your given dates, it would be impossible for him to be the father. The woman spoke cruelly, Frances thought, as if she were pleased to have found some other stick with which to beat Jean. As if the Not Wanted Dont Come had not been sufficiently damaging.

Jean had gone white. But Im not pregnant – that was—

I think in the circumstances, he probably feels that is irrelevant.

But I havent had a chance to explain to him. I need to speak to him. Hes got it all wrong.

Frances stepped in. It wasnt her fault. Really. It was a misunderstanding.

The womans expression said she had heard this many times. The men just looked embarrassed.

Im sorry, said the captain. We have spoken to the Red Cross and arrangements will be put in place for your passage back to Australia. You will disembark at—

Jean, with the ferocity of a whirlwind, launched herself at the womens officer, fists in tight balls. You bitch! You fucking old bitch! Before Frances dived in she had landed several flailing punches on the womans head. You vindictive old whore! Just because you couldnt find anyone! she screamed. She was heedless of the men trying to pull her away, to Francess entreaties. I never did nothing! she shouted, tears streaming down her cheeks, as Frances and the chaplain held her back, faces flushed with effort. I never did nothing! Youve got to tell Stan!

The air had been sucked from the room. Even the captain looked shocked. He had stepped back.

Shall I take them back, sir? The rating had entered the room, Frances saw.

Jean had subsided.

The captain nodded. It would be best. Ill have someone talk to you about the . . . arrangements . . . a little later. When things have . . . calmed down.

Sir, said Frances, breathing hard, holding the shaking girl in her arms. With respect, you have done her a great disservice. Her head whirled with the unfairness of it. She was a victim in this.

Youre a nurse, not a lawyer, hissed the womens officer, one hand at her bleeding head. I saw. Or have you forgotten?

It was too late. As Frances led Jean out of the captains office, supported – or perhaps restrained – on the other side by the rating, she could just hear, over the noise of Jeans sobbing, the woman officer I cant say it surprises me, she was saying, her voice querulous, selfjustifying. I was told before we set out. Warned, I should say. Those Aussie girls are all the same.