فصل 14

14

If you receive the personal kit of a relative or friend in the Forces, it does not mean that he is either killed or missing . . . Thousands of men, before going overseas, packed up most of their personal belongings and asked for them to be sent home. The official advice to you is Delivery of parcels is no cause for worry unless information is also sent by letter or telegram to next of kin from official sources.

Daily Mail, Monday, 12 June 1944

Twentythree days

Jean was taken off the ship during a brief, unscheduled stop at Cochin. No one else was allowed to disembark, but several brides watched as she climbed into the little boat, and, refusing to look at them, was motored towards the shore, an officer of the Red Cross beside her, her bag and trunk balanced at the other end. She didnt wave.

Frances, who had held her that first evening through tears and hysteria, then sat with her as her mood gave way to something darker, had tried and failed to think of a way to right the situation. Margaret had gone as far as asking to see the captain. He had been very nice, she said afterwards, but if the husband didnt want her any more, there wasnt a lot he could do. He hadnt actually said, Orders are orders, but that was what he had meant. She had wanted to wring that bloody WSOs neck, she said.

We could write to her husband, said Frances. But there was an awful lot to explain, not all of which they could do with any degree of accuracy. And how much to tell?

As Jean lay sleeping, the two women had composed a letter they felt was both truthful and diplomatic. They would send it at the next postal stop. Both knew, although neither said, that it was unlikely to make any difference. They could just, if they shielded their eyes from the sun, make out the boat as it came to a halt by the jetty. There were two figures waiting under what looked like an umbrella, one of whom took Jeans cases, the other of whom helped her on to dry land. It was impossible, at this distance, to see any more than that.

It wasnt my fault, said Avice, when the silence became oppressive. You dont need to look at me like that.

Margaret wiped her eyes and made her way heavily inside. Its just bloody sad, she said.

Frances said nothing.

She had not been a beautiful girl, or even a particularly pleasant one. But Captain Highfield found that in the days that followed he could not get Jean Castleforths face out of his mind. It had been uncomfortably like dealing with a POW, the putting ashore, the handing over into safe custody. The look of impotent fury, despair, and, finally, sullen resignation on her face.

Several times he had asked himself whether he had done the right thing. The brides had been so adamant, and the nurses tones of quiet outrage haunted him still You have done her a great disservice. But what else could he have done? The WSO had been certain of what shed seen. He had to trust his company – the same company he had warned that he would tolerate no such misbehaviour. And, as the officer had said, if the husband no longer wanted her, what business was it of theirs?

And yet those two faces – the tall thin girl with her vehement accusation, and the raw grief on the face of the little one – made him wonder how much they were asking of these women, to travel so far on a promise based on so little. To put them in the face of such temptation. That was if it had been temptation at all . . .

The removal of the girl – the second to be taken off in such circumstances – had cast a pall over the ship. He could tell the brides felt more insecure than ever. They cast sidelong glances at him as he moved along the decks on his rounds, huddled into doorways as if fearful he might consign them to the same fate. The chaplain had attempted to address the womens fears with a few carefully chosen words during devotions but that had only added to their heightened anxiety. The womens officers, meanwhile, were ostracised. The brides, having heard of Jeans treatment, had chosen to express their contempt in various ways, some more vocal than others, and now several of the womens officers had come to him in tears.

Several weeks ago he would have told them all to pull themselves together. Now he felt bleak sympathy. This was not misbehaviour the brides were not on some great adventure. They were essentially powerless. And such powerlessness could invoke unusual emotions both in those who experienced it and the onlookers.

Besides, he had other concerns. The ship, as if she had heard of her own planned fate, had suffered a series of breakdowns. The rudder had jammed, necessitating an emergency switch to steam steering, for the third time in the past ten days. The water shortage continued, with the engineers unable to work out why the desalination pumps kept breaking down. He was supposed to pick up a further fourteen civilian passengers at Aden, including the governor of Gibraltar and his wife who had been visiting the port, for passage back to their residence, and was not sure how he was going to cater for them all. And he was finding it increasingly hard to disguise his limp. Dobson had asked him pointedly if he was quite all right the previous day and he had been forced to put his full weight on it even though it throbbed so hard he had had to bite the inside of his cheek to contain himself. He had considered going to the infirmary and seeing if there was something he could take he held the keys, after all. But he had no idea what medicine he should use, and the prospect of doing further damage to it made him wince. Three more weeks, he told himself. Three more weeks, if I can hang on that long.

And that, in the end, was why he decided to hold the dance. A good captain did everything in his power to ensure the happiness and wellbeing of his passengers. A bit of music and some carefully monitored mixing would do everyone good. And he, of all people, understood the need for a diversion.

Maude Gonne was not well. Perhaps it was the subdued mood of the little cabin, which seemed empty without Jeans effervescent presence, that had drawn her down. Perhaps it was simply the effect of several weeks of poor food and confinement in the heat. She had little appetite and was listless. She was barely interested in her trips to the bathroom or latenight flits around the deck, no longer sniffing the unfamiliar salt air from under whatever disguise they chose to carry her. She had lost weight and felt damningly light, her frame insubstantial.

Frances sat on her bunk, one hand gently stroking the little dogs head as she wheezed her way into sleep, milky eyes half closed. Occasionally, perhaps remembering Francess presence, she would wag her tail as if politely affirming her gratitude. She was a sweet old dog.

Margaret blamed herself. She should never have brought her, she had told Frances. She should have thought about the heat, the perpetual confinement, and left her in the only home she knew, with her dads dogs and endless green spaces where she was happy. Frances knew that Margarets uncharacteristic neurosis echoed the silent undercurrent of her thoughts If she couldnt even look after a little dog properly, then what hope . . . ?

Lets take her for a walk upstairs, she said.

What? Margaret shifted on her bunk.

Well pop her in your basket and put a scarf over the top. Theres a gun turret a bit further on from the bathroom where no one ever goes. Why dont we sit out there for a bit and Maudie can enjoy some proper daytime fresh air?

She could tell that Margaret was nervous about the idea, but she had few other options.

Look, do you want me to take her? Frances said, seeing how exhausted Margaret was. Discomfort meant she hadnt slept properly for days.

Would you? I could do with a nap.

Ill keep her out as long as I can.

She walked swiftly down to C Deck, conscious that if she looked confident in what she was doing no one was likely to stop her. Several brides were now undertaking duties on the ship, clerical work, and cooking. Some had even joined the recently formed Brides Painting Party, and the sight of a woman on a deck previously considered the domain of service personnel was not as irregular as it might have been two weeks previously.

She opened the little hatch, then ducked, stepped out and propped it open behind her. The day was bright, the heat balmy but not oppressive. A gentle breeze lifted the silk scarf on Francess basket and swiftly a small black nose poked out, twitching.

There you go, old girl, Frances murmured. See if that helps.

Several minutes later, Maude Gonne had eaten a biscuit and a scrap of bacon, the first morsels in which she had shown interest for two days.

She sat there with the dog on her lap for almost an hour, watching the waves rush by beneath her, listening to snatches of conversation and occasional laughter from the flight deck above, punctuated by the odd summons from the Tannoy. Although her clothes, unwashed for several days, felt stale and, occasionally, the movement of her body sent up scents that made her long for a bath, she knew she would miss this ship. Its noises had become familiar enough to be comforting. She wasnt even sure whether, like everyone else, she wanted to disembark at Aden.

She had not seen the marine in two days.

Another marine had been on duty the previous evenings, and even though she had spent an unusual amount of time wandering the length of the ship, he had failed to materialise. She wondered, briefly, if he was ill and felt anxious about the prospect of him being treated by Dr Duxbury. Then she told herself to stop being ridiculous it was probably for the best that she hadnt seen him. She had felt disturbed enough by Jeans removal without an impossible schoolgirl crush.

But almost an hour later, as she prepared to step inside, she found herself leaping back. His face was pale where many of his colleagues now sported Pacific tans, his eyes still shadowed, betraying sleepless nights, but it was him. The easy movement of his shoulders, square in his khaki uniform, suggested a strength she had not seen when he was immobile outside the door. He was holding a kitbag on his shoulder and she was paralysed by the thought that he might be preparing to disembark.

Not sure what she was doing, Frances slid back against the wall, her hand to her chest, listening for his steps as he moved past her down the gangway. He was several paces beyond her when they slowed. Frances, inexplicably holding her breath, realised that he was going to stop. The door opened a little, his head came round, a couple of feet from hers, and he smiled. It was a genuine smile, one which seemed to rub the angles from his face. You all right? he said.

She had no words to explain her hidingplace. She was aware that she had blushed and made as if to say something, then nodded.

He gave her a searching look, then glanced down at the basket. That who I think it is? he murmured. The sound of his voice made her skin prickle.

Shes not too well, she replied. I thought she needed fresh air.

Make sure you stay well away from D Deck. Theres inspections going on and all sorts. He glanced behind him, as if to make sure no one else was around. Im sorry about your friend, he said. It didnt seem right.

It wasnt, she said. None of it was her fault. Shes only a child.

Well, the Navy can be an unforgiving host. He reached out and touched her arm lightly. You okay, though? She blushed again, and he tried to correct himself. I mean the rest of you? Youre all right?

Oh, were fine, she said.

You dont need anything? Extra drinking water? More crackers?

There were three lines at the corners of his eyes. When he spoke, they deepened, testament to years of salt air, perhaps, or of squinting at the sky.

Are you going somewhere? she asked, pointing to his bag. Anything to stop herself staring at him.

Me? No . . . Its just my good uniform.

Oh.

Im off again tonight, he said. He smiled at her, as if this were something good. For the dance?

Im sorry?

You havent heard? Theres a dance on the flight deck tonight. Captains orders.

Oh! she exclaimed, more loudly than shed intended. Oh! Good!

I hope they turn the water on for a bit first. He grinned. You girls will all run a mile faced with the scent of a thousand sweaty matelots.

She glanced down at her creased trousers, but his attention had switched to a distant figure.

Ill see you up there, he said, his marine mask back in place. With a nod that could almost have been a salute, he was gone.

The Royal Marines Band sat on their makeshift pedestal outside the deck canteen, a little way distant of the ships island, and struck up with Ive Got You Under My Skin. The Victorias engines were shut down for repairs and she floated serene and immobile in the placid waters. On the deck, several hundred brides in their finest dresses – at least, the finest to which they had been allowed access – were whirling around, some with the men and others, giggling, with each other. Around the island, tables and chairs had been brought up from the dining area, and were occupied by those unable or unwilling to keep dancing. Above them, in the Indian sky, the stars glittered like ballroom lights, bathing the seas with silver.

It could have been – if one bent ones imagination a little and ignored the presence of the guns, the scarred deck, the rickety tables and chairs – any of the grand ballrooms of Europe. The captain had felt an unlikely joy in the spectacle, feeling it sentimentally, he had to admit no less than the old girl deserved in her final voyage. A bit of pomp and finery. A bit of a do.

The men, in their best drill uniform, were looking more cheerful than they had done for days, while the brides – mutinous after the temporary closure of the hair salon – had also perked up considerably, thanks to the introduction of emergency saltwater showers. It had been good for them all to have an excuse to dress up a bit, he thought. Even the men liked parading in their good tropical kit.

They sat in now wellestablished huddles or chatted in groups, the men temporarily unconcerned by the lack of defining rank structure. What the hell? Highfield had thought, when he was asked by one of the womens service officers if he wanted to enforce proper separation. This voyage was already something extraordinary.

How long does the Victoria take to refuel, Captain Highfield?

Beside him sat one of the passengers, a little Wren to whom Dobson had introduced him half an hour earlier. She was small, dark and intensely serious, and had quizzed him so lengthily about the specifications of his ship that he had been tempted to ask her if she was spying for the Japanese. But he hadnt. Somehow she hadnt looked the type to have a sense of humour.

Do you know? I dont think I could tell you offhand, he lied.

A little longer than your boys do, muttered Dr Duxbury, and laughed.

In thanks for their fortitude over the water situation, Captain Highfield had promised everyone extra sippers of rum. Just to warm up the evening a little, he had announced, to cheers. He suspected, however, that Dr Duxbury had somehow obtained more than his allotted share.

What the hell? he thought again. The man would be gone soon. His leg was painful enough tonight for him to consider taking extra sippers himself. If the water situation had been different he would have placed it in a bath of cold water – which seemed to ease it a little – but instead he was in for another near sleepless night.

Did you serve alongside many of the US carriers? the little Wren asked. We came up alongside the USS Indiana in the Persian Gulf, and I must say those American ships do seem far superior to ours.

Know much about ships, do you? said Dr Duxbury.

I should hope so, she said. Ive been a Wren for four years.

Dr Duxbury didnt appear to have heard. You have a look of Judy Garland about you. Has anyone ever told you that? Did you ever see her in Me and My Girl?

Im afraid not.

Here we go, thought Captain Highfield. He had already endured several dinners with his proxy medic, at least half of which had culminated in the man singing his terrible ditties. He talked of music so much and medicine so little that Highfield wondered if the Navy should have checked his credentials more carefully before taking him on. Despite his misgivings, he had not requested a second doctor, as he might have on previous voyages. He realised, with a twinge of conscience, that Duxburys distraction suited him he did not want an efficient sort asking too many questions about his leg.

He took a last look at the merriment in front of him the band had struck up a reel and the girls were whooping and spinning, faces flushed and feet light. Then he looked at Dobson and the marine captain, who were talking to a flight captain over by the lifeboats. His work was done. They could take over from here. He had never been a great one for parties anyway.

Excuse me, he said, pushing himself upright painfully, Ive got to attend to a little matter, and with that he went back inside.

Jean would have loved this, said Margaret. Seated in a comfortable chair that Dennis Tims had brought up from the officers lounge, a light shawl round her shoulders, she was beaming. A good sleep and Maude Gonnes recovery had significantly lifted her mood.

Poor Jean, said Frances. I wonder what shes doing.

Avice, a short distance away, was dancing with one of the whiteclad officers. Her hair, carefully set in the salon, gleamed honey under the arclights, while her neat waist and elaborate gathered skirt betrayed nothing of her condition.

I dont think your woman there is worrying too much, do you? Margaret nodded.

Not two hours after Jean had gone, Avice had appropriated her bunk for storage of the clothes and shoes she wanted brought up from her trunk.

Frances had been so enraged that she had had to fight the compulsion to dump them all on the floor. Whats the matter? Avice had protested. Its not like she needs it now.

She was still celebrating having won that afternoons cleverestuseofcraftmaterials competition with her decorated evening bag. Not, she told the girls afterwards, that she would have had it within six feet of her on a night out. The important thing had been beating Irene Carter. She was now two points ahead of her for the Queen of the Victoria title.

I dont think she worries about anything— Frances stopped herself.

Lets not think about it tonight, eh? Nothing we can do now.

No, said Frances.

She had never been particularly interested in clothes, had fallen with relief into her uniform for almost as long as she could remember. She had never wanted to draw attention to herself. Now she smoothed her skirt in comparison with the peacock finery of the other women, the dress she had once considered smart now looked dowdy. On a whim, she had released her hair from its tight knot at the back of her head, staring at herself in the little mirror, seeing how, as it hung loose on her shoulders, it softened her face. Now, with all the carefully set styles around her, the product of hours spent with rollers and setting lotion, she felt unsophisticated, unfinished, and wished for the reassurance of her hairpins. She wondered if she could voice her fears to Margaret, seek reassurance. But the sight of her friends perspiring face and swollen frame, squeezed into the same gingham dress she had worn for the last four days, stopped the question on her lips. Can I get you a drink? she said instead.

You beauty! Thought youd never ask, Margaret said companionably. Id fetch them myself, but itd take a crane to hoist me out of this chair.

Ill get you some soda.

Bless you! Do you not want to dance?

Frances stopped. What?

You dont have to stay with me, you know. Im a big girl. Go and enjoy yourself.

Frances wrinkled her nose. Im happier at the edge of things.

Margaret nodded, lifted a hand.

It wasnt strictly true. Tonight, protected by the semidarkness, by the sweetened atmosphere and lack of attention afforded her by the music, Frances had felt a creeping longing to be one of those girls whirling around on the dance floor. No one would judge her for it. No one would pay her any attention. They all seemed to accept it for what it was an innocent diversion, a simple pleasure stolen under the moonlight.

She collected two glasses of soda and returned to Margaret, who was watching the dancers.

I never was one for dancing, said Margaret, yet looking at that lot right now Id give anything to be up there.

Frances nodded towards Margarets belly. Not long, she said. Then you can foxtrot halfway across England.

She had told herself it didnt matter, not seeing him. That, looking like she did, she might even prefer it. He was probably lost in that dark crowd, dancing with some pretty girl in a brightly coloured dress and satin shoes. Anyway, she had become so used to pushing men away that she wouldnt have known how to behave otherwise.

The only dances she had been to in her adult life had been in hospital wards those had been easy. She had either danced with her colleagues, who were generally old friends and kept a respectful distance, or with patients, to whom she felt vaguely maternal, and who generally retained an air of deference for anyone medical. She would often find herself murmuring to them to watch that leg, or checking whether they were still comfortable as they crossed the floor. The matron, Audrey Marshall, had joked that it was as if she was taking them for a medicinal promenade. She wouldnt have known how to behave, faced with these laughing, cocky men, some so handsome in their dress uniforms that her breath caught in her throat. She wouldnt have known how to make smalltalk, or flirt without intent. She would have felt too selfconscious in her dull pale blue dress beside everyone elses glorious gowns.

Hello there, he said, seating himself beside her. I wondered where I might find you.

She could barely speak. His dark eyes looked steadily out at her from a face softened by the night. She could detect the faint scent of carbolic on his skin, the characteristic smell of the fabric of his uniform. His hand lay on the table in front of her and she fought an irrational urge to touch it.

I wondered if youd like to dance, he said.

She stared at that hand, faced with the prospect of it resting on her waist, of his body close to hers, and felt a swell of panic. No, she said abruptly. Actually, I – I was just leaving.

There was a brief silence.

It is late, he conceded. I was hoping to get up here earlier, but we had a bit of an incident downstairs in the kitchens, and a few of us got called to sort it out.

Thank you, anyway, she said. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. There was a lump in her throat. She gathered up her things, and he stood up to let her pass.

Dont go, said Margaret.

Frances spun round.

Go on. For Gods sake, woman, youve kept me company all bloody night and now the least you can do is have a turn round the dance floor. Let me see what Im missing.

Margaret, Im sorry but I—

Sorry but what? Ah, go on, Frances. Theres no point in both of us being wallflowers. Shake a leg, as our dear friend would have said. One for Jean.

She looked back at him, then at the crowded deck, the endless whirl of white and colour, unsure whether she was fearful of entering the throng or of being so close to him.

Get on with it, woman.

He was still beside her. A quick one? he said, holding out his arm. It would be my pleasure.

Not trusting herself to speak, she took it.

She wouldnt think tonight about the impossibility of it all. About the fact that she was feeling something she had long told herself it was unsafe to feel. About the fact that there would inevitably be a painful consequence. She just closed her eyes, lay back on her bunk, and allowed herself to sink into those moments she had stored deep inside the four dances in which he had held her, one hand clasping hers, the other resting on her waist of how, during the last, even as he kept himself, correctly, several inches from her, she could feel his breath against her bare neck.

Of how he had looked at her when he let go. Had there been reluctance in the way his hand had separated slowly from hers? Did it hurt anyone for her to imagine there had been? Was there not a strange emphasis on the way hed lowered his head to hers and said, so quietly, Thank you?

What she felt for him shocked and shamed her. Yet the discovery of her capacity to feel as she did made her want to sing. The chaotic, overpowering emotions she had experienced this evening made her wonder if she was in the grip of some seaborne virus. She had never felt so feverish, so incapable of efficiently gathering her thoughts. She bit down on her hand, trying to stop the bubble of hysteria rising in her chest and threatening to explode into God only knew what. She forced herself to breathe deeply, tried to restore the inner calm that had provided solace in the last six years.

It was just a dance. A dance, she whispered to herself, pulling the sheet over her head. Why cant you be grateful for that?

She heard footsteps, then mens voices. Someone was talking to the marine outside the door, a young substitute with red hair and sleepy eyes. She lay, only half listening, wondering if it was time for the watch to change. Then she sat up.

It was him. She sat very still for a minute longer, checking that she was not mistaken, then slid out of her bunk, her heart hammering in her chest. She thought of Jean and grew cold. Perhaps she had been so blinded by her own attraction to him that she had not seen what was before her.

She placed her ear to the door.

What do you think? he was saying.

Its been a good hour, the other marine replied, but I dont suppose youve got a choice.

I dont like it, he said. I dont like doing it at all.

She stepped back from the door, and as she did, the handle turned and it opened quietly. His face slid round it, an echo of its earlier self, and he had caught her there, shocked and pale in the illuminated sliver of the passage lights.

I heard voices, she said, conscious of her state of undress. She grappled behind her for her wrap, and flung it on, tying it tightly around her.

Im sorry to disturb you, his voice was low and urgent, but theres been an accident downstairs. I was wondering—Look, we need your help.

The dance had ended in several unofficial gatherings in various parts of the ship. One had emigrated to the sweaty confines of the rear portside engine room, where a stoker had been waltzing a bride along one of the walkways that flanked the main engine. The accounts hed had so far were unclear, but they had fallen into the pit that contained the engine. The man was unconscious the bride had a nasty cut on her face.

We cant call the ships doctor for obvious reasons. But we need to get them out of there before the watch changes. He hesitated. We thought . . . I thought you might help.

She wrapped her arms round herself. Im sorry, she whispered. I cant go down there. Youll have to get someone else.

Ill be there. Ill stay with you.

Its not that . . .

You dont need to worry, I promise. They know youre a nurse.

She had looked into his eyes, then, and understood what he thought he was saying.

Theres no one else who can help, he said, and glanced at his watch. Weve only got about twenty minutes. Please, Frances.

He had never used her name before. She hadnt been aware he knew it.

Margarets voice cut quietly through the darkness. Ill come with you. Ill stay with you. If youd feel better with a few of us around you.

She was in an agony of indecision, thrown by his nearness.

Just have a look at them, please. If its really bad well wake the doctor.

Ill get my kit, she said. She reached under her bunk for the tin box. Opposite, Margaret got up heavily and put on a dressinggown that now barely stretched round her belly. She gave Francess arm a discreet squeeze.

Where are you going? said Avice, and pulled the light cord. She sat up, blinking sleepily as they were thrown into the light.

Just for a breath of fresh air, said Margaret.

I wasnt born yesterday.

Were going to help a couple of people who have been hurt downstairs, said Margaret. Come with us, if you want.

Avice looked at them, as if weighing up whether to go.

Its the least you could do, said Margaret.

She slid off her bunk and into her peach silk robe, walked past the marine, who held the door back, a finger to his lips, and followed them as they went silently down the passageway towards the stairs.

Behind them, the redheaded marine shuffled back into place, guarding a cabin that was now empty but for a sleeping dog.

They heard the voices before they saw them from deep in the belly of the ship, down what seemed to Margaret endless flights of stairs and narrow corridors until they reached the rear portside engine room. The heat was intense struggling to keep up with the others, she found herself short of breath and frequently had to wipe her brow with her sleeve. Her mouth tasted of oil. And then they heard a shrill weeping, punctuated by a hushed commotion of voices, male and female, some arguing, some cajoling, all underlaid by a momentous thumping and clanging, the sound of the great heart of the beast. Perhaps in response to the noise, Francess pace quickened and she half ran, with the marine, along the passageway.

Margaret reached the engine room several seconds after everyone else. When she finally opened the hatch, the heat was such that she had to stand still for a moment to acclimatise.

She stepped on to the walkway inside and looked down, following the sound. Some fifteen feet below them, in a huge pit in the floor a little like a sunken boxing ring, a young seaman was half lying on the ground, his back to the wall, supported on one side by a weeping bride and on the other by a friend. A game of cards had apparently been abandoned on a crate in the corner and several upturned beakers lay on the floor. In the centre a huge engine – a labyrinthine organ of pipes and valves – pumped and ground a regular, deafening beat from its huge metal parts, its valves hissing steam periodically as if to some infernal tune. On the far side, tucked under the walkway, another bride held the side of her face and wept. Whats he going to say, though? What will he think of me?

Ahead, Frances was running towards the ladder that led down into the bowels of the engine, her feet silent on the ribbed metal floor. She pushed her way through the drunken crowd, fell to her knees and examined what lay beneath the bloodsoaked dirty cloth wrapped round the mans arm.

Margaret leant on the metal cable that acted as a safety rail to watch as one of the other girls peeled the injured womans hand off her head and dabbed a livid wound with a wet cloth. Several ratings hovered at the edge of the scene, still in their good uniforms, pulling away oversized oxygen canisters and bits of guard rail. Two smoked with the deep breaths of those in shock. Around the walls the engines pipes glowed in the dim light.

He went over and the canisters fell on him, one man was shouting. I couldnt tell you where they hit him. Were lucky the whole lot didnt go up.

How long has he been unconscious? Francess voice was raised to be heard over the engine. Who else is hurt? There was no caution in her demeanour now she was galvanised.

Beside her, the marine, loosening his good bootneck collar, was following her instructions, searching out items in her medical kit. He called instructions to the remaining seamen, two of whom darted back up the ladder, apparently glad to be out of the way.

Avice was standing on the walkway with her back to the wall. The uneasy look on her face told Margaret that she had already decided this was not a place she wanted to be. She thought suddenly of Jean, and wondered, briefly, whether any of them was safe, given the punishment meted out to her. But then she glanced at Frances as she bent over the unconscious man, checking under his eyelids with one hand, rummaging in her medical kit with the other, and knew she couldnt leave.

Hes coming round. Someone hold his head to the side, please. Whats his name? Kenneth? Kenneth, she called to him, can you tell me where it hurts? She listened to him, then lifted his hand and pulled each finger. Open that for me, please. The marine reached down to where she was pointing, and took out what looked like a sewing kit. Margaret turned away. Under her feet the walkway vibrated in time with the engine.

What time did they say the watch was changing? asked Avice, nervously.

Fourteen minutes, said Margaret. She wondered whether she should go down and remind them of the time, but it seemed pointless their movements were filled with urgency.

It was as she turned away that a man drew her attention. He was seated on the floor in the corner, and Margaret realised that in several minutes he had not taken his eyes from Frances. The peculiar nature of his gaze made her wonder if perhaps Francess robe was too revealing. Now she saw that his attention was not quite salacious, but neither was it kindly. He looked, she thought, oddly knowing. She moved closer to Avice, feeling uncomfortable.

I think we should leave, Avice said.

She wont be long, said Margaret. Secretly she agreed it was a terrible place. A bit like one might imagine hell, if one were that way disposed. Yet Frances had never looked more at home.

Sorry to do this to you, Nicol. I couldnt leave him. Not in the state he was in.

JonestheWelsh pulled at his bootneck collar with a finger, then glanced down at the oil on his trousers. Last time I let Duckworth talk me into a bit of afterhours entertainment. Bloody fool! My drills ruined. He lit a cigarette, eyeing the nosmoking signs on the walls. Anyway, matey, I owe you.

I think its someone else you owe, said Nicol. He looked down at his watch. Christ! Weve got eight minutes, Frances, before we have to get them out of here.

Beside him, on the floor, Frances had finished cleaning the cut on the brides face. The girl had stopped weeping and was in a state of whitefaced shock, exacerbated, Nicol suspected, by the amount of alcohol she appeared to have drunk. Francess hair, wet with sweat, hung lank round her face her pale cotton robe, now stuck to her skin, was smudged with oil and grease.

Pass me the morphine, please, she said. He got the little brown bottle out of her box. She took it, and then his hand, which she placed on a pad of gauze on the girls face. Keep hold of that, she told him. Tight as you can. Someone check Kenneth, please. Make sure he doesnt feel sick.

With the fluency born of long practice, she removed the top from the bottle and filled a syringe. Soon feel better, she said to the injured girl, and as Nicol shifted to give her room, she placed the needle next to her skin. Ill have to stitch it, she said, but I promise Ill make them as tiny as I can. Most of them will be covered by your hair anyway.

The girl nodded mutely.

Do you have to do it here? said Nicol. Couldnt we get her upstairs and do it there?

Theres a WSO patrolling the hangar deck, said one of the men.

Just let me get on with my job, said Frances, with the faintest hint of steel. Ill be as quick as I can.

They were carrying Kenneth out, passing him between them up the ladder, shouting to each other to watch his leg, his head.

Your friend here isnt going to say anything, right? Watching them, Jones scratched his head. I mean, can we trust her?

Nicol nodded. It had taken her several attempts to thread the needle he saw that her fingers were trembling.

He was struggling to find ways in which he might thank her, express his admiration. Holding her, upstairs, as they danced, he had seen this awkward girl relaxed and briefly illuminated. Now, in this environment, she was someone he no longer recognised. He had never seen a woman so confident in duty and he knew, with a pride he had not felt before, that he was in the presence of an equal.

Time? said Frances.

Four minutes, he said.

She shook her head as if faced with a private impossibility. And then he couldnt think at all. At the first stitch, one of the girls friends had passed out, and Francess mates were told to take her outside and pinch her awake. The stitching was interrupted again when two of the men started to brawl. He and Jones waded in to separate them. Time inched forward, the hands of his watch moving relentlessly from one digit to the next.

Nicol found himself standing, glancing at the hatch, convinced even over the deafening sound of the engine that he could hear footsteps.

And then she turned to him, face dirty, and flushed from the heat. Were all right, she said, with a brief smile. Were done.

A little over a minute and a half, said Nicol. Come on, weve got to get out of here. Leave it, he called to the ratings, who had been trying to fix the guard rail. Theres no time. Just help me get her up.

Margaret and Avice were standing by the hatch on the walkway above them, and Frances motioned to them as if to say they could leave now. Margaret waved as if to say theyd wait.

He stood and offered his hand so that she could stand. She hesitated, then took it, smoothing her hair from her face. He tried not to let his eyes drop to her robe, which now clearly outlined the elegant contours of her chest. Sweat glistened on her skin, running down into the hollow in dirty rivulets. God help me, thought Nicol. Theres an image Im going to struggle to forget.

Youll need to keep that dry, she murmured to the girl. No washing your hair for a couple of days.

Cant remember the last time I got to wash it anyway, the girl muttered.

Hang on, said JonestheWelsh, from beside him. Dont I know you?

At first she seemed to assume that he was addressing the injured girl. Then she registered that he was talking to her and something hardened in her expression.

You were never at Morotai, said Nicol.

Morotai? Nah. Jones was shaking his head. It wasnt there. But I never forget a face. I know you from somewhere.

Frances, Nicol saw, had lost her high colour. I dont think so, she said quietly. She began to gather up her medical kit.

Yeees . . . yes . . . I know itll come to me. Jones shook his head. I never forget a face.

She stood, one hand lifted to her brow, like someone suffering with a headache. Id better go, she said to Nicol. Theyll be fine. Her eyes met his only briefly.

Ill come up with you, he said.

No, she said sharply. No, Ill be fine. Thank you.

Bits of bandage and kit had skittered under the walkway, but she seemed not to care. She gathered her robe tightly around her, and picked her way past the engine towards the stairs, her kit under her arm.

Oh, no . . .

Nicol tore his gaze from Frances to JonestheWelsh. The man was staring at her and shaking his head, bemused. Then a wicked smile flickered across his face.

What? said Nicol. He was following her towards the ladder and reached for the jacket he had slung over a tool case.

No . . . cant be . . . never . . . Jones glanced behind him and suddenly located the man he apparently wanted to speak to. Hey, Duckworth, are you thinking what Im thinking? Queensland? It isnt, is it? Frances had climbed up the ladder and was now walking towards the other girls, head down.

Saw it straight away, came the broad Cockney accent. The old Rest Easy. You wouldnt credit it, would you?

Whats going on? said Avice, from above. Whats he talking about?

I dont believe it, said JonestheWelsh, and burst out laughing. A nurse! Wait till we tell old Kenny! A nurse!

What the hell are you talking about, Jones?

Joness face, when it met Nicols, held the same amused smile with which he greeted most of lifes great surprises, whether they were extra sippers, victories at sea or successful cheating at cards. Your little nurse there, Nicol, he said, used to be a brass.

What?

Duckworth knows – we came across her at a club in Queensland, must be four, five years ago now.

His laughter, like his voice, carried over the noise of the engine to the ears of the exhausted men and the brides heading wearily out on to the walkway. Some had stopped, in response to Joness exclamation, and were listening.

Dont be ridiculous, man. Nicol looked up at Frances, who was nearly at the hatch. She stared straight ahead, and then, perhaps at the end of some unseen internal struggle, allowed herself to glance down at him. In her eyes he saw resignation. He found he had gone cold.

But shes married.

What? To her bludger? Managers prize girl, she was! And now look! Can you credit it? Shes turned into Florence Nightingale! His burst of incredulous laughter followed Francess swift footsteps all the way out of the hatch and back out along the passageway.