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Laundry Limited facilities only exist for laundry onboard . . . Never hang anything out of a scuttle or port hole or anywhere where it can be seen from outboard.

Instructions for Women Passengers, HMS Victorious

Twentyfive days

Poor old girl. It wasnt a fate you deserved, however you look at it. He laid his hand gently on her, sensing, he fancied, the years of struggle echoing through the cool metal. Too good for them. Far too good.

He straightened up, then glanced behind him, conscious that he was talking aloud to his ship and keen to ensure that Dobson had not witnessed it. Dobson had been thoroughly discomfited by the captains changes in normal routine, and while he had enjoyed unbalancing the younger man, he recognised that there was only so far he could go before he became answerable to someone else.

There had not been a square inch of Indomitable that Highfield hadnt known, no part of her history with which he wasnt familiar. He had seen her decks submerged in high seas in the Adriatic, her huge frame tossed around as if she were a rowingboat in a storm. He had steered her through the Arctic in the winter of 41, when her decks had been six inches thick with snow, and her gun turrets had become so encrusted with ice that twenty ratings with picks and shovels had had to spend hours trying to keep her workable. He had held her steady as she fought off the suicide bombers of the Sakishima Gunto airfields, when the kamikaze aircraft had literally bounced off the flight deck, covering her with tidal waves of water and aviation fuel, and he had swept her through the Atlantic, listening in silence for the ominous echo that told of enemy submarines. He had seen her flight deck a huge crater when, during the early part of the war, no less than three Barracudas had collided in midair and crashed on to it. He was not sure whether he could count the number of men they had lost, the funerals at sea that he had presided over, the bodies committed to the water. And he had seen her at her last. Watched her deck canting as she slid down, taking with her those few men they had told him were already gone, his beloved boy, his body somewhere in the inferno that belched foul smoke over what remained above the surface, his funeral pyre. When her bow had sunk and the waves closed over her, there had been no sign left that she had existed at all.

The Victorias layout was identical to that of her twin there had been something almost eerie about it when he had first stepped aboard. For a while he had been resentful. Now he felt a perverse obligation to her.

They had contacted him that morning. The commanderinchief of the British Pacific Fleet had wired him personally. In joking terms he had told Highfield that he could lay off the painting parties for the remainder of the voyage no need to exhaust the men with too much maintenance. The Victoria would be examined in dry dock at Plymouth before being modified and sold off to some merchant shipping company or broken up. Nothing wrong with the old girl, he had wired back. Suggest most strongly the former course.

He had not told the men he suspected most would not notice what ship they were on, as long as the messes were of a decent size, the money regular and the food edible. With the war over, many would leave the Navy for good. He, and the old ship, would be no more than a dim memory when war stories were exchanged over dinner.

Highfield sighed, and placed his weight tentatively on his bad leg. They would dock at Bombay the following day. He would pay no attention to the CinCs instruction. For several days now he had had teams of dabbers and ratings buffing, painting, polishing. The Navy knew that sailors kept busy were sailors less likely to get into trouble – and with a cargo like this one that struggle was constant. There would not be a brass bolt on the ship that he couldnt see his face in.

The men, he guessed, were speculating that something was wrong with him. It was possible too that the governor of Gibraltar would notice. He was not a stupid man. Im buggered if Im leaving you early, he told the ship silently, tightening his grip on the rail. Ill hang on to you till my damn leg falls off.

What you do, ladies, is mix one level tablespoon of the powdered egg with two tablespoons of water. Allow it to stand for a few minutes until the powder has absorbed all the moisture, then work out any lumps with a wooden spoon. You may have to be a bit vigorous . . . a bit of elbow grease, you know. She took in the blank faces. Thats an English expression. It doesnt mean . . . grease as such.

Margaret sat with her notebook on her lap, her pen in her hand. She had given up writing several recipes ago, distracted by the murmur of conversation around her.

A prostitute? I dont believe it. Surely the Navy wouldnt let one travel with all the men.

Well, they didnt know, did they? They cant have.

There are all sorts of things you can bake with powdered egg. Add a bit of parsley or watercress and you can make quite a good . . . approximation of scrambled egg. So dont feel limited just because you may not have the ingredients youve been used to at home. In fact, girls, you will not have the kind of ingredients youve been used to at home.

But who on earth would have married her? Do you think it was one of her . . . customers?

And what if he doesnt know? Dont you think the Navy should tell him?

It had been the same story all over the ship. For the last few days Frances Mackenzie, possibly the least conspicuous passenger the Victoria had ever transported, had become its most notorious. Those who had had any dealings with her were fascinated that this supposedly demure young woman had such a chequered past. Others found the story of her past career compelling, and felt obliged to embellish it with information that no one was yet in a position to disprove. That was if anyone had had the inclination to do so the next shore leave was still a fair distance away and there was little doubt it was the most fascinating thing that had happened on the voyage so far.

I heard she was on the train. You know, the one they used to send up to the troops. It was full of . . . those sorts.

Do you think they had to check her for diseases? I know they did on the American transports. I mean, we might have been sharing a bathroom with her, for goodness sake.

Margaret had fought the urge to interrupt, to inform these stupid, gossiping women that they didnt know what they were talking about. But it was difficult when she herself had no idea of the truth.

It wasnt as if Frances was saying anything. On the night of the accident, she had retired to her bed and lain there, pretending to be asleep until the others had gone out in the morning, often doing the same when they came back. She had barely spoken, keeping her conversation to an absolute practical minimum. She had given the dog some more water. Had propped the door ajar. If that was all right with them. She had avoided the main canteen. Margaret wasnt sure that she was eating anything at all.

Avice had asked, rather ostentatiously, to be moved to another cabin, and when the only other bunk on offer had proven not to her liking, she had announced loudly that she wanted as little to do with Frances as possible. Margaret had told her not to be so bloody ridiculous, and not to listen to a load of bloody gossip. There would be no truth in it.

But it was difficult to be as vehement as she would have liked when Frances was doing so little to defend herself.

And even Margaret, never usually lost for words, had difficulty in knowing what to say to her. She was, she suspected, a little naïve at the best of times, and was having trouble reconciling the severely dressed, rather prim young woman with one of those. Margarets only knowledge of such women came from the poster with a picture of one in Dennis Timss mess, with the uncompromising message Venereal Disease – the Silent Killer and the Westerns she had seen with her brothers, where the women all sat together in the back of some saloon. Had Frances worn tightbodiced dresses and a dollop of rouge on her face to welcome men in? Had she enticed them upstairs, spread her legs and invited them to do God only knew what to her? These thoughts haunted Margaret, colouring her every exchange with Frances, despite all the kindnesses the girl had shown her. She knew it and it made her ashamed. She suspected that Frances knew it too.

Well, I think its disgusting. Frankly, if my parents knew I was travelling with someone like that they would never have let me on board. The girl in front of her straightened her shoulders with a selfrighteous shudder.

Margaret stared at the powderedegg recipes in front of her, at her distracted scrawl.

It makes you wonder, said the girl next to her.

Margaret stuffed her notebook into her basket, got up and left the room.

Dear Deanna,

I cant tell you what fun Im having on board – quite a surprise, all things considered. I somehow find myself in the running for Queen of the Victoria, a prize they award to the bride who has proven themself a cut above in all matters feminine. It will be lovely to be able to show Ian that I can be such an asset to him and his career. I have so far won points in craft, dressmaking, musical ability I sang Shenandoah – the audience were most appreciative and – youll never guess – Miss Lovely Legs! I wore my green swimsuit with the matching satin heels. I hope you didnt mind too much me taking them. You seemed to wear them so seldom, and it seemed silly you keeping them for best when there is so little social life left in Melbourne now the Allies are leaving.

How are you? Mummys letter said you were no longer in correspondence with that nice young man from Waverley. She was rather vague about what had happened – I find it very hard to think anyone would so cruelly drop a girl like that. Unless he had found someone else, I suppose.

Men can be such an enigma, cant they? I thank goodness every day that Ian is such a devoted soul.

I must go, dearest sister. They are piping the hands to bathe, and I am simply desperate for a swim. I will post this when we next dock, and be sure to tell you of any adventures I have there!

Your loving sister,

Avice

It was the first time the brides had been allowed to bathe, and there were few who, still feeling the effects of the water shortage, were not making the most of it. As Avice finished her letter and headed out on to the foredeck, she could see around her hundreds of women submerged in the clear waters, squealing as they floated around lifeboats, while the marines and officers not manning the boats leant over the ships side, smoking and watching them.

There was no sign of the baby yet. Avice had examined herself with some pride, the stillflat stomach but an attractive hint of fullness to her bosom. She wouldnt be one of these flabby whales, like Margaret, who sat puffing and sweating in corners, ankles and feet as grotesquely swollen as an elephants. She would make sure she stayed trim and attractive until the end. When she was large she would retire into her home, make the nursery pretty and not reveal herself again until the baby came. That was a ladylike way to do it.

Now that she no longer felt nauseous, she was sure that pregnancy would positively agree with her aided by the constant sunshine, her skin glowed, her blonde hair had new highlights. She drew attention wherever she went. She had wondered, now that her condition was public knowledge, whether she should cover up a little, whether it was advisable to be a little more modest. But there were so few days left before they entered European waters that it seemed a shame to waste them. Avice shed her sundress, and straightened up a little, just to make sure that she could be seen to her best advantage before she lay decoratively on the deck to sunbathe. Apart from that unfortunate business with Frances and what a turnup that had been for the books!, and what with her steady notching up of points for Queen of the Victoria, she thought she had probably made the voyage into rather a success.

A short distance away, on the forecastle, Nicol was propped against the wall. Normally he would not have smoked on deck, especially not on duty, but over the past days he had smoked steadily and with a kind of grim determination, as if the repetitive action could simplify his thoughts.

Going in later? One of the seamen, with whom he had often played Uckers, a kind of naval Ludo, appeared at his elbow. The men would be piped to bathe when the last of the women were out.

No. Nicol stubbed out his cigarette.

I am. Cant wait.

Nicol feigned polite interest.

The man jerked a thumb at the women. That lot. Seeing them out having a good time. Reminds me of my girls at home.

Oh.

We got a river runs past the end of our garden. When my girls were small wed take them in on sunny days – teach them to swim. He made a breaststroke motion, lost in his memories. Living near water, see, they got to know how to stay afloat. Only safe, like.

Nicol nodded in a way that might suggest assent.

Times I thought Id not see them again. Many a time, if Im honest. Not that you let yourself think like that too often, eh, boy?

Despite himself Nicol smiled at the older mans description of him.

Still . . . still. Better times ahead. He drew hard on his cigarette, then dropped it into the water. Im surprised old Highfield let em in. Would have thought the sight of all that female fleshd be too much for him.

The afternoon was set fair, as it had been for days. Below them, in the glassy waters, two women writhed and squealed their way on to one of the lifeboats, while others leant over the ships rail shouting encouragement. Another shrieked hysterically as her friend splashed her.

The man gazed at them in benign appreciation. Cold fish, that Highfield. Always thought it. You got to wonder about a man always wants to be by himself.

Nicol said nothing.

Time was, I would have argued the toss with anyone said he was a bad skipper. Got to admit, when we was on the convoys he did us proud. But you can tell hes lost it now. Confidence shot, isnt it, since Indomitable?

The older man was breaking an unspoken convention among the men not to talk about what had happened on that night, let alone who might be to blame. Nicol did not respond, except to shake his head.

Couldnt hand down orders. Not when it counted. Ive seen it before – them that want to do everything their bloody selves. I reckon if hed had his head screwed on proper that night he could have handed down orders and we would have saved a lot of men. He just got stuck in his bloody self. Didnt look at the big picture. Thats what you need in a skipper – an ability to see the bigger picture.

If he had had a shilling for every armchair strategist hed met in his years of service, Nicol observed, hed have been a rich man.

I allus thought it was a bit of a joke on the top brasss part, giving him her sister ship to bring home . . . No . . . I dont think you know a man till you seen him around his nearest and dearest. Ive served under him five year and Ive not heard a single person speak up for him.

They stood in silence for some time. Finally, perhaps recognising that their exchange had been rather onesided, the man asked, Youll be glad to see your family again, eh?

Nicol lit another cigarette.

She was not there. He hadnt thought she would be.

He had lain awake for the rest of that night, Joness words haunting him almost as much as his own sense of betrayal. Slowly, as the night gave way to day, his own disbelief had evaporated, steadily replaced by the putting together of odd clues, inconsistencies in her behaviour. Standing in the bowels of the ship, he had wanted her to deny it indignantly wanted to hear her outrage at the slur. None had been forthcoming. Now he wanted her to explain herself – as if, in some way, she had tricked him.

He hadnt needed to ask any further questions to clarify what he had been told not of her, anyway. When he returned to the mess she had still been the talk of the men. Wideeyed little thing she had been, JonestheWelsh said, leaning out of his hammock for a cigarette. A ton of makeup on her, almost like the others had done it to her for a joke.

Nicol had paused in the hatch, wondering whether he should turn round. He wasnt sure what made him stay.

Jones himself had apparently been presented with her but declined. She stuck out because of her shape Thin as a whippet, he said, with no tits to speak of. And because she was drunk, he said. He curled his lip, as if he had been offered something distasteful.

The manager had sent her upstairs with one of his mates and shed fallen up the steps. They had all laughed there was something comical about the skinny girl with all the makeup, drunk as a skunk, her legs all over the place. Actually, he said, more seriously, I thought she was under age, you know what Im saying? Didnt fancy having my collar felt.

Duckworth, an apparent connoisseur of such things, had agreed.

Bloody hell, though. Youd never know now, would you? Looks like butter wouldnt melt.

No, Duckworth had observed. But for them recognising her, no one would have known.

Nicol had begun to pull down his hammock. He had thought he might try for some sleep before his next watch.

Now now, Nicol, came Joness voice from behind him. Hope youre not thinking about slipping in there for a quickie later. Need to save your money for that missus of yours. He had guffawed. Besides, shes a bit betterlooking now. Bit more polish. Shed probably charge you a fortune.

He had thought he might hit him. Some irrational part of him had wanted to do the same to her. Instead he had pasted a wry smile on his face, feeling even as he did that he was engaged in some sort of betrayal, and disappeared into the wash cubicle.

Night had fallen. Victoria pushed forward in the black waters, oblivious to the time or season, to the moods and vagaries of her inhabitants, her vast engines powering obediently beneath her. Frances lay in her bunk, listening for the now familiar sounds, the last pipes, muttered conversations and faltering footsteps that spoke of the steady settling of the ships passengers to sleep, the sniffs and grunts, the slowing of breath that told the same story of the two other women in her cabin. The sounds of silence, of solitude, the sounds that told her she was free once again to breathe. The sounds she seemed to have spent a good portion of her life waiting for.

And outside, just audible to the trained ear, the sound of two feet shifting on the corridor floor.

He arrived at four a.m. She heard him murmuring something to the other marine as they changed guard, the muffled echo of the other mans steps as he went to some mess, or to sleep. She listened to the man outside as she had for what felt like hundreds of nights before.

Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she rose from her bunk. Unseen by the two sleeping women on each side of her, she tiptoed towards the steel door, her footsteps sure and silent in the dark. Just before she reached it, she stood still, eyes closed as if she were in pain.

Then she stepped forward, and quietly, carefully, laid her face against it. Slowly she rested her entire length, her thighs, her stomach, her chest against it, palms pressed flat on each side of her head, feeling the cool metal through her thin nightgown, its immovable solidity.

If she turned her head, kept her ear pressed against the door, she could almost hear him breathing.

She stood there, in the dark, for some time. A tear rolled down her face and plopped on to her bare foot. It was followed by another.

Outside, apart from the low rumble of the engines, there was silence.