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Australian brides – 655 of them – of British sailors stepped into England last night when the 23,000ton aircraft carrier Victorious anchored at Plymouth. They brought with them these stories

ADVENTURE – Mrs Irene Skinner, aged 23, descendant of the Rev. Samuel Marsden, who settled in Australia in 1794, said We may settle in Newfoundland, in England or in Australia, or in fact anywhere where we will find adventure and contentment.

ROMANCE – Mrs Gwen Clinton, aged 24, whose husband lives in Wembley, spoke of her marriage He was billeted with me in Sydney. I was fascinated by him, and that was the end of it.

PESSIMISM – Mrs Norma Clifford, 23yearold wife of a naval engineer They tell me you cannot get any shoes at all in England. She brought 19 pairs with her.

Daily Mail, 7 August 1946

Plymouth

Im not coming out. I tell you – Ive changed my mind.

Come on, Miriam. Dont be daft.

I tell you, Ive changed my mind. Ive had another look at my photographs and Ive decided I dont like the look of him.

Margaret sat on the edge of her bunk, listening to the urgent exchange coming from the next cabin. The women had been shouting at each other for almost half an hour now the unfortunate Miriam appeared to have bolted herself in, and none of the others who shared the room, all of whom had been queuing for the bathroom at the time, could get dressed.

As some of the WSOs had predicted, it was chaos. Around the unfortunate inhabitants of 3F, brides ran up and down the corridors, shrieking over mislaid belongings or missing friends. There had been an endless stream of piped instructions to the men, all in preparation for disembarkation, while the air was filled with the sound of seamen calling to each other as they performed lastminute tasks. The WSOs were already congregating at the gangplank, ready for their final duties to confirm that each bride had been checked off, was in possession of all her cases, that she would be passed into safe hands.

Brides second sitting, last call for the canteen, last call for the canteen. The Tannoy hissed and clicked off.

Insulated from all the activity, and without Avice and Frances, the dormitory was silent. Margaret glanced down at her outfit she could only squeeze into one of her dresses now, and it was straining at the seams. She rubbed at a little oil mark, knowing it would do no good.

Just pass me my slip, then, Miriam, will you? We cant stand out here all morning.

Im not opening the door. The girls voice was hysterical.

Its a bit late for that. What are you planning to do? Flap your arms and fly home?

Her small suitcase, neatly packed, stood at the end of her bunk. Margaret smoothed the blanket beside it where Maudie had lain and took a deep, wavering breath. This was the first morning she had not been able to eat even a piece of dry toast. She felt sick with nerves.

I dont care! Im not coming out.

Oh, for goodness sake. Look, get that marine there. Hell help. Hey! You!

Margaret sat still, conscious of a shuffling against her door. Puzzled, she opened it and stepped back as the marine fell into the cabin, in a heavy tumble of limbs.

Hello, said Margaret, as he tried to push himself upright.

Excuse me. A woman padded up to Margarets door, her hair in a towelling turban. She addressed Nicol Miriam Arbiters locked herself in our cabin. We cant get at our clothes.

The marine rubbed his head. It was obvious to Margaret that he was barely awake. She sniffed, noting with some surprise the faint whiff of alcohol that emanated from him, then bent down a little, to make sure he was who she thought he was.

Were meant to be ready to go ashore in less than an hour, and we cant even get at our things. Youll have to fetch someone.

Suddenly he seemed to register where he was. I need to speak to Frances. He scrambled to his feet.

Shes not here.

He looked startled. What?

Shes not here.

How have I missed her?

Look, Marine, please can you sort this out? I need to set my hair or itll never be dry in time. The girl in the doorway pointed at her watch.

She came back last night and then she went again.

Where is she? He grasped Margarets wrist. His face was alive with anxiety, as if he had only just worked out how close they all were to dispersing. Youve got to tell me, Maggie.

I dont know. Then she understood something that had been nagging at her for weeks. I guess I thought she might be with you.

Avice stood in the infirmary bathroom, applying a final coat of lipstick. Her eyelashes, under two layers of block mascara, widened her marbleblue eyes. Her skin, which had been ghostly pale, was now apparently glowing with health. It was always important to look ones best, especially at an occasion, and that was the marvellous thing about cosmetics. No one would know what awful things were going on inside one, given some pressed powder, rouge and a good lipstick. No one would know that one still felt a little shaky, even if there were mauve shadows under ones eyes. Underneath the dark red twopiece, firmly enclosed by a quality girdle, there was no clue that ones waist had been even an inch wider than it was now, or if what remained of ones dreams was still bleeding away into unmentionable wads of cotton padding. No one would need to know if secretly one felt like one had been literally turned insideout.

There, she thought, as she stared at her reflection. I look – I look . . .

He would not be there to meet her. She knew this as surely as she believed that now, finally, she knew him. He would wait until he had heard from her, until he knew which way the land lay. If she said yes, he would fall on her with protestations of eternal love. He would probably spend years telling her how much he loved her, how he adored her, how anyone else she could not bring herself to use the words his wife meant nothing to him. If she told him she didnt want him, she suspected he would grieve for a few days, then probably consider himself to have had a lucky escape. She pictured him now, at the kitchen table, his mind already on this ship, badtempered and distant with this uncomprehending Englishwoman. A woman who, if she knew Ian as well as Avice did, would choose not to ask too many questions as to the cause of his foul mood.

The WSO, for whom the word brisk might have been coined, stuck her head round the door. You all right, Mrs Radley? Ive arranged for your small suitcase to be taken up to the boat deck for you so you wont have to carry anything. She smiled brightly. There, now. Dont you look a hundred per cent better than yesterday? Everything all right? She nodded towards Avices stomach and lowered her voice discreetly, even though they were the only people in the room Did you have any more undergarments you wanted me to fetch from the laundry room?

No, thank you, said Avice. After everything else she had been forced to endure, she was not prepared to suffer the indignity of discussing her underwear with a stranger. Ill be ready in two minutes, she said. Thank you.

The WSO withdrew.

Avice placed her lipstick back in its case and dusted a last layer of fine powder over her face. She stood for a moment, turned a few degrees to each side, checking her reflection – a wellpractised movement – and then, just for a second, her face fell and she gazed baldly at herself, seeing beyond the carefully pinked cheeks, the disguised eyes. I look, she thought . . . wiser.

Highfield stood on the roof of the bridge, flanked by Dobson, the first lieutenant and the radio operator, and gave orders down the intercom to the coxswain as the great old warship negotiated her way by degrees into the narrower water, and the English coastline, at first a misty hint, grew into solid reality around them. Below him the sailors, dressed in their numberone uniforms, stood in perfect lines round the outside edge of the flight deck, while officers and senior ranks manned the island area – a Procedure Alpha, or Prod A, as it was known to the men. They stood in near silence, feet apart, hands behind their backs, immaculate dress somehow disguising the tired, shabby vessel they travelled on. Coming alongside was traditionally one of the finest moments of a captains journey it was impossible not to be filled with pride, standing on a great warship with ones men below, the noise of the welcoming crowd already in their ears. Highfield knew that there wasnt a man among them for whom the last few months werent briefly forgotten in the wellordered pleasure of such a ceremony.

Not so Victoria. Engine hiccuping, rudder threatening intermittently to jam, the battered ship laboured in, bullied by the engineers and tugs, oblivious to the beauty of the hills of Devon and Cornwall that swelled on each side of her. When he had visited the starboard engine room earlier that morning, the chief engineer reported that it was probably just as well they were finally home. He wasnt sure he would be able to get her going again. She knows shes done her job, he observed cheerfully, wiping his hands on his overalls. Shes had enough. I got to say, sir, I know how she feels.

Port bridge, alter course to zero six zero.

He turned to the radio operator and heard his command repeated back to him.

The light was peculiarly bright, the kind of light that heralds a fine, clear day. Plymouth Sound was beautiful, an appropriate sendoff for the old ship, and a good welcome, he thought, for the brides. A few white clouds scudded across the blue sky, the sea, flecked with white horses, glinted around the ship, somehow reflecting her in a little of their glory. After Bombay and Suez, after the endless muddied blue of the ocean, everything looked an impossible green.

The docks had begun to fill almost at first light. First a few anxiouslooking men, their collars turned up against the cold, smoking or disappearing briefly to refuel with tea and toast, then larger groups, families, standing in huddles on the dockside, occasionally pointing at the approaching ship. Waving at those brides who were already on the deck. The radio operator had had an exchange with the harbourmaster and members of the British Red Cross. He had reported that some of the husbands had been forced to sleep in doorways there was not a room to be had in the whole of Plymouth.

Hands to harbour stations, hands to harbour stations, hands out of the rig of the day, clear off the upper deck, close all doors and hatches. The Tannoy closed off. It was the last command before they came into harbour.

The captain stood, his hands on the rail in front of him. They were coming home. Whatever that meant.

Nicol had checked the infirmary, the deck canteen and the brides bathroom, prompting a shrieking nearriot in the process. Now he ran swiftly along the hangar deck towards the main brides canteen, oblivious of the curious glances of the last women returning from breakfast. Arm in arm they walked, their hair set, their dresses and jackets pressed into razorsharp creases, their shoulders hunched with excitement. Twice he had passed other marines as they headed for the flight deck seeing him at speed, and knowing his reputation, they had assumed him to be on some urgent official duty. Only afterwards, as they registered the crumpled state of his uniform, his unshaven face, might they have remarked that Nicol was looking a bit rough. Amazing how some men felt able to let themselves go once they knew they were headed home.

He skidded to a halt at the main doorway, and scanned the room. There were only thirty or so brides still seated so close to disembarkation, most were finishing their packing, waiting on the boat deck or in turrets, skirts billowing in the stiff sea breeze. He paused for a moment, waiting for this girl to turn, or that one to look up, making sure neither of them was her. Then he cursed his befuddled head.

Where would he start his search? There were people milling around everywhere. In half an hour, how was he meant to find one person in a ship, a rabbit warren of rooms and compartments, among sixteen hundred others?

Trevor, Mrs Annette. The WSO stood at the top of the gangway and waited for Mrs Trevor to fight her way to the front of the group. There was a brief hush before a suitcase was held aloft by a blonde woman, hair set in huge ringlets, hat askew as a result of her struggle through the others. Thats me! she squealed. Im getting off!

Your belongings have been cleared by Customs. Your trunks will be on the dockside, and you will need proof of identity when you collect them. You may disembark. The WSO moved her clipboard to her left hand. Good luck, she said, and held out a hand.

Mrs Trevor, her eyes already on the bottom of the gangplank, distractedly shook it and then, hoisting her case to her hip made her way down, wobbling in her high heels.

The noise was deafening. On board the womens voices rose in a swell of anticipation, their heads bobbing as they fought to catch a glimpse of a loved one in the crowd. Around the bottom of the gangplank, several marines now stood firm, holding back the crowds pressing forward to meet them.

On the dockside, a brass band played Colonel Bogey, and a loudhailer tried vainly to direct people away from the edge of the quay. Jostling groups cheered and waved, trying to attract attention, shouting messages that were carried away on the breeze, lost in the general cacophony.

Margaret stood in the queue, her heart thumping, hoping it wouldnt be too long before she could sit down. The woman in front of her kept jumping up and down in an attempt to see over the others heads and had twice barged into her. Normally this would have been enough for Margaret to mutter a salty word or two in her ear, but now her mouth was dry, nervousness rooting her to the spot.

It all seemed so abrupt, so rushed. She had had no chance to say goodbye to anyone, not Tims, not the cook at the flightdeck canteen, not her cabinmates, both of whom had vanished into thin air. Was this it? she thought. My last links with home, just vanishing on the breeze?

As the first bride reached the bottom of the gangplank a cheer went up, and the air was lit with a battery of flashbulbs. The band struck up Waltzing Matilda.

Im so nervous I think Im going to wet myself, said the girl next to her.

Please let him be there, please let him be there, another was muttering into a handkerchief.

Wilson, Mrs Carrie. The names reeled off, faster now. Your belongings have been cleared by Customs . . .

What have I done? Margaret thought, staring out at this strange new country. Where was Frances? Avice? For weeks this had been a distant dream, a holy grail to be grasped at in dreams, imagined and reimagined. Now it was here she felt unbalanced, unready. She thought she had never felt more alone in her life.

And suddenly there it was. Spoken twice before she heard it OBrien, Mrs Margaret . . . Mrs OBrien?

Come on, girl, said a neighbour, shoving her to the front. Shake a leg. Its time to get off.

The captain had just begun to show the Lord Mayor round the bridge when an officer appeared at the door. Bride to see you, sir.

The mayor, a puddingshaped man whose chain of office hung from his sloping shoulders like a hammock, had shown an almost irresistible urge to touch everything. Come to say their last goodbyes, eh? he remarked.

Show her in.

Highfield thought he had probably known even before he saw her who it would be. She stood in the doorway, flushing as she saw the company he was in. Im sorry, she said, faltering. I didnt mean to interrupt.

The mayors attention was on the dials in front of him, his fingers creeping towards them.

XO, look after the Mayor for a moment, would you? Ignoring Dobsons glare, he walked over to the doorway. She was dressed in a pale blue shortsleeved blouse and khaki trousers, her hair pinned at the back of her head. She looked exhausted, and unutterably sad.

I just wanted to say goodbye and check that there was nothing else you wanted me to do. I mean, that everything is okay.

All fine, he said, glancing down at his leg. I think we can say youre dismissed now, Sister Mackenzie.

She gazed down at the dockside below them, teeming with people.

Will you be all right? he asked.

Ill be fine, Captain.

I dont doubt it. He realised he wanted to say more to this quiet, enigmatic woman. He wanted to talk to her again, to hear more about her time in service, to have her explain the circumstances of her marriage. He had friends in high places he wanted to ensure that she would find a good job. That her skills would not be wasted. There was no guarantee, after all, that any of these girls would be appreciated.

But in front of his men, he could say nothing. Nothing that would be considered appropriate, anyway.

She stepped forward and they shook hands, the captain acutely conscious of the other mens curious glances. Thank you . . . for everything, he said quietly.

The pleasure was all mine, sir. Just glad to have been able to help.

If there is ever . . . any way, in which I might help you, Id be delighted if you would allow me . . .

She smiled at him, the sadness briefly lifting from her eyes, and then, with a shake of her head, which told him he could not be the answer, she was gone.

Margaret stood in front of her husband, stunned briefly into muteness by the immutable fact of him. The sheer handsomeness of him in his civilian clothes. The redness of his hair. The broad, spatulate tips of his fingers. The way he was staring at her belly. She pushed back a strand of hair and wished suddenly that she had made the effort to set it. She tried to speak, then found she did not know what to say.

Joe looked at her for what seemed an eternity. She was shocked at how unfamiliar he appeared, here, in this strange place. As if this new environment had made him alien. Selfconsciousness made her look down. Panicked and curiously ashamed, she felt paralysed. Then he stepped forward with a huge grin. Bloody hell, woman, you look like a whale. He threw his arms round her, saying her name over and over, hugging her so tightly that the baby kicked in protest, which made him jump back in surprise.

Would you credit that, Mother? A kick like a mule, she said, and she wasnt wrong. How about that? He rested his hand on her belly, then took hers. He gazed into her face. Ah, Jesus, Maggie, its good to see you.

He enclosed her in his arms again, then reluctantly released her, and Margaret found herself clinging to his hand, as if it were a lifeline in this new country. It was then that she saw the woman standing with him, a couple of steps back, a headscarf tied round her head, her handbag clutched under her bosom as if she did not want to interfere. As Margaret attempted selfconsciously to straighten her tootight dress, all fingers and thumbs, the woman stepped forward, a smile breaking over her face. Margaret, dear. Im so glad to meet you. Look at you – you must be exhausted.

There was the briefest pause and then, as Margaret struggled for words, Mrs OBrien stepped forward to fold her into her chest. How brave you are, she said into her hair. All this way . . . away from your family . . . Well, dont you worry. Well look after you now. You hear me? Were all going to get along grand.

She felt those hands patting her back, smelt the faint, maternal smell of lavender, rosewater and baking. Margaret did not know who was more surprised, she or Joe, when she burst into tears.

The marine captain grabbed him as he was trying the door to the infirmary. Nicol pulled away from the tight grip on his shoulder. Where the bloody hell have you been, Marine? His face was furious.

Ive been – Ive been looking for someone, sir. Nicol had exhausted most of the ship the only conceivable place remaining was the flight deck.

Look at the state of you! What the hells happened to you, man? Prod A, thats what it was. All men on the flight deck. Not a bloody great hole where you should have been.

Im sorry, sir—

Sorry? Sorry? What the bloody hell would happen if everyone decided not to turn up, eh? Look at you! You smell like a bloody brewery.

From outside, he heard another dull cheer. Outside. He had to get outside on to the decks. There, he could check with one of the WSOs whether Frances had left the ship. For all he knew she might, at this very moment, be preparing to step off.

Im shocked at you, Nicol. You of all people—

Im sorry, sir, Ive got to go.

The marine captains mouth dropped open. His eyes bulged. Go? Youve got to go?

Urgent business, sir. And then he ducked under the mans arm, the apoplectic voice still ringing in his ears as he took the steps three at a time.

Avice saw them before they saw her. She stood beneath the gun turret, her hat pinned tightly to her head so that it wouldnt blow away, and watched the little group below. Her mother was wearing the hat with the huge turquoise feather in it. It looked curiously ostentatious among all the tweeds, dull browns and greys. Her father, his own hat wedged low on his brow as he preferred it, kept glancing around him. She knew who he was looking for. In the mêlée of naval uniforms, he would be wondering how on earth they would ever find him. She barely noticed her surroundings, the scenery behind the dockyard. What was the point when she knew now that she would not be staying?

Radley. Mrs Avice Radley.

Avice took a deep breath, brushed the front of her jacket and made her way slowly to the bottom of the gangplank, her back as straight as that of a model, her chin held high as she tried to disguise the awkwardness in her walk.

There she is! There she is! She heard her mothers squawk of excitement. Avice, darling! Look! Look! Were here!

In front of her, where the gangplank met the dockside, a bride whom Avice recognised from the dressmaking lectures was ambushed at the bottom of the steps and swept into the arms of a soldier. She dropped her bag and the hat she had been holding in her left hand, and was locked to him for an interminable length of time, her hands clutching his hair, his face pressed to hers, as they occasionally broke off to touch noses and murmur each others name. Unable to get past them, Avice had to stand there, trapped on the gangplank, trying to look away as the couple were passionately reacquainted.

Avice! Her mother was bobbing up and down on the other side of them like a brightly coloured cork. There she is, Wilf! Look at our girl!

Finally, the soldier realised he was holding up the other brides, uttered a halfhearted apology, then swept his girl off to the side. You know how it is, he had grinned.

Oh, yes, Avice replied. I know how it is.

Her mother ran the last few steps to meet her, her face tearful with happiness. Oh, darling, its so good to see you! How about this, eh? Nice surprise?

Her father moved forward and held her. Your mother hasnt stopped fretting since you left. Couldnt bear the thought of you two on bad terms on opposite sides of the world. Hows that for devotion, eh, Princess?

There was such love and pride on both their faces. Avice realised, with horror, that if they carried on her face would crumple.

Deanna stepped forward. She was wearing a new cerise suit. Which one was the prostitute? Mummy nearly came out in hives when she got Mrs Carters letter.

Wheres Ian? Her mother was peering into the faces of the men in naval uniform. Do you think hes brought his family?

Youd better not have lost my shoes, said Deanna, under her breath. I want them out of your case before you disappear.

He wont be here, Avice said.

Hes never been sent off already. I thought the men were going to be allowed to meet you! Her mothers gloved hand pressed to her face. Well, thank goodness we came, Wilf. Dont you think?

Is his family coming to meet you anyway? Weve heard nothing from them. Her father took her arm. Ive brought them a wireless. Top of the range.

Avice stopped, set her face as straight as she could. Hes not coming, Dad. Hes never coming. Theres been . . . theres been a change of plan.

There was a short silence. Her father turned to her. Avice thought she might have heard a snort of delight from her sister. What do you mean? Youre not telling me Ive just spent four hundred dollars on flights when theres no bloody celebration going to take place? Have you any idea how much this trip has cost—

Wilf! Her mother turned back to her daughter. Avice, darling—

Im not going to talk about it here, on a dockside full of people.

Her parents exchanged a glance. Deanna was unable to disguise her pleasure at this unexpected turn of events. It was as if she were impressed by the scale of Avices personal catastrophe.

As the four of them stood on the quay, the crowds milling around them, a distant loudhailer called for someone, please, to come to the harbourmasters office to reclaim a small child. She was wearing a red coat and said her name was Molly. They had no further information.

Avice stared back at the ship. A bride was running recklessly down the gangplank in high heels. When she reached the bottom she launched herself into the arms of an officer, who lifted her off the ground, twirling her round and round in his arms. She could see he was an officer from his uniform. She had always been good on uniforms. Dont say anything else, Avice willed them, biting her lip. Dont say one more word. Or Im going to stand here and howl so loudly that the whole of Plymouth will be brought to a halt.

Her mother adjusted her hat, pulled her fur a little closer round her shoulders, then took Avices arm and tucked it into the crook of her own. Perhaps understanding, perhaps seeing something in her daughters expression, she chose not to look her full in the face. When she spoke, there was a faint but definite break in her voice. Well, dear, when youre ready well have a little chat at the hotel. She began to walk. Its a very nice hotel, you know. Beautifulsized rooms. Weve got our own lounge area attached to the bedrooms and views all the way to Cornwall . . .

Frances walked slowly down the gangplank, her suitcase in her right hand, the other trailing lightly down the handrail. She was, she thought, invisible in this crowd of cheering, embracing people. As she drew closer to the dockside, she saw faces she recognised from the past six weeks, wreathed in smiles, contorted in emotional tears, pressed in passion to their husbands and, just for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like to be one of those girls for whom there was an embrace at the end of the gangplank, for whom there was not one but several pairs of welcoming arms to claim her.

She kept walking. A new start, she told herself. That was what it was all about. I have made a new start.

Frances! She turned to see Margaret, her dress riding up over her plump knees as she waved wildly. Joe stood beside her, an arm round her shoulders. An older woman held her other arm. She had a kind face, not unlike Margarets own, which was now beaming and tearstained.

Frances went towards her. Her steps felt surprisingly unsteady on dry land and she struggled to walk without lurching. The two women dropped their bags and embraced.

You werent going to go without my address, were you?

Frances shook her head, sneaking a glance at the two proud people who had claimed Margaret as their own. On the ship she and Margaret had felt like equals now, alone in a sea of families, she felt diminished.

Margaret took a pen from her husband and accepted a scrap of paper from her motherinlaw. She put pen to paper, paused and laughed. What is it? she said.

He laughed too, then scribbled something on the paper, which Margaret placed in Francess hand. As soon as you get settled, you write me with your address, you hear? My good friend Frances, she explained to the two of them. She helped look after me. Shes a nurse.

Pleased to meet you, Frances, said Joe, thrusting out a huge hand. You come and see us. Whenever.

Frances tried to return some of his warmth in her own grasp. The older woman nodded and smiled, then glanced at her watch. Joseph, train, she mouthed.

Frances knew it was time to leave.

You take care now, Margaret said, squeezing her arm.

Ill look forward to hearing how it all goes, said Frances, nodding at her belly.

Itll be fine, Margaret said, with confidence.

Frances watched the three of them as they made their way to the dockyard gates, still chatting, arms linked, until people closed round her and she couldnt see any more.

She took a deep breath, trying to dislodge the huge lump in her throat. It will be all right, she told herself. A fresh start.

At that point, she glanced back at the ship. There were men moving around, women still waving. She could see nothing, no one. Im not ready, she thought. I dont want to go. She stood, a thin woman jostled by the crowds, tears streaming down her face.

Nicol pushed his way to the front of the queue and several of the waiting women protested loudly. Frances Mackenzie, he shouted at the WSO. Where is she?

The woman bristled. Do you mind? My job is to sign these ladies off the ship.

He grabbed her, his voice hoarse with urgency. Where is she?

They stared at each other. Then her eyes narrowed and she ran her pen down several pages. Mackenzie, you say. Mackie . . . Mackenzie, B. . . . Mackenzie, F. That it?

He grabbed the clipboard.

Shes gone, she said, snatching it back. Shes already disembarked. Now, if youll excuse me.

Nicol ran to the side of the ship and leant over the rail, trying to see her in the crowd, trying to make out the distinctive, strong, slim frame, the pale reddish hair. Below him thousands of people were still on the side, jostling, weaving past each other, disappearing and reappearing.

His heart lodged somewhere high in his throat, and, in despair, he began to shout, Frances, Frances, already grasping the scale of his loss, his defeat.

His voice, roughened with emotion, hovered for a moment over the crowds, caught, and then sailed away on the wind, back out to sea.

Captain Highfield was almost the last man to leave the ship. He had undergone his ceremonial goodbye, flanked by his men, but at the gangplank, he stood, looking out, as if reluctant to disembark. When they realised he was in no hurry to move, a number of senior officers had filed past, wishing him well in his future life. Dobson made his goodbye as brief as possible, and talked ostentatiously of his next posting. Duxbury departed arm in arm with one of the brides. Rennick, who stayed longest, declined to look him in the eye, but enclosed his hand firmly within his own and told him in a tremulous voice to take a little care after yourself.

The captain laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed something into his palm.

And then he was alone, standing at the top of the gangplank.

Those few who were watching from the dockside, the few who were minded to pay him any attention, given the more pressing matters they had to attend to, remarked afterwards that it was strange to see a captain all by himself on such an occasion when there were so many crowds below. And that, strange as it might sound, they had rarely seen a grown man look more lost.