فصل 06

6

Among the ships complement were about thirtyfive to forty Royal Marines, their smartness in appearance and manner was usually in direct contrast to us matelots, and was the subject of some amused wonderment on our part . . . The brass buttons and spit and polished boots shone, they were so fastidious in their appearance.

L. Troman, seaman, HMS Victorious

in Wine, Women and War

Two days in

In an effort to keep occupied those brides whose initial excitement might have given way to homesickness, HMS Victoria offered, on the second full day of the voyage, the following activities – neatly documented in the inaugural issue of the Daily Ship News

1000 hrsProtestant Devotions E Deck

1300 hrsRecorded Music

1430 hrsDeck Games Flight Deck

1600 hrsKnitting Corner 4oz of pink or white wool and two pairs of needles per girl to be provided by the Red Cross

1700 hrsLecture Marriage and Family Life, to be given by the Ships Chaplain

1830 hrsBingo Party Recreation Area, Main Deck

1930 hrsRoman Catholic Mass

Of these, the Deck Games and the Bingo Party looked to be the most popular, and the lecture the least. The chaplain had an unfortunately forbidding manner, and at least one of the brides had remarked that they didnt need a lecture on marriage from a man who looked like he wanted to wash himself whenever a woman happened to brush past him.

Meanwhile, the imaginatively titled newspaper, edited by one of the womens officers with the help of two brides, also noted the birthdays of Mrs Josephine Darnforth, 19, and Mrs Alice Sutton, 22, and appealed to its readers to come forward with little snippets of gossip and good wishes that might make the journey pass in a pleasant and congenial manner.

Gossip, eh? mused Jean, to whom this piece had been read aloud. Betcha by the end of the trip theyll have enough to fill twenty bloody newspapers.

Avice had left the dormitory early for Protestant Devotions. She suspected she might meet more her sort of people at church. She had felt a little perturbed when Margaret announced that she would be attending the Roman Catholic Mass. She had never met a papist before, as her mother called them, but she was careful not to let her pity show.

Jean, who had already announced her aversion to any kind of religion an unfortunate experience with a Christian Brother was making up, ready for Recorded Music. She suspected there might be dancing and pronounced herself as itchy as a barearsed wallaby on a termite hill to escape the cabin and take to the floor.

Margaret was lying on her bed, a hand on the dog, reading one of Avices magazines. Occasionally she would snort derisively. Says here you shouldnt sleep on one side of your face too often in case it gives you wrinkles. How the hell else are you meant to sleep? Then she had recalled the sight of Avice the night before, lying flat on her back above Frances, despite the obvious discomfort of a headful of rollers, and made a mental note not to comment publicly again.

This left Frances free to disappear without comment and, dressed in pale khaki slacks and a shortsleeved shirt – the closest she could come to her old uniform – she had slipped out, nodding a brief greeting to the girls she passed, and made her way down the gangway.

She had had to knock twice before she got a response, and even then she drew back, checking and rechecking the name on the door.

Come in.

She stepped into the infirmary, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bottles and jars, secured on narrow shelves behind glass doors. The man behind the desk had short red hair, slicked close to his head like a protective shell, and was dressed in civilian clothes. His face was freckled, his eyes creased from years of what might have been squinting but, judging from his actions now, was probably smiling.

Come right in. Youre making the place look untidy.

Frances flushed briefly, realised he had been joking, then took a few steps towards him.

What seems to be the problem, then? He was sliding his hand back and forth along the desk as if to some unheard rhythm.

I dont have one. She straightened, stiff in her starched shirt. Are you the surgeon? Mr Farraday?

No. He gazed at her, apparently weighing up whether to enlighten her. Vincent Duxbury. Civilian passenger. Im probably not the man you had in mind. He – er – he failed to make the trip. Captain Highfield asked me to step in. And, frankly, given the standard of entertainment on board, Im happy to oblige. How can I help you?

Im not sure that you can, she said, perplexed. At least, not in that way. I was – I mean, Im a nurse. She held out a hand. Frances Mackenzie. Sister Frances Mackenzie. I heard that some of the brides were to be allowed to help out with secretarial duties and such, and I thought I might offer my services here.

Vincent Duxbury shook her hand, and motioned to her to sit down. A nurse, eh? I thought we might have a few on board. Seen much duty?

Five years in the Pacific, she said. Last posting was the Australian General Hospital 2/7 Morotai. She fought the urge to add sir.

My cousin was out in Japan, back in fortythree. Your husband?

My? Oh. She looked briefly wrongfooted. Alfred Mackenzie. Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

Royal Welsh Fusiliers . . . He said it slowly, as if it had significance.

She folded her hands in front of her.

Dr Duxbury leant back in his chair, fiddling with the top of a brownglass bottle. It looked as if he had been in the room for some time, although he was still in his jacket. Suddenly it dawned on her that the smell of alcohol was not necessarily medicinal.

So . . .

She waited, trying not to look too hard at the label on the bottle.

You want to carry on serving. These six weeks.

If I can be useful, yes. She took a deep breath. Ive had special experience in burns, treatment of dysentery, and revival of impaired digestive systems. That was the POWs, she added. We had significant experience of those.

Uhhuh.

I dont have much specialist feminine or obstetric knowledge, but I thought at least I could help with the men. I asked someone aboard the hospital ship Ariadne, where I last served, and they said that aircraftcarriers sustain a disproportionate number of injuries, especially during flight training.

Well researched, Mrs Mackenzie.

So . . . its not even that Id like to occupy my time usefully, Doctor. I would appreciate the chance to gain a little more experience . . . Im a good learner, she added, when he didnt speak.

There was a brief silence. She looked at him, but was discomfited by the intensity of his gaze.

Do you sing? he said eventually.

Im sorry?

Sing, Mrs Mackenzie. You know, show tunes, hymns, opera. He began to hum something she didnt know.

Im afraid not, she said.

Pity. He wrinkled his nose, then slapped his hand on the desk. I thought we might get some of the girls together and put on a show. What a perfect opportunity, eh?

The brown bottle, she saw, was empty. She still could not make out what was written on the label, but now the scent of what it had contained burst softly on to the air with his every utterance.

She took a deep breath. Im sure that would be a . . . a useful idea, Doctor. But I really wondered whether we could just discuss—

Long ago and far away . . . Do you know Showboat?

No, she said. Im afraid I dont.

Pity. Old Man River . . . He closed his eyes and continued to sing.

She sat, her hands clasped in her lap, unsure whether or not to interrupt. Doctor?

His singing segued into a low melodic humming. His head was thrown back.

Doctor? Do you have any idea of when you might like me to start?

He just keeps rollin . . . He opened an eye. Continued to the end of the line. Mrs Mackenzie?

I can start today, if youd like. If youd find it . . . useful. I have my uniform in my dormitory. I kept it deliberately in my small bag.

He had stopped singing. He smiled broadly. She wondered if he would be like this every day. Shed have to start secretly counting bottles, as she had with Dr Arbuthnot.

You know what Im going to say to you, Frances? May I call you Frances? He was pointing at her now with his bottle. He looked as if he was enjoying his moment of possible munificence. Im going to tell you to go away.

Im sorry?

He laughed. That got you, didnt it? No, Frances Mackenzie. Youve been serving your country and mine for five years. You deserve a little break. Im going to prescribe a sixweek holiday.

But I want to work, she said.

No buts, Mrs Mackenzie. The wars over. In a few short weeks youre going to be engaged in the hardest job of your career. Youll be raising children before you know it and, believe me, those sick soldiers will look like a holiday then. Thats the real work. Take it from someone who knows. Three boys and a girl. Each one a little dynamo. He counted them off on his fingers, then shook his head, as if lost in distant appreciation of his offspring.

Thats the only work I want you interested in from now on. Real womens work. So, much as I enjoy the company of an attractive young woman, right now Im going to insist you enjoy your last days of freedom. Get your hair done. Watch some movies. Make yourself look pretty for that old man of yours.

She was staring at him.

So go. Go on – now.

It took her several seconds to grasp that she had been dismissed. He waved away her offered hand.

And enjoy yourself! Come and sing a few tunes! Make way for tomorrow . . .

She could hear him singing the entire length of the gangway.

That evening the marine arrived at a minute before nine thirty. A slim man with dark, slicked hair, who moved with the economy of someone used to making himself invisible, he positioned himself at the entrance to their dormitory, placed his feet a little more than eighteen inches apart and stood with his back to the door, eyes focused on nothing. He was responsible for watching over the two cabins on each side of theirs, and the five above. Other marines were posted at similar intervals by the others.

Trust us to have one actually outside our door, muttered Margaret.

The brides had been lying on their bunks reading or writing, and Avice had been painting her nails with a polish she had bought at the PX shop in the wardroom lounge. It was not a particularly pretty shade, but she had felt she needed a treat to help her through what was already proving a testing journey.

Hearing his footfall, able to see a sliver of his body through the halfopen door, they glanced at each other. Almost unconsciously, Margaret looked down at her sleeping dog. They waited in case he uttered some greeting or perhaps an instruction, but he just stood there.

At a quarter to ten Jean stepped outside with her cigarettes, and offered him one. When he refused, she lit one for herself and began to ask him questions where was the cinema? Did the men get the same food as the brides? Did he like mashed potato? He answered monosyllabically, smiling only once when she asked him what he did when he needed to visit the dunny. Oh, Jean, muttered Avice, behind the door. Im trained not to, he said drily. So, where do you sleep? she asked coquettishly, leaning against one of the pipes that ran up the wall.

My mess, maam.

And wheres that?

Official secret, he said.

Dont come the raw prawn, said Jean.

The marine looked straight ahead.

Im only curious . . . She stepped closer to him, peering into his face. Oh, come on, Ive had toy soldiers that talked more than you.

Maam.

She apparently assessed her remaining firepower. Conventional weapons were going to be ineffective. Actually, she said, stubbing out her cigarette, I wanted to ask you something . . . but its a bit embarrassing.

The marine looked wary. As well he might, thought Avice.

Jean traced a pattern on the floor with her toe of her shoe. Please dont tell anyone, but I keep getting lost, she said. Id like to walk around but Ive got lost twice already, and its made me a bit of a joke with the other girls. So I dont really like to ask them. I even missed dinner because I couldnt find the canteen.

The marine had relaxed a little. He was intent, listening.

Its because Im sixteen, you see. I didnt do too good at school. Reading and stuff. And I cant . . . she let her voice drop to a whisper . . . I cant understand the map. The one of the ship. You couldnt explain it to me, could you?

The marine hesitated, then nodded. Theres one pinned up on that noticeboard. Want me to talk you through it? His voice was low, resonant, as if he was about to break into song.

Oh, would you? said Jean, a heartbreaking smile on her face.

Golly, Moses, shes brilliant, said Margaret, who was listening from behind the door. When Margaret and Avice looked out the pair were standing in front of the map, fifteen or so feet along the gangway. Margaret, carrying an oversized washbag, gave them a merry wave as she hurried along in her dressinggown. The marine saluted her, then turned back to Jean to explain how she might use the map to get from the hangar deck to, for example, the laundry. Jean was apparently concentrating intently on whatever he had to say.

Its not ideal, said Margaret afterwards, sitting down heavily on her bunk as the dog plodded round the dormitory, sniffing at the floor. Its not like a proper walk for her. I mean, shes used to fields.

Avice stifled the urge to remark that she should have thought of that beforehand. She was now smoothing cold cream into her face in front of her little travelling mirror. The sea air was meant to do terrible things to ones skin, and she was darned if she was going to meet Ian looking like a strip of Bombay duck.

The door opened.

Great, said Margaret, as Jean came in, grinning, and closed it behind her. You were great, Jean.

Jean simpered. Well, girls, youve either got it— She stopped. Blimey, Avice, you look like a haddock with your mouth like that.

Avice closed it.

Im ever so grateful, Jean, Margaret told her. I didnt think he was going to move. I mean, that bit about not being able to read was a masterstroke.

What?

Id never have come up with it. You must really be able to think on your feet.

Jean gave her an odd look. No thinking about it, mate. She directed her next words at the floor. Cant read a word. Cept my name. Never have.

There was an awkward silence. Avice tried to gauge if this was another of Jeans jokes, but she wasnt laughing.

Jean broke the silence. What the bloody hell is that? She stood up, flapping her hands.

There was a seconds grace, then a putrid smell explained her outburst.

Margaret winced. Sorry, ladies. I said she was clean. I never said she wasnt windy.

Jean burst out laughing, and even Frances managed a rueful smile.

Avice raised her eyes to heaven and thought, trying to keep bitterness from her heart, of the Queen Mary.

It was on the second night that homesickness struck. Margaret lay awake in the darkened cabin, listening to the odd creak and sniff as her travelling companions shifted on their bunks, her exhaustion swept away paradoxically by the opportunity to sleep. She had thought she was fine the strangeness of it all and the excitement of leaving the harbour had conspired to stop her thinking too hard about her new environment. Now, picturing the ship in the middle of the ocean, heading out into the inky blackness, she was gripped by an irrational terror, a childlike desire to turn round and run for the familiar safety of the only house in which she had ever spent a night. Her brothers would be going to bed now she could picture them round the kitchen table – they had barely used the parlour since her mother had died – their long legs stretched out as they listened to the wireless, played cards or, in Daniels case, read a comic, perhaps with Colm leaning over his shoulder. Dad would be in his chair, hands tucked behind his head, the frayed patches showing at his elbows, eyes closed as if in preparation for sleep, occasionally nodding. Letty would be sewing, or polishing something, perhaps sitting in the chair her mother had once occupied.

Letty, whom she had treated so shabbily.

She was overwhelmed by the thought of never seeing any of them again, and bit down on her fingers, hoping that physical pain might force away the image.

She took a deep breath, reached out and felt Maude Gonne under the blanket, tucked into the restricted area where her thigh met her belly. She shouldnt have brought the little dog it had been selfish. She hadnt thought of how miserable she would be, stuck inside this noisy, stuffy cabin for twentyfour hours a day. Even Margaret was finding it difficult, and she could go to the other decks at will. Im sorry, she told the dog silently. I promise Ill make it up to you when we get to England. A tear trickled down her cheek.

Outside, the marine shifted position on the metallic floor and murmured a quiet greeting to someone passing. She heard his shirt brush against the door. In the distance, several sets of heavy footfalls tramped down the metal stairs. Above her, Jean murmured to herself, perhaps in sleep, and Avice pulled the blanket further over her rollered hair.

Margaret had never shared a room in her life it had been one of the few advantages of growing up female in the Donleavy household. Now the little dormitory, without the door open, without light or a breath of air, felt stifling. She swung her legs over the side of the bunk and sat there for a minute. I cant do this, she told herself, dragging her oversized nightdress over her knees. Ive got to pull it together. She thought of Joe, his expression warm and faintly mocking. Get a grip, old girl, he said, and she closed her eyes, trying to remind herself of why she was making this journey.

Margaret? Jeans voice cut into the darkness. You going somewhere?

No, said Margaret, sliding her feet back under the covers. No, just . . . She couldnt explain. Just having trouble getting to sleep.

Me too.

Her voice had sounded uncharacteristically small. Margaret felt a swell of pity for her. She was barely more than a child. Want to come down here for a bit? she whispered.

She could just make out Jeans slender limbs climbing rapidly down the ladder, and then the girl slid in at the other end of her bunk. No room at the top end. She giggled and, despite herself, Margaret giggled back. Dont let that baby kick me. And dont let that dog slip its nose up my drawers.

They lay quietly for a few minutes, Margaret unable to work out whether she found Jeans skin against hers comforting or unsettling. Jean fidgeted for a while, legs twitching impatiently, and Margaret felt Maude Gonne lift her head in enquiry.

Whats your husbands name? Jean asked eventually.

Joe.

Mines Stan.

You said.

Stan Castleforth. Hes nineteen on Tuesday. His mum wasnt too happy when he told her hed got wed, but he says shes calmed down a bit now.

Margaret lay back, staring at the blackness above her, thinking of the warm letters she had received from Joes mother and wondering whether courage or foolhardiness had sent a halfchild alone to the other side of the world. Im sure shell be fine once you get to know each other, she said, when continued silence might have suggested the opposite.

From Nottingham, said Jean. Dyou know it?

No.

Nor me. But he said its where Robin Hood came from. So I reckon its probably in a forest.

Jean shifted again, and Margaret could hear her rummaging at the end of the bunk. Mind if I have a smoke? she hissed.

Go ahead.

There was a brief flare, and she glimpsed Jeans illuminated face, rapt in concentration as she lit her cigarette. Then the match was shaken out, and the cabin returned to darkness.

I think about Stan loads, you know, she said. Hes dead handsome. All my mates thought so. I met him outside the cinema and he and his mate offered to pay for me and mine to go in. Ziegfield Follies. In technicolour. She exhaled. He told me he hadnt kissed a girl since Portsmouth and I couldnt really say no in the circumstances. He had a hand up my skirt before This Heart Of Mine.

Margaret heard her humming the tune.

I got married in parachute silk. My aunt Mavis got it for me from a GI she knew who did bent radios. My mums not really up for all that stuff. She paused. In fact, I get on better with my aunt Mavis. Always have done. My mum reckons Im a waste of skin.

Margaret shifted on to her side, thinking of her own mother. Of her constancy, her bossy, exasperated maternal presence, her freckled hands, lifting to pin her hair out of the way several hundred times a day. She found her mouth had dried.

Was it different, when you got . . . you know?

What?

Did you have to do it differently . . . to have a baby, I mean.

Jean!

What? Jeans voice rose in indignation. Someones got to tell me.

Margaret sat up, careful not to bang her head on the bunk above. You must know.

I wouldnt be asking, would I?

You mean no ones ever told you . . . about the birds and the bees?

Jean snorted. I know where hes got to put it, if thats what youre talking about. I quite like that bit. But I dont know how doing that leads to babies.

Margaret was shocked into silence, but a voice came from above If youre going to be so coarse as to discuss these matters in company, it said, you could at least do it quietly. Some of us are trying to sleep.

I bet Avice knows, giggled Jean.

I thought you said youd lost a baby, said Avice, pointedly.

Oh, Jean. Im so sorry. Margarets hand went involuntarily to her mouth.

There was a prolonged silence.

Actually, Jean said, I wasnt exactly carrying as such.

Margaret could hear Avice shifting under her covers.

I was . . . well, a bit late with my youknowwhat. And my friend Polly said that meant you were carrying. So I said I was because I knew it would help me get on board. Even though when I worked out the dates I couldnt really have been, if you know what I mean. And then they had to postpone my medical check twice. When they did it I said Id lost it and I started crying because by then Id almost convinced myself that I was and the nurse felt sorry for me and said no one needed to know one way or the other, and that the most important thing was getting me over to my Stan. Its probably why theyve stuck me in with you, Maggie. She took a deep drag of her cigarette. So, there you are. I didnt mean to lie exactly. She rolled over, picked up a shoe and stubbed out her cigarette on the sole. Her voice took on a hard, defensive edge But if any of you dob me in, Ill just say I lost it on board anyway. So theres no point in telling.

Margaret laid her hands on her stomach. Nobodys going to tell on you, Jean, she said.

There was a deafening silence from Avices bunk.

Outside, an unknown distance away, they could hear a foghorn. It sounded a single low, melancholy note.

Frances? said Jean.

Shes asleep, whispered Margaret.

No, shes not. I saw her eyes when I lit my ciggie. You wont tell on me, Frances, will you?

No, said Frances, from the bunk opposite. I wont.

Jean got out of bed. She patted Margarets leg, then climbed nimbly back up to her bunk, where she could be heard rustling herself into comfort. So, come on, then, she said eventually. Who likes doing it, and what is it that makes you actually get a baby?

On the flight deck, a thousandpound bomb from a Stuka aircraft looks curiously like a beer barrel. It rolls casually from the underbelly of the sinister little plane, with the same gay insouciance as if it were about to be rolled down the steps of a beer cellar. Surrounded by its brothers, flanked by a bunched formation of fighter planes, it seems to pause momentarily in the sky, then float down towards the ship, guided, as if by an invisible force, towards the deck.

This is one of the things Captain Highfield thinks as he stares up at his impending death. This, and the fact that, when the wall of flame rises up from the armoured deck, engulfing the island, the ships command centre, its bluewhite heat clawing upwards, and he is possessed of the immobilising terror, as he had always known he would be, he has forgotten something. Something he had to do. And in his blind paralysis even he is dimly aware of how ridiculous it is to be casting around for some unremembered task while he faces immolation.

Then, in the raging heart of the fire, as the bombs rain around him, bouncing off the decks, as his nostrils sting with the smell of burning fuel and his ears refuse to close to the screams of his men, he looks up to see a plane, where there is no plane. It, too, is engulfed, yellow flames licking at the cockpit, the tilted wings blackened, but not enough to obscure, within, Harts face, which is untouched, his eyes questioning as he faces the captain.

Im sorry, Highfield weeps, unsure if, through the roar of the fire, the younger man can hear him. Im sorry.

When he wakes, his pillow damp and the skies still dark above the quiet ocean, he is still speaking these words into the silence.