فصل 08

8

The brides had lectures and demonstrations during the voyage to help them with the shopping and cooking problems of rationing. Their diet on the later stages of the trip was slightly pruned so that the effect of the change to rationed food would not be too severe.

Daily Mirror, 7 August 1946

Five days

With a change of mood as abrupt and capricious as those of the brides on board, the sea conditions altered dramatically outside the stretch of water known as Sydney Heads. The Great Australian Bight, the men said, with a mixture of glee and foreboding, would sort out the sailors among them.

It was as if, having lulled them into a false sense of security, the fates had now decided to demonstrate their vulnerability, the unpredictability of their future. The cheerful blue sea darkened, muddied and swelled into threatening peaks. The winds, born as whispered breezes, grew to stiff gusts, then amplified to gale force, spitting rain on the men who, smothered with oilcloth, attempted repeatedly to secure the planes more firmly to the decks. Beneath them, the ship bucked and rolled her way through the waves, groaning with the effort.

It was at this point that the passengers, who had spent the previous days meandering round the decks like a restless swarm, retired, at first one by one, then in greater numbers, to their bunks. Those remaining on their feet made their way unsteadily along the passageways, legs braced, leaning wheyfaced against the walls. Lectures were cancelled, as was the planned lifeboat drill when the ships company realised that too few women could stand to make it worthwhile. The womens service officers still able to walk did their best to distribute antinausea pills.

The pounding of the seas, the periodic sounding of the ships horn and the incessant clanging of the chains and aeroplanes above them made sleep impossible. Avice and Jean it would be Jean, wouldnt it? were lying on their bunks locked into their private worlds of nauseous misery. At least, Avices world had been private she thought she knew Jeans every symptom – how her stomach felt like it had curdled, how even a piece of dry bread had led her to disgrace herself outside the flightdeck canteen, how that horrible stoker who kept following them along by the laundry had eaten a cheese and Vegemite sandwich right in front of her, just to make her go even more green. It had all been hanging out of his mouth and—

Yes, yes, Jean. I get the picture, Avice had said, and blocked her ears.

You not coming for some tea, then? said Margaret, standing in the doorway. Its potted steak. The dog was asleep on her bed, apparently unaffected by the rough weather.

Jean was turned to the wall. Her reply, perhaps fortuitously, was unintelligible.

Come on, then, Frances, said Margaret. I guess its just you and me.

Margaret Donleavy had met Joseph OBrien eighteen months previously when her brother Colm had brought him home from the pub, along with six or seven other mates who became regular fixtures in the Donleavy household in the months leading up to the end of the war. It was her brothers way of keeping the house busy after their mother had gone, she said. They couldnt cope with the emptiness at first, the deafening silence caused by the absence of one quiet person. Neither her father nor her brothers had wanted to leave her and Daniel alone while they drowned their sorrows in the pub they were mindful sorts, even if they didnt always come across that way so for several months they had brought the pub to the farm, sometimes fourteen or fifteen men hanging off the back of the pickup truck, frequently Americans bearing spirits and beer, or Irishmen singing songs that made Murrays eyes brim with tears, and the house was filled nightly with the sound of men singing, drinking, and occasionally Daniel weeping as he tried to make sense of it all.

Joe was the only one who didnt ask me out or make a nuisance of himself, she told Frances, tucking into mashed potato as they sat in the nearempty canteen. The others either treated me like some kind of barmaid, or tried to give me a squeeze when my brothers werent looking. I had to whack one with a shovel when he came on a bit fresh in the dairy. She grabbed her metal tray as it slid across the table. He didnt come back. A week later Colm had caught another peeping through the door when she was in the bathroom, and he, Niall and Liam had thrashed him to within an inch of his life. After that they had stopped bringing men home.

Except Joe, who had come every day, had teased Daniel into good humour, had offered her father advice gleaned from his fathers own smallholding in Devon, and had cast surreptitious glances at her with offerings of toosmall nylons and cigarettes.

I had to ask him in the end, she said, why he hadnt made a move on me. He said he thought if he hung on long enough Id decide he was part of the furniture.

They had walked out for the first time three months to the day before the US Airforce dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima, and had wed several weeks afterwards, Margaret in her mothers wedding dress, on the last occasion Joe could get leave. She had known theyd be all right together. Joe, she said, was like her brothers. He didnt take himself or her too seriously.

Was he pleased about the baby?

When I told him I was expecting, he asked me whether it was due at lambing season. She snorted.

Not the romantic kind. Frances smiled.

Joe wouldnt know romance if it smacked him in the face, Margaret said. I dont mind, though. Im not really one for all that sappy stuff. Live with four farming men long enough, its hard to associate romance with the same sex that have spent years flicking nosepickings at you under the kitchen table. She grinned, took another mouthful. I wasnt even going to get married. To me marriage was just more cooking and wet socks. She glanced down at herself, and the grin disappeared. I still ask myself every now and then how Ive managed to end up like this.

Im sorry about your mum, said Frances. She had had a second helping, Margaret noted – the babys position meant she couldnt manage very much without indigestion – yet she was as thin as a rake. Pudding had been a bathing beauty, blancmange, so named, the chef had said, smirking, because it shivered and had lovely curves.

How did she die? Sorry, said Frances, hurriedly, as Margarets pale skin coloured. I dont mean to be . . . indelicate. Its the nursing.

No . . . no . . . said Margaret.

They clutched the table, which was clamped to the floor, arms shooting out to stop salt, pepper or beakers sliding off.

It came out of nowhere, she said eventually, as the wave subsided. One minute she was there, the next minute she was . . . gone.

The canteen was almost silent, apart from the low muttering of those women brave or hardy enough to contemplate food, and the occasional crash as a piece of crockery or a tray fell victim to another swell. The queues of the early days had evaporated, and the few girls with an appetite dawdled in front of the serving dishes, taking their time to choose.

Id say that was rather a good way to go, said Frances. Her eyes, when she looked at Margaret, were clear and steady, a vivid blue. She wouldnt have known a thing. She paused, then added, Really. There are far worse things that could have happened to her.

Margaret might have dwelt on this peculiar statement longer had it not been for the giggling in the corner. Distantly audible as background noise for some minutes, it had now built up into a peak, rising and falling in volume as if in conjunction with the waves outside.

The two women turned in their chairs to see that some women in the corner were no longer alone they had been joined by several men in engineers overalls. Margaret recognised one – she had exchanged a greeting with him as he had scrubbed the decks the previous day. The men had closed in around the women, who appeared to be enjoying a little male attention.

Jean should be here, said Margaret, absently, and turned back to her food.

Do you think we should take them something? Some mashed potato?

Be cold by the time we get it there, said Margaret. Besides, I dont fancy Jean bringing it up over my bunk. It smells bad enough in there as it is.

Frances stared out of the window at the water heaving and churning around them, occasionally meeting the saltstained windows with an emphatic slap.

She was reserved, thought Margaret, the kind who always seemed to have a second conversation taking place in her head even as she spoke. I hope Maude Gonnes all right, she said aloud.

Frances turned, as if brought back reluctantly from distant thoughts.

Im torn between wanting to make sure shes okay, and feeling like I cant stand one more minute in that bloody cabin. Its driving me nuts. Especially with those two moaning.

Frances nodded almost imperceptibly. It was the furthest she would come, Margaret suspected, to outright agreement. But she leant forward, so that her voice could just be heard over the noise in the canteen. We could take a walk round the decks later, if you want. Give her a bit of air. Maybe you could put her in that wicker basket and we could hide her with a cardigan.

Hello, ladies.

It was the engineer. Margaret jumped, then glanced behind him at the skittish girls he had just left, some of whom were peering over their shoulders at him. Gday, she said neutrally.

Ive just been speaking to my friends over there, and I thought Id let you ladies know that theres a little welcome aboard party in the stokers mess tonight. He had an accent, and an ease born of longrewarded confidence.

Nice thought, said Margaret, sipping her tea. But weve got a bloke posted outside our door.

Not tonight you havent, ladies, he said. Big shortage of morality monitors because of the weather. Well have a night or two of freedom. He winked at Frances. He had probably been born winking. Itll just be a bit of a laugh. Weve got some grog, well play cards and maybe introduce you to a few English customs.

Margaret raised her eyes to the ceiling. Not for us, thanks.

Cards, missus, cards. His expression was of shock and offence. I dont know what you had in mind. Blimey, you a married woman and all . . .

Despite herself Margaret laughed. I dont mind a game of cards, she said. What do you play?

Gin rummy. Newmarket. Perhaps the odd game of poker.

Only card game there is, she said, but I only play for stakes.

My kind of girl, he said.

Ill probably thrash you, she said. Ive learnt from the best.

Ill take my chances, he said. Im not fussy who I take money off.

Ah. But will there be room for me? she said, pushing herself back in her chair, so that the full expanse of her belly was revealed. She was waiting to see his reaction.

His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second. Well make room for you, he said. Any decent poker players welcome in the stokers mess.

It was as if they had recognised something in each other.

Dennis Tims. He thrust out a hand.

She took it. Margaret – Maggie – OBrien.

He nodded at Frances, who had failed to proffer her own hand. Were four decks below, almost directly under you. Make your way down the stairs by the officers bathrooms, then follow the sound of a good time. He saluted, made as if to walk away, then added, in a stage whisper, If you get wedged in the stairs, Mags, give us a shout and Ill get a few of the lads to come and give you a shove.

The prospect of a few hours in male company made Margaret feel distinctly chipper. It was not the flirtation she craved – unlike many of the other women – just the uncomplicated maleness of home. She let out a huge sigh Denniss arrival had shown her what a strain she had found her new allfemale existence. He seemed all right, she said cheerfully, heaving herself out from behind the table.

Yes, said Frances. Already she was taking her tray towards the washingup trolley.

You coming with me? Frances?

Margaret had to jog to keep up as the tall, slim girl strode down the passageway, barely shifting her weight despite the violent rocking of the floor. Frances had kept her face turned away from Dennis for almost the entire time he was talking, she thought. It was several minutes more before she realised that during the entire two hours they had spent together Frances had told her not a thing about herself.

Dear George,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your leg is much recovered. I was not sure that you received my last letter as I have not had a reply for so long. I have taken the liberty of numbering this one so that you might tell which order mine were sent in. We are all well here in Tiverton. The garden is looking simply lovely, and my new borders are filling out nicely. Patrick is working hard, as always, and has taken on a new chap to help him with some of the bigger accounts. That will bring his total staffing to five, which is quite a tally for these thin years.

I am rather anxious to hear from you, George, as I have asked you several times now whether you want to take up the rental of the cottage on the edge of the Hamworth estate. I have spoken to Lord Hamworth personally we have met occasionally at his wifes social gatherings and he has said he is happy to consider you, with your glowing service record, but he does need to know soon, dear, as other people have indicated an interest. There is a retired teacher next door, Mrs Barnes, a nice sort, from Cheltenham. And we have already lined up a lady to do for you, so you need not worry about your hot dinners!

And as I have mentioned before, Patrick is quite happy to introduce you to the better side of Tiverton society – he is a not inconsiderable force in the local Rotary Club and could make sure you have an in with the right sort around here. Now that you will have some more time at your disposal, perhaps you might like to join the local car club? Or even do a bit of yachting? Im sure you will want to carry on messing about in boats, even in your twilight years.

Another retired serviceman and his wife have just moved in locally, although I think he might be RAF, so you would have someone to exchange your war stories with. He is a quiet sort – said hardly a word to me in the lane! – and seems to have something wrong with his eye. I assume it is a war injury, but Marjorie Latham swears he is winking at her.

I must go now, George. But I thought I should let you know that our sister is a little better. She says to tell you she is grateful for all you did, and hopes to be able to write herself soon. She has borne her loss so bravely.

I pray, as always, that your voyage is a safe one.

Your loving sister

Iris

Captain Highfield sat in his rooms, one steadying hand on his leadcrystal wineglass as he read the letter he had put off opening since Sydney, a fork raised absently to his mouth. It had remained there, in midair, for several paragraphs now, and when he reached the end of the letter he put it down, then pushed away the congealing gammon steak and boiled potatoes.

He had been rather glad of the change in the weather the women were easier to manage in the confines of their berths and cabins and, apart from a couple of cases of severe vomiting and the girl who had bruised herself rolling out of an upper bunk, the sick bay had not been unduly troubled. That said, the doctor was much on his mind at the moment.

At first he had wanted to ascribe it to the damp, the rheumatic twinge caused by the sudden drop in pressure. But the ache in his leg had become steadily more insistent, had mutated in form so that occasionally it sharpened, became a signal of malevolent intent. He knew he should go and get it seen to the doctor in Sydney had impressed upon him the necessity of it. But he knew that if they found what he suspected they would have a reason to deprive him of this last voyage. Theyd have him flown home. And even a ship full of women was preferable to no ship at all.

There was a knock on his door. Reflexively, Captain Highfield pushed his leg further under the table. Enter.

It was Dobson, bearing a thick sheaf of papers. Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Ive brought you the revised sick list. I thought youd want to know that were down five of the eight WSOs.

All sick?

Four sick, sir. One confined to bed. She fell down the stairs by the transmitter room and sprained her ankle.

Dobson was staring at the untouched food. No doubt that would be reported to his mess later, and the possible reasons for it discussed, Highfield thought. What on earth was she doing outside the transmitter room?

Lost, sir. Dobson shifted his balance expertly as the floor rose beneath him and spray obliterated the view from the window. One of the engineers found two girls in the numbertwo flour store this morning. Somehow managed to lock themselves in. Seems an awful lot of them cant read a map.

The wine had soured in his mouth. Highfield exhaled silently. So what will we do about going rounds tonight?

I thought we could get a few of the marines to do it, sir. Clive and Nicol are pretty responsible fellows. To be honest, I cant see therell be too much trouble with the ladies while were coming through the Bight. Id say at least half are too busy moaning on their bunks to get up to any mischief. The canteens are almost empty.

Dobson was right. Highfield hoped absently that the foul weather would last the entire six weeks. Fine. Get the men to do it. Hows the water level?

Not too bad, sir. Were just about keeping on top of things, although I have to say the systems on this old girl are pretty tired. Some of the machinery looks like its held together with baling twine and good luck. Still, its helped that so many of the women are in bed. He grinned. Less hairwashing, that sort of thing.

Yes, well, Ive been thinking about that. Make sure we introduce another lecture on the dhobi. Make it compulsory. And for those who fail to implement it, the threat that they will be allowed no water for three days before they meet their husbands should do the trick.

Dobson left, something a little irritating in his swagger. He fancied himself for captain, Rennick, Highfields steward, had told him, more than once. He had been glad to see other men who had served beneath him promoted, but there was something about Dobsons manner that simply stuck in his craw. Something in the mans eyes told him that, whether it was due to Hart or his own imminent retirement, he was written off despite his history, his position, he was no longer a man to be reckoned with.

Mans an ass, Rennick said, arriving to take the captains plate. He had been with Highfield almost ten years and his opinions were expressed with the confidence of their long acquaintance.

Hes an ass, but hes the only executive officer Ive got.

The men have no respect for him. Hell do you no good on this voyage.

You know what, Rennick? Right now, ass or not, Dobson is the least of my worries.

The steward shrugged, his lined Scottish face fixing the captain with an expression that suggested they both knew more than they chose to say. As he left the room, Highfields eyes fell to the letter in front of him. Then he took his wineglass in his other hand and swept the piece of paper off the mahogany table into the bin below.

Dennis had been wrong about the marine. When Margaret and Frances arrived back at their cabin, he was standing outside, his hand raised as if to knock. Hey! yelped Margaret, trying, against her own lumbering weight, and the swaying floor, to run down the passageway. Hey!

He lowered his hand long enough for Margaret to slide between him and the door.

Can I help? she said, panting, one hand under her belly.

Ive brought you some crackers. Captains orders, maam. Were doing it for everyone whos sick.

Theyre asleep, said Margaret. Best not to disturb them, wouldnt you say, Frances?

Frances glanced at the man, and then away. Yes.

Frances heres a nurse, said Margaret. She knows whats best for sickness.

There was a short silence.

Crackers tend to help. The marine was holding the box stiffly in both hands. Shall I leave them with you, then?

Yeah. Thanks. Margaret took the box, wincing the baby hadnt enjoyed being rattled.

The man was staring at Frances. When he realised Margaret was watching him, he looked away quickly. I wont be here tonight, he said. Theres a few gone sick because of the weather so Ill be helping with the rounds. Ive got permission to look in on you later if youd prefer. He had a clipped way of talking, as if uncomfortable with casual conversation.

No, said Margaret. Well be fine. She smiled broadly. Thanks for offering, though. And you dont have to call us maam. Seems a little . . . formal.

Orders, maam.

Oh. Orders.

Right. He lifted a hand in a halfsalute.

Bye, then. And thanks for the crackers. Margaret fluttered her fingers. She was praying that Maude Gonne, alerted by her voice, wouldnt bark.

When they opened the door Jean woke, raising a pale face from under her blanket. She refused the crackers and sat up slowly, revealing the upper half of a flannelette nightgown garlanded with little pink rosebuds. She looked, Margaret thought, shockingly young.

Do you think we should take anything? Maude Gonne had leapt on to her lap and was trying to lick her face.

Take anything where?

The stokers mess. A drink or something.

Im not going, Frances said.

You must! I cant go by myself.

Jean squinted. Her eyes were shadowed. Go where? she murmured.

Bit of a do downstairs, said Margaret. Im promised a game of poker. Im going to head down there once Ive given Maudie a quick run. Come on, Frances, you cant sit here all night. Youll be miserable.

Its really not my thing, said Frances. But she sounded halfhearted.

Then Ill teach you.

Youre not leaving me here, said Jean, and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk.

Are you sure? said Margaret. Its pretty rough outside.

Better than puking my guts up in the company of Miss Prim, she said, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figure of Avice in the bunk opposite. A long silk robe in shell pink hung from it. Ill come with you. Im not missing out if theres a party. Itll be the closest thing Ive had to a laugh since we set off.

If Margaret had thought the brides cabins cramped, little had prepared her for the sheer numbers of men who could be crowded into a single mess area, not much bigger than a workingmans parlour. The first indicator was the odour the musk that had characterised her brothers rooms at home had been condensed, amplified, until it met them in an unsavoury blast even outside the door. It was the smell of male bodies in permanent tooclose contact, washed and unwashed, of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes and unlaundered linen and things that neither Frances nor Margaret wanted to think about. It was little surprise four floors down, bang on the waterline, it was unlikely the mess had ever enjoyed more than the faintest whisper of fresh air. Directly above the starboard engine room, it was also in a state of almost constant vibration, the noise juddering away below their feet with an awesome, leviathan constancy.

I think we should go back, said Frances. She had dragged her feet all the way there, had anticipated trouble at the end of every passageway. Margaret had ended up clutching her sleeve, determined that the girl was going to have a good time, just once, if it killed her.

Past the officers bathrooms, right? Do you think those are the bathrooms?

Im not looking to see, said Jean. In the minutes between sneaking out of their dormitory and coming down the stairs she had recovered her colour. Behind her, Frances stumbled, and tried to catch her balance as the ship pitched again.

Here it is, said Margaret. Hello? she called, and knocked tentatively, unsure if she would be heard above the din. Is Dennis there?

There was the briefest silence, then an outburst of catcalling and whistling. A cry of Chaffer up, lads, weve got visitors. Then, after several minutes, in which Margaret and Frances wondered whether to leave, and Jean attempted unsuccessfully to peep through the inchwide illuminated gap, the door swung open. A sweetsmelling Dennis, wearing a pressed shirt and clutching a bottle of amber liquid, waved his arm in the manner of someone proposing a grand entry.

Ladies, he said, stooping to address them, welcome to the real engine of the Victoria.

Thirtytwo men were billeted in the stokers mess, and even with only half of that number present, the women found themselves in a proximity to the opposite sex that in normal circumstances would have left them awaiting imminent betrothal. Frances spent the first half an hour pressed up against the only spare six inches of wall, apparently too terrified, faced with the presence of several semidressed males, to sit down. Jean was giggling and blushing, saying, Saucy! in a scolding voice whenever she couldnt think of anything sensible to say, which was often. Margaret was perhaps the least perturbed her condition and her ease in the company of large numbers of men enabled them to treat her like an honorary sister. Within an hour, she had not only won several hands of cards, but had answered several queries about the best things to write in letters to sweethearts, how to handle interfering mothersinlaw and, on one occasion, which tie to wear for a civilian event. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, alcohol fumes and the occasional curse – followed by an apology, as a concession to the presence of ladies. In the far corner, a rakethin man with slicked red hair played a trumpet quietly. He was ignored, which made Margaret think this was probably a nightly occurrence.

You ladies want a drink? said Dennis, leaning over them with a couple of tumblers. They had quickly established that he did not operate by the normal rules of the ship. Alcohol, smokes, a sub till payday – all of these flowed either to or from him like water. Frances, who had been persuaded to sit down beside Margaret, shook her head. She was apparently immune to the mens admiring looks, and had spent so much time staring at her shoes that Margaret felt guilty for having insisted she come. Jean, meanwhile, had drunk two tumblers already and was getting sillier by the second.

Steady now, Jean, Margaret whispered. Remember how sick you were earlier.

Davy here says it will settle my stomach, said Jean, prodding the man beside her.

Sittle yer stummick? One of the ratings, Jackson, had found their accents fascinating, and had made a point of parroting whatever they said.

You dont want to believe anything this lot tell you, said Margaret, raising her eyebrows. Settle your stomach, indeed.

That what your Joe told you, was it? said Dennis, pointing at hers, to the sound of ribald laughter.

There were bars on the walls to support the hammocks, and rows of lockers, their owners identified by postcards or handdrawn lettering. On what little wall space remained, pictures of scantily clad starlets jostled for elbow room with grainy, less glamorous shots of wives and girlfriends, beaming children, a nicotinestained reminder of other, wider worlds far from here. Around them, those men not playing cards at the wooden tables lay in their hammocks, writing letters, sleeping, smoking, reading or just watching – simply enjoying the presence of women. Most had covered themselves, out of deference, and many had proffered boiled sweets, cigarettes, or even photographs of their sweethearts for admiration. Despite the close confines, there was no undercurrent of threat as there had been in the days when Dad brought all those blokes back from the pub. The men were hospitable, friendly and only mildly flirtatious. Margaret thought she understood having spent months away from those they loved, just having someone there as a reminder of world away from war and men and fighting was enough. She had felt it herself when she had seen men in the same uniform that Joe wore.

Frances? You sure you wont play a hand? Margaret had won again. Dennis had whistled and thrown down his cards, threatening dire revenge on the next occasion they met. There seemed no doubt in his mind that there would be another.

No. Thank you.

Youd be great at it. She would. Her face was almost entirely impassive her neat, slightly sharpened features revealed none of the discomfort that Margaret knew she felt. Several times now she had mentioned that Frances was a nurse, and several times Frances had rebuffed any attempt to get her to talk about her time in service. There was just enough grace in her manner to prevent the suggestion of rudeness. But only just.

Your mate all right? Dennis murmured to her.

I think shes a little shy. Margaret had no other explanation. She had kept her head down, embarrassed to be claiming familiarity with a woman she had only recently met.

A liddle shoi, murmured the rating behind her.

Shut up, Jackson. So, whos your man with, then?

Navy, said Margaret. Joseph OBrien. Hes an engineer on the Alexandra.

An engineer, eh? Hey, lads, Mags heres one of us. An engineers wife. I knew you had taste, Mags, as soon as I laid eyes on you.

And I bet you lay eyes on plenty of women. Margaret raised her eyebrows.

Very few with taste, said his mate.

They played four or five more hands, the game and the surroundings swiftly displacing the womens sense of being strangers. Margaret knew she was a safe prospect to someone like Dennis he was the kind of man who enjoyed female company if the possibility of sexual conquest was removed. She had feared her pregnancy might make things difficult on the voyage now she saw it might make things easier.

Even better, paradoxically, was that these men didnt define her by her belly. Almost every woman she had met so far on this ship had asked her how far gone she was, whether it was a good baby what, she thought, was a bad one?, whether she hoped for a boy or a girl. It was as if she had ceased to be Margaret at all but had become a walking incubator. Some wanted to touch it, and whispered unwanted confidences about how they longed for their own. Others, like Avice, eyed it with vague distaste, or failed to mention it at all, as if they were afraid it might be contagious in some way. Margaret rarely broached the subject haunted by images of her fathers cows giving birth, she had still not reconciled herself to her biological fate.

They played two, three, several more hands. The room grew smokier. The man in the corner played two songs she didnt recognise, then The Green Green Grass of Home, unusually fast, on his trumpet. The men had stopped the game to sing. Jean broke in with an unrepeatable ditty, and forgot the last few lines. She collapsed into squawks of laughter.

It grew late, or at least it felt late without natural light or a clock it was impossible to tell whether time had stalled or sped on into the early hours. It became a matter of good or bad hands, of Jeans giggling, the trumpet in the corner, and sounds that, with a little imagination, bore the faintest resemblance to home.

Margaret put down her hand, gave Dennis a second to register. I think you owe me, Mr Tims.

Im all out, he said, in goodnatured exasperation. Settle for cigarette cards? Something to give the old man?

Keep them, she said. Im feeling too sorry for you to take anything else off you.

Wed better get back to the dorm. Its getting late. Frances, the only one of them who was still stiff and formal, looked pointedly at her watch, and then at Jean, who, helpless with giggles, was lying on a hammock, looking at a young ratings comic book.

It was a quarter to twelve. Margaret stood up heavily, sad to have to leave. Its been great, guys, she said, but I suppose we should go while the goings good.

Dont want to get sent home in a lifeboat.

Francess face revealed that, for several seconds, she had taken this remark seriously.

Thanks ever so much for the hospitality.

Hospidaliddy, murmured Jackson.

Our pleasure, said Dennis. Want one of us to check the passageways clear for you? Then his voice hardened. Oi, Plummer, have a little respect.

The music stopped. All eyes turned towards Denniss line of sight. The owner of Jeans comic book had rested a hand casually on the back of her thigh, which was now removed. It was unclear whether Jean was too drunk to have noticed it. Either way, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. For a second or two, nobody spoke.

Then Frances stepped forward. Yes, come on, Jean. It was as if she had been galvanised into life. Get up. We must get back.

Spoilsports. Jean half slid, half fell off the hammock, blew a kiss to the rating, and allowed her arm to be linked by Francess rigid one. Bye, lads. Thanks for a lovely time. Her hair had fallen across her face, half concealing a beatific smile. Got to shake a leg in the morning. She wiggled one of hers clumsily, and Frances reached forward to pull her skirt down to a demure level.

Margaret nodded to the men round the table, then made her way to the door, suddenly awkward, as if only just aware of the potential pitfalls of their position.

Dennis seemed to grasp this. Sorry about that, he said. Its just the drink. No harm meant.

None taken, said Margaret, raising a neutral smile.

He held out a hand. Come again. He stooped forward and murmured, I get sick of the sight of this lot.

She knew what he was trying to say, and was grateful.

Id appreciate another game, he added.

Im sure well be back, she said, as Frances dragged Jean out of the door.

Avice was awake when they sneaked into their cabin as silently as they could with Jean giggling and snorting between them.

They had seen only two others wary girls, who had shared with them the briefest complicit grin before vanishing into a shadowy doorway. Margaret, however, had seen spectral monitors everywhere her ears had burned with anticipated cries of Hey! You! What do you think youre doing? She knew from Francess serious face that she felt the same. Meanwhile, Jean had been sick twice, thankfully in the officers bathroom, which had been empty at the time, but was now giggling as she tried to relate to them the story she had been reading. It was awful funny. Every time this girl does anything. Anything. Her face opened in exaggerated amazement. All her clothes fall off.

Hilarious, muttered Margaret. She was a strong girl a bit of a heifer, her brothers used to say, but the baby, combined with Jeans almost dead weight and the incessant lurching of the ship, had caused her to grunt and sweat along the passageway. Frances had taken most of Jeans weight and hauled her along silently, one hand gripping at pipes and rails, her face set with the effort.

Most times its down to her undies and whatnot. But there were at least two pictures where she had nothing on at all. Nothing. She had to do this with her hands. Jean wrestled herself out of their grasp – she was surprisingly strong for such a small girl – and made as if to cover her bosom and groin, her face an exaggerated ooh! of surprise.

Oh, come on, Jean.

Margaret had peeped round the corner to where their dormitory was, and saw thankfully that the marines were not on duty. Quick! We might only have a minute.

It was then that the woman had stepped out of the darkness.

Oh! Frances gasped.

Margaret felt herself flush.

Whats going on, ladies?

The officer came towards them at a trot, her bosom arriving shortly before she did. She was one of the WSOs, a short, auburnhaired woman who had directed them earlier to the laundry. There was something almost indecent in her haste, as if she had been waiting for some misdemeanour to take place. Whats going on? You know brides are not allowed out of their dormitories at this time of night.

Margaret felt her tongue swell to fill her mouth.

Our friend is ill, said Frances, coolly. She needed to go to the bathroom, and we werent sure she would manage by herself.

As if in corroboration, the deck lifted under them, sending all four staggering against the wall. As she slipped to her knees Jean swore, then belched.

Seasickness, is it?

Terrible, said Margaret, heaving Jean up.

Well, Im not sure—

Im a nurse, interrupted Frances. That thin little voice could hold a surprising amount of authority, Margaret thought. I decided it would be more hygienic if she was ill away from the bunks. Weve got another inside, she said, pointing towards their door.

The woman stared at Jean, whose head was hanging down. Are you sure its just seasickness?

Oh, yes, said Frances. Ive examined her and shes fine otherwise.

The womans expression was guarded.

Ive seen it before, said Frances, when I was serving on the hospital ship Ariadne. She had emphasised serving. She held out a hand. Sister Frances Mackenzie.

The woman had been outmanoeuvred. She was bothered by it, Margaret could tell, not least because she was not sure how it had happened.

Yes. Well . . . she said. She did not take Francess hand, but left it in midair. The apparent ease with which Frances eventually lowered hers made Margaret wonder briefly how many times the gesture had been refused.

Well, Ill ask you to return to your bunks, ladies, and not to come out again unless its an emergency. You know we dont have our marine guard tonight, and theres meant to be a strict curfew in place.

Im sure well be fine now, said Frances.

Orders, you know, said the officer.

Yes, we know, replied Frances.

Margaret made as if to move, but Frances was waiting for the woman to go.

Of course, Margaret thought. The dog.

The woman broke. She walked on, casting one brief, uneasy backwards look at them as she headed unsteadily towards the canteen.