فصل 09

9

Rounds of all weather decks, galleries and gun positions were carried out frequently, and at irregular periods after dark. All women had to be in their bunks by 11p.m. and the duty woman officer went round to see that no women were missing . . . These measures were the best that could be devised and although by no means perfect, at any rate, acted as a deterrent to bad behaviour and broke up many petting parties before their logical conclusion.

Captain John Campbell Annesley, quoted in

HMS Victorious, Neil McCart

Seven days

The sound of the bugle echoed tinnily through the Tannoy, and bounced down the walls of B Deck. Beneath it several men grimaced, and at least one put his hands over his ears – delayed, tentative movements, which were testament to eight unofficial parties alleged to have taken place during the previous nights. Of the fifteen men lined up outside the Captains office, eleven awaited summary trial for some related misdemeanor and the remainder were up for offences dating back to the last shore leave. Normally such disciplinary matters would take place when the ship was not a day or two out of dock, but the extraordinary nature of its cargo, and the unusual level of offences meant that, to some extent at least, normal service on board HMS Victoria had not yet been resumed.

The masteratarms stood squarely in front of one of the younger boys who was being supported under each arm by two pustulent mates. He shot out a broad, pudgy finger, and chucked the offender under the chin, frowning as he caught a whiff of his breath. I dont know what your mother would say to you, my old flower, if she could see you in this state, but Ive got a good idea. He turned to the boys. He your mate?

Sir.

Howd he get like this?

The boys, for they were not much more, looked at their feet. Dunno, sir.

Scotch mist, is it? As opposed to just Scotch?

Dunno, sir.

Dunno, sir, the man repeated, fixing them with a wellpractised glare. I bet you dont.

Henry Nicol, Marine, stepped back against the wall. The young dabber beside him was wringing his cap in bruised, bloodied hands. He breathed out, bracing himself against the movement of the ship. They were out of the worst of the Bight, now, but it could still catch the unwary.

Soames, eh?

The younger man nodded unhappily at the masteratarms. Sir.

Whats he in for, Nicol?

Quarrels and disturbances, sir. And drunkenness.

Not like you, Soames.

No, sir.

The older man shook his head. You speaking for him, are you, Nicol?

Yes, sir.

Make sure you get some sleep afterwards. Youre on watch again tonight. You look bloody awful. He nodded at the younger man. Soames, its a bad business. Use your loaf next time, not your fists.

The masteratarms moved slowly on to the next man – conduct to the prejudice of good order, drugs/alcohol – and Soames slumped against the wall.

Youre all for it, the masteratarms said. Its the captain today, not the executive officer, and I can tell you hes not in the best of moods.

Im going to get it, arent I? Soames groaned.

In normal circumstances Nicol might have disputed this, might have been reassuring, upbeat. But with one hand still resting against the letter in his trouser pocket, he had neither the energy nor the desire to make someone else feel better. He had put off opening it for days, guessing, dreading the nature of its contents. Now, seven days after they had left Sydney, he knew.

As if knowing could ever make anything any better.

Youll be all right, he said.

Dear Henry,

Im disappointed but not surprised I havent heard back from you. I want to say again how sorry I am. I never set out to hurt you. But we have had hardly a word from you in so long, and I am really very fond of Anton. And he is a good man, a kind man, who pays me a lot of heed . . .

This is not meant to be a criticism of you. I know we were awfully young when we married, and perhaps if the war had not come when it did . . . Still, as we both know, our world today is full of such ifonlys . . .

He had read the first paragraph and thought that, ironically, life was easier when his letters were still censored.

It was almost twenty minutes before they were up. They paused outside the captains office, then Nicol followed the younger man in and they saluted. Captain Highfield was seated behind the desk, flanked by the marine captain and a lieutenant Nicol didnt recognise, who was writing something in a ledger. For some seconds he gave no sign that he was aware of the new occupants of the room.

Nicol nudged the younger man. Cap, he hissed, his own black beret held in front of him. Soames removed his.

The officer beside the captain read out the charge the boy had been scrapping with another dabber in the seamens mess. He had also been drinking – spirits, far in excess of the daily sippers ration to ratings.

How do we plead? said Captain Highfield, still writing. He had tall, elegant script, somehow at odds with his short, stubby fingers.

Guilty, sir, said Soames.

Yes, I am guilty. And weak. But, to be truthful, for the last four years I might as well have been a widow for the word I have had from you. I spent three of those years lying awake week after week praying for your safety that you might come back to us, talking to the children of you daily, even when I suspected you did not remember us. When you did come back you were like a stranger.

Finally, the captain looked up. He eyed the young man, then addressed the marine. Nicol, isnt it?

Sir.

What can you tell me about this young mans character?

Nicol cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts. Hes been with us a little over a year, sir. A dabber. Hes been very steady during that time, hardworking, quiet. He paused. A good sort.

So, Soames, given this glowing character reference, what turned you into a brawling idiot?

The boys head dipped. Look up, man, when youre talking to me.

Sir. He blushed. Its my girl, sir. She . . . she was to see me off in Sydney. Weve been stepping out some time. But shes been . . . well, its one of the others in C Deck, sir.

When Anton came, and started paying me some attention, Henry, its not even that he stepped into your shoes. There were no shoes for him to step into.

. . . and he started taunting me . . . and then the others, well, they said as how I couldnt keep hold of a woman, and you know what its like in the mess, sir, well, Id had a bellyful of it and – well – I suppose I saw red.

You suppose you saw red.

The children are very fond of him. You will always be their father, and they know that, but they will love America and have all sorts of chances there that they would never have had in a sleepy old village in Norfolk.

Yes, sir. He coughed into his hand. Im very sorry, sir.

Youre very sorry, said the captain. So, Nicol, you say hes been a good sort up to this point?

Yes, sir.

The captain put down his pen and clasped his hands. His voice was icy. You know I dont like fighting on my ship. I especially dont like fighting when theres alcohol involved. Even more, I dislike discovering that there may be social events taking place on my ship without my knowledge that involve alcohol.

Sir.

Do you understand? I dont like surprises, Soames.

But here, dear, I have to tell you something hard. If there is an urgency to my letter it is because I am carrying Antons child, and all we are waiting for is your permission to divorce, so that we can marry and bring this baby up together.

Youre a disgrace.

Yes, sir.

Youre the fifth person Ive seen in here this morning on a drinkrelated charge. Did you know that?

The boy said nothing.

Rather surprising for a ship that supposedly contains no alcohol except your weekly allocation.

Sir.

Nicol cleared his throat.

The captain stared at the boy from under his brows. Im conscious of your previous good character, Soames, and you should consider yourself lucky you have someone of better character to speak for you.

Sir.

Im going to let you off with a fine. But I want you to be clear on one thing – and you can tell your friends this, and all those waiting outside too. Little escapes me on this ship. Very little. And if you think I am not aware of the little gettogethers that are springing up at an hour when our crew and our female cargo should be separated not just by walls but by whole bloody passageways, then you are very much mistaken.

I didnt mean any harm, sir.

I did not intend things to turn out this way. Please do not make this child grow up a bastard, Henry, I implore you. I know I have hurt you terribly, but please do not inflict whatever you feel for me on the little one.

You meant no harm, Highfield muttered, and began to write. You meant no harm. None of you ever does.

There was a brief silence in the room.

Two pounds. And dont let me see you in here again.

Sir.

Left turn, quick march, called the lieutenant.

The two men saluted, and left the office.

Two bloody pounds, said Soames, as they shuffled past the queue of offenders, ramming his cap back on to his head. Two bloody pounds, he muttered to one of his mates. Hes a miserable bloody bastard, that Highfield.

Bad luck.

Soamess pace increased with his sense of injustice. I dont know why he had to pick on me, going on and on like that. I havent even spoken to one of those bloody Aussie brides. Not so much as a bloody one of them. Not like bloody Tims. He has girls in that mess most nights. Jackson told me.

Best stay away from the lot of them, said Nicol.

What? The younger man turned, perhaps sensing the barely suppressed tension in the marines voice. You all right?

Im fine, he said, removing his hand from his pocket.

Please write me or wire me when you can. I am happy to leave you the house and everything. I have kept it all in good order, the best I could. I do not want to cause you more trouble. I just want your permission to go.

Yours,

Fay

Yes, said Nicol, striding down the passageway. Im fine.

The summary trials ended a few minutes after eleven. Captain Highfield laid down his pen and motioned to Dobson who had entered some minutes previously and the marine captain that they should sit down. A steward was sent for tea.

Its not good, is it? he said, leaning back in his chair. Were hardly a week in and look at it.

The marine captain said nothing. The marines were a disciplined lot and never drank on board they tended to appear only as character witnesses, or occasionally when the natural friction between marines and seamen boiled over into blows.

Its bringing tension into the ship. And alcohol. When did we last have so many drunkenness offences at sea?

The two men shook their heads. Well organise a locker search, captain. See if we can flush it out, said Dobson. Out of the window, behind them, the skies had cleared to a bright, vivid blue, the sea becalmed. It was the kind of sight that couldnt help but fill the heart with optimism. But Highfield took no joy from it his leg had throbbed dully all morning, a permanent, intermittent reminder of his failure.

He had avoided looking at it when he dressed this morning its colour disturbed him. A faint purplish tinge told not of the steady creation of new, healthy tissue but of some terrible struggle taking place beneath. If Bertram, the ships regular surgeon, had been aboard, he could have asked him to take a look at it. He would have understood. But Bertram had failed to show at Sydney, was now the subject of a courtmartial, and that damn fool Duxbury was in his place.

Dobson leant forwards, his elbows resting on his knees. The womens officers tell me theyre pretty sure theres movement at night. The one on B Deck had to break up a situation only last night.

Fighting?

The two seated men glanced at each other, then at the captain.

No, sir. Er . . . physical contact between a bride and a rating.

Physical contact?

Yes, sir. He had hold of her round the – round the back of the bilge pump.

Highfield had suspected this might happen, had warned his superiors of it. Yet the reality struck him like a punch. The thought that, even as he sat there, such things were going on aboard his own ship . . .

I knew this would happen, he said, and saw that the other two men seemed markedly less disturbed by it than he felt. In fact, Dobson looked as if he was trying to contain mirth. Well have to post more marines outside the hangar area, the stokers and seamens messes.

With respect, sir, the marine captain interjected, my boys are on rotating sevenday shifts as it is, as well as all their other tasks. I cant ask them to do more. You saw how exhausted Nicol was, and hes not the only one.

Do we really need them outside the mens messes? said Dobson. If weve got marines keeping the brides in, plus the monitors doing the chastity rounds, surely that should be adequate?

Well, its obviously not, is it? Not if were already breaking up petting parties and goodness knows what else. Look, were only a week out of port. If we let it slip now, heaven knows where well end up. He was besieged by images of fornicating couples in the flour store, of irate husbands and pucefaced admiralty.

Oh, come on, sir. Id say its important to keep it in perspective.

What?

There are bound to be a few hiccups to begin with, especially with so many crew new together, but its nothing we cant manage. In fact, after the business with Indomitable, its probably a good thing. It shows that the men are perking up a bit.

Until that point, perhaps through diplomacy or even a desire not to wound their captain further, no one had talked of the sunken ship – at least, not in relation to the mens morale. At the mention of its name Highfields jaw tightened. It might have been reflexive. More likely it was because of who had spoken.

As he gathered his thoughts, Dobson added silkily, If youd rather, Captain, you could leave disciplinary matters to us. It would be sad, sir, if, because of a few youthful high jinks, you couldnt enjoy this last voyage a little.

In Dobsons barbed words, in his relaxed, confident manner, lay everything the men thought about Highfield now but would not say aloud. Once, Dobson would never have dared speak to him in this way. Highfield was so stunned by this barely veiled insubordination that he couldnt speak. When the steward arrived with his tea, he had to wait for several seconds before the captain noticed his presence.

The marine captain, a more diplomatic sort, leant forward. I think, sir, that much of the problem this past week may have been to do with the conditions over the Bight, he said. I believe that both the seamen and the women may have taken advantage of the fact that so many of the monitors were absent to increase the levels of – erm – interaction. Give it a few days more and the women will be less excitable and the men will have got used to having them around the place. I suspect things will settle down.

Highfield, now suspicious, studied the marine captain. There was a transparency in his expression visibly lacking in that of the man beside him. You think we should let things be?

Yes, I do, sir.

I agree, sir, said Dobson. Best not to rattle things up too much at this stage.

Highfield ignored him. As he closed the ledger, he turned to the marine captain. Very well, he said. Well go softly for now. But I want to know everything, every footstep, that takes place below deck after ten p.m. Shake the monitors up – get them to use their eyes and ears. And if there is the slightest hint of misbehaviour – the slightest hint, mind – I want us to be down on it like a ton of bricks. I will not have anyone charge this voyage with lowering naval standards. Not under my command.

Dear Deanna,

I hope you, Mother and Father are all well. Im not sure when I will be able to post this, but I thought I would write and let you know a little of our voyage. It is all terribly exciting. I often think how much you would enjoy being here, and how surprising are the conditions we travel in, given my reservations.

I have made three delightful new friends Margaret, whose father owns a large estate not far from Sydney Frances, who is terribly elegant and has been doing admirable things in nursing and Jean. They are all so much more interesting than our old crowd. One girl here has brought fifteen pairs of shoes with her! I am very relieved that I was able to go shopping before I came on board. It is so nice to have new things, isnt it?

My accommodation is situated in the largest part of the boat, a short distance from the part known as the bridge and the captains sea cabin. We are told there may well be some cocktail parties once we get to Gibraltar as it is entirely possible that several governors are coming aboard, so that is something to look forward to.

The staff really cannot do enough for us. Every day they lay on new entertainments to keep us girls busy needlework, dancing, all the latest films. I am off to watch National Velvet this afternoon. I dont believe it has reached Melbourne yet but, believe me, you must go when it does. The girls who have already seen it say Elizabeth Taylor is perfectly wonderful. The sailors are charming, and helpful, and are always bringing one little things to eat. And, Deanna, you would die for the food. Its as if no one had ever heard of rationing. Not quite the powdered egg we had all feared! So you can tell Mother and Father they do not need to worry in the slightest.

There is a fully fitted hair salon at the far end of the ship. After I finish writing I think I might take a look. Perhaps I might even offer some help! Remember how Mrs Johnson always said no one could set hair like me? I shall have to find a decent salon as soon as I reach London. I shall, of course, let you know all about London. I am hoping to hear from Ian before we meet, as to the plans for our little holiday there.

As I said, I hope my letter finds you all well, and please do pass on my happy news to the old crowd. Oh, yes, your little recital will have taken place by the time you get this. I trust it went well. Ill write again when Im not so busy!

Your loving sister

Avice

Avice was sitting in the small canteen on the flight deck, staring out of the saltspattered window at the seagulls swooping alongside the ship and the bright skies beyond. For the halfhour it had taken her to write her letter, she had almost begun to believe in the version of the voyage she had created. So much so, in fact, that she had felt rather deflated when she signed off to find herself back in this rusting waterborne hangar, surrounded not by cocktail parties and adorable new friends but by the scarred noses of the aeroplanes on the deck, the shuffling, incoherent boys in their grubby overalls, the brine and salt, the smells of fried food, oil and rust.

Cup of tea, Avice? Margaret was leaning over her, that huge belly almost resting on the woodtopped table. Im going to get some. You never know, it might settle your stomach.

No. Thank you. Avice swallowed, then allowed herself to imagine the taste. An immediate wave of nausea confirmed her refusal. She was still having trouble coping with the pervasive droplets of jet fuel that seemed to follow her everywhere, clung to her clothes and in her nostrils. It didnt matter how much perfume she applied, she still felt she must smell like a mechanic.

Youve got to have something.

Ill have a glass of water. Perhaps a dry cracker, if theyve got some.

Poor old you, eh? Not many get it so bad.

There were three puddles in the middle of the floor. They reflected the light from the windows.

Im sure Ill get over it soon enough. Avice made sure to smile brightly. Very few troubles in life couldnt be lessened by a nice smile – that was what her mother always said.

I was like that in my early months with this. Margaret patted her bump. Couldnt even keep down dry toast. I was really miserable. Im surprised I didnt get as seasick as you and Jean.

Would you mind if we talked about something else?

Margaret laughed. Sure thing. Sorry, Ave. Ill go and get the tea.

Ave. If Avice had been feeling less awful, she would have corrected her there was nothing worse than an abbreviated name. But Margaret had already waddled off towards the counter, leaving her with Frances, an even more uncomfortable proposition.

Over the past few days, Avice had decided there was something profoundly discomfiting about Frances. There was something watchful about her, as if even as she sat there in silence she was judging you. Even when she was being nice, bringing pills to make Avice feel less sick, checking that she wasnt too dehydrated, there was something reserved in her demeanour, as if there were elements of Avice that meant she did not want to engage too closely with her. As if she were something special!

Margaret had told her that Frances had been turned down when she offered to work in the infirmary. The less generousspirited part of Avice wondered what the Navy had felt was not fitting about the girl the other thought how much easier life would have been without her hanging around all day, with her awkward conversation and serious face. She glanced at the tables of other girls, most of whom were chatting away as if they had known each other for years. They had settled into little cliques now, tight bands already impenetrable to outsiders. Avice, gazing at one particularly happy group, fought the urge to appeal to them, to demonstrate that she was not with this strange, severe girl by choice. But that, of course, would have been rude.

Have you anything planned for this afternoon?

Frances had been studying a copy of Daily Ship News. She looked up sharply with the guarded expression that made Avice want to yell, It isnt a trick question, you know. Her pale red hair was pulled into a tight chignon. If she had been anyone else, Avice would have offered to do her something more flattering. Shed be pretty if she brightened herself up a little.

No, said Frances. Then, when the ensuing silence threatened to overwhelm them both, I thought I might just sit here for a while.

Oh. Well, I suppose the weathers improved, hasnt it?

Yes.

I thought the lecture sounded rather dull today, said Avice. She abhorred a conversational vacuum.

Oh?

Rationing and somesuch. She sniffed. Frankly, once we get to England I plan to do as little cooking as possible.

Behind them a group of girls pushed back their chairs noisily and rose from their table, barely breaking their conversation.

The two women watched them go.

Have you finished your letter? Frances asked.

Avices hand closed over her writingpad, as if its contents might somehow become visible. Yes. It had come out sharper than shed intended. She made a conscious effort to relax. Its to my sister.

Oh.

Ive written two others this morning. One to Ian, and another to an old schoolfriend. Shes the daughter of the McKillens?

Frances shook her head.

Avice sighed. Theyre very big in property. I hadnt written to Angela since I left Melbourne . . . I dont know when well be able to post them, though. Id love to know when Ill get one from Ian. She examined her fingernails. Im hoping it will be Ceylon. Ive been told they might bring aboard post there.

She had dreamt of a fat little cushion of Ians letters, waiting in some sweltering tropical post office. She would tie them with red ribbon and read them in private, luxuriously, one at a time, like someone enjoying a box of chocolates. Its rather strange, she said, almost to herself, going all this way and not speaking for so long. Her finger traced Ians name on the envelope. Sometimes it all feels a bit unreal. Like I cant believe I married this man, and now Im on this boat in the middle of nowhere. When you cant speak to them, its hard to keep hold of the fact that its all real.

Five weeks and four days since his last letter. The first she had received as a married woman.

I try to imagine what hes thinking now, because the worst thing about waiting so long for letters is that you know all the feelings are out of date. Things he might have been upset about then will have passed. Sunsets he described are long gone. I dont even know where he is. The one thing we all count on, I suppose, is that their feelings for us havent changed, even if were not speaking. I suppose thats our test of faith.

Her voice had dropped, become contemplative. She realised that for several minutes she had forgotten to feel sick. She sat up a bit. Dont you think?

Something odd happened to Francess expression it closed over, became neutral, masklike. I suppose so, she said.

And Avice knew she might as well have said that the sky had gone green. She felt unbalanced and irritated, as if her gesture towards intimacy had been deliberately rebuffed. She was almost tempted to say something to that effect but at that moment Margaret waddled back to the table bearing a tea tray. Propped in her mug was a large vanilla icecream, the third she had eaten since they had sat there.

Listen to this, girls. Old Jean will love it. Theres going to be a crossingtheline ceremony. Its a sailors tradition, apparently, about crossing the equator, and theres going to be all sorts of fun on the flight deck. The guy at the tea urn just told me.

Francess rudeness was forgotten. Will we have to get dressed up? Avices hand had risen to her hair.

Dunno. I know nothing about it – theyre going to post something on the main noticeboard later. But itll be a laugh, right? Something to do?

Ugh. Im not joining in. Not with my stomach.

Frances? Margaret had bitten the top off her cone. A small blob of icecream was stuck to the tip of her nose.

I dont know.

Ah, come on, said Margaret. The chair creaked in protest as she sat down. Let your hair down, woman. Cut loose a little.

Frances gave her a tentative smile, showing small white teeth. She might even, Avice saw, with a start, be beautiful. Perhaps, she said.

Frances had thought she would resent the man outside. On the first night he had stood there, on the other side of their door, she had been unable to sleep, conscious of the strangers proximity. Of her own state of undress, her vulnerability. Of the fact that, in theory at least, he was in authority over her. She had been acutely conscious of his every movement, every shift of his feet, every sniff or cough, the sound of his voice as it murmured a greeting or instruction to a passerby. Occasionally, lying in the dark, she would ponder on his significance his presence highlighted the fact that they were cargo, a consignment to be ferried safely from one side of the world to the other, in many cases from fathers to husbands, one set of men to another.

Those heavy feet, that rigid stance, the rifle told her they were to be constrained, imprisoned, yet guarded, protected from the unknown forces below. Sometimes, when the nearness of so many people, so many strange men, teamed with their isolation made her feel anxious, she was glad that he was stationed outside the door. But more usually she resented him for making her feel like a possession, someones property to be safeguarded.

The others seemed to indulge in little such philosophical consideration. In fact, they didnt notice him for them, like so much on board, he was part of the nightly furniture, someone to call good evening to, to smuggle the dog past, or even themselves, if they were tiptoeing downstairs to another party. As they were tonight. Margaret and Jean were off to meet Dennis for another poker session, chatting in surreptitious whispers as they brushed their hair, fiddled with stockings and shoes and, in Jeans case, borrowed everyone elses cosmetics. It was nearly nine, not late enough to confine them to their cabin, according to the curfew, but after both supper shifts late enough to warrant a legitimate query about where they were going, should their movement be noticed.

You sure you wont come with us, Frances? They had been to several parties now. Jean had stayed sober during at least one.

Frances shook her head.

You dont need to behave like a nun. Margaret finished doing up her shoe. Im sure your old man wont mind you enjoying a bit of company, for goodness sake.

We wont tell, said Jean, shaping her mouth into a moue as she reapplied her lipstick.

Margaret lifted her dog on to what remained of her lap. Youll go nuts if you spend every evening in here, you know.

Theyll have to walk you off in a straitjacket when we get to Plymouth. Jean cackled, tapping the side of her head with a forefinger. Theyll think youve got kangaroos loose in the top paddock.

Ill take my chances. Frances smiled.

Avice?

No, thank you. Ill rest this evening. Avices nausea had worsened again, and she lay, pale and limp, on her bunk, periodically lifting and lowering her book. If you could keep the dog well away from me Id be grateful. Its smell is making me feel even worse.

They had not expected the marine to be standing outside. He had not been there the previous evening, and none of them had heard the footsteps that usually signalled his arrival. Jean, then Margaret, stopped dead in the doorway. Oh . . . were just going for some fresh air, said Margaret, speedily closing the door behind her.

Well be back by eleven, said Jean.

Or thereabouts.

Frances, who had stood up to retrieve her dressinggown from a hanger, paused on the other side of the door, hearing the male voice, the surprise and slight strain in the womens.

Id avoid the Black Squad, if thats how you like your fresh air, he said now, so quietly that no one could be sure of what theyd heard.

Frances leant closer to the door, her dressinggown raised in the air.

The stokers mess. Bit of a crackdown tonight, he explained.

Oh. Right, said Margaret. Well. Thanks.

She heard their shoes clattering down the passageway, then the marine coughing quietly. They would say nothing until they reached the corner by the fire hose. Then, out of sight, they would explode with shock and laughter, clutching each other briefly before, with a furtive glance behind them, they made for the stokers mess.

Avice wasnt asleep. It would have been easier, Frances thought, if she had been. Stuck together in the little cabin, they moved silently around each other. Then Avice lay down, facing the wall, and Frances flicked selfconsciously through a magazine, hoping her concentration appeared more genuine than it was.

They had rarely spent any time alone together. Margaret was easy, straightforward, her uncomplicated nature written in her ready smiles. Jean was less predictable, but there was no side to her she expressed everything she felt, every minor irritation and enthusiasm directly, unpalatable as it might be.

But Avice, Frances guessed, found her difficult. Not only did they have nothing in common, but her personality, her way of being, rubbed Avice up the wrong way. She suspected that in other circumstances Avice might have been openly hostile experience had shown her that that kind of girl often was. They needed to look down on someone to reassure themselves of their own position.

But there was no room for such honest emotion in a cabin not quite ten feet by eight. Which left the two of them locked in their own excruciating worlds of genteel diplomacy. Frances would enquire occasionally whether Avice needed anything, whether her sickness had lifted a little Avice would ask if Frances minded her leaving the light on a little longer both would spend the rest of the evening pretending politely that they believed the other to be asleep.

Frances lay back on her bunk. She tried to read, found she had scanned the same paragraph several times without taking anything in. She forced herself to concentrate and discovered she had read the magazine before. Finally she stared up at the sagging webbing above her, watching it shift.

The dog whimpered quietly in sleep, just visible under Margarets cardigan. She glanced down to check that its water bowl was full.

Way above them, she heard a bump, followed by a muffled burst of laughter.

Outside, the marine muttered to someone as they passed. Time stretched out, became elastic.

Frances sighed. Quietly, so that Avice would not hear. Margaret was right. If she spent another evening in here, shed go insane.

He turned when she opened the door. Stretching my legs, she said.

Strictly speaking, maam, you shouldnt be leaving your cabin at this time.

She didnt protest, or plead, just stood, waiting, and he nodded her on. Stokers mess?

No, she said, smiling at her feet. No. Not my cup of tea.

She walked briskly along the passageway, conscious of his eyes on her back, fearful that he might call out to her that he had changed his mind, that it was already too close to the curfew, and instruct her to stay where she was. But he said nothing.

Out of his range, she went up the stairs near the cinema projection room, nodded a polite greeting to two girls who, arm in arm, stood back to let her pass. She hurried along, head down, past cabins, past rows of tin trunks secured to the wall with webbing straps, the redundant stores for lifejackets, weaponry, ammunition, the painted instructions – Keep Dry, Do Not Use After 11.47, Do Not Smoke. She strode up the temporary steps towards the captains sea cabins two at a time, ducking to avoid hitting her head on the metal struts.

She reached the hatch, glanced back to check no one was watching, then opened it and stepped out on to the flight deck. Then she stopped abruptly, almost reeling from the sudden expanse of inky black sea and sky.

Frances stood there for some time, breathing in the cool, fresh air, feeling the breeze tighten the skin of her face, enjoying the gentle movement of the ship. Down below the throbbing of the engines often made her feel as if she was in the bowels of some prehistoric animal it vibrated through her, chugging and groaning bad temperedly with effort. Up here, the movement was a low purr, the creature benign and obedient, carrying her safely forward, like some mythical beast, across the vast ocean.

Frances peered across the deserted deck, out of bounds after dark. Some moonlit, some in shadow, the silhouettes of the aircraft stood around her, like children congregated in a playground. There was something oddly appealing about their profiles, noses up, as if they were scenting the air. She walked slowly among them, allowing herself to stroke the shining metal, relishing its cool, damp feel under her hand. Finally, she sat down under a narrow streamlined belly. In her vantagepoint on the concrete floor, between two webbing lashes, she folded her hands round her knees and stared out at the million stars, the neverending trails of white foam that charted their course through the water, the unknowable point where the inky sea met the infinite black sky. And for possibly the first time since they had embarked, Frances Mackenzie closed her eyes and, with a shudder that passed through her entire body, allowed herself to breathe out.

She had been sitting there for almost twenty minutes when she saw the captain. He had stepped out of the same door shed closed behind her, his rank clearly visible in his white cap and his curiously accentuated upright posture. She recoiled at first, and manoeuvred herself so that she was protected by the shadows, already anticipating the choleric shout Hey! You! that would bring about her disgrace. She watched him close the door carefully so that it did not slam. Then, with the same furtive air as, presumably, she had displayed, he stepped forward and began, increasingly obviously to limp towards the starboard side of the ship and a point just out of sight of the bridge. He stopped by one of the larger aeroplanes, his uniform spotlit by the moonlight, and reached out as if to support himself on a wing strut. Then, as she held her breath, he bent and rubbed his leg.

He stood there for some minutes, his weight on one leg, shoulders slumped, staring out to sea. Then he straightened his shoulders and walked back to the hatch. By the time he reached it, his limp was no longer perceptible.

Afterwards, she could not articulate what it was about this brief scene that she had found comforting – whether it was the sea itself, her ability to carve out twenty minutes freedom unnoticed, or the small suggestion of humanity contained in the captains limp, a reminder of mens fallibility, their capacity to conceal their hurt, to suffer – but as she came back down the stairs she had found herself somehow less conscious of the glances of those who passed, with a little of her confidence restored to her.

She would not normally have asked a man for a cigarette. She would not have allowed herself to be drawn into conversation. She would certainly not have begun one. But she felt so much better. The sky had been so beautiful. And there was something so melancholy about his face.

He was leaning against the wall beside their door, cigarette cupped between thumb and forefinger, eyes fixed on a point on the floor in front of him. His hair had flopped forward and his shoulders were hunched, as if he was lost in some lessthanhappy thought. As he caught sight of her he pinched out the cigarette and dropped it into his pocket. She thought he might have flushed. Afterwards, she remembered feeling mildly shocked up to that point, he had seemed a kind of automaton. Like so many marines. She had hardly considered there might be room for something as human as embarrassment, or even guilt, behind the mask. Please dont bother, she said. Not on my account.

He shrugged. Not meant to, really, on duty.

Still.

He had thanked her gruffly, not quite meeting her eye.

And for some reason, instead of disappearing into the cabin, she had stood there, her cardigan round her shoulders and, unexpectedly even to herself, asked whether she might have one too. I dont feel like going in yet, she explained. Then, selfconscious, she had stood beside him, already regretting her decision.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack, and handed it to her wordlessly. Then he lit it, his hand briefly touching hers as it cupped the flame. Frances tried not to flinch, then wondered how quickly she could smoke it without making herself dizzy and disappear. He had plainly not wanted company. She, of all people, should have seen it. Thanks, she said. Ill just have a few puffs.

Take your time.

Twice she found herself in the unusual position of smiling, an instinctive, conciliatory gesture. His, in answer, was fleeting. They stood, one on each side of the door frame, looking at their feet, the safety notice, the fire extinguisher until the silence became uncomfortable.

She looked sideways at his sleeve. What rank are you?

Corporal.

Your stripes are upsidedown.

Threebadge marine.

She took a deep drag of her cigarette. She was already nearly a third of the way down it. I thought three stripes meant sergeant.

Not if theyre upsidedown.

I dont understand.

Theyre for long service. Good conduct. His eyes flickered over them, as if he had rarely considered them. Stopping fights, that kind of thing. I suppose its a way of rewarding someone who doesnt want promotion.

Two ratings walked along the passageway. As they passed Frances, their gaze flicked from her to the marine and back again. She waited until theyd gone, their footsteps echoing. A moment later the brief rise and fall in the sound of chatter told of the opening and closing of a cabin door.

Why didnt you want promotion?

Dont know. Possibly he realised this had sounded a little abrupt, because he went on, Perhaps I never saw myself as sergeant material.

His face seemed frozen into disappointment, she thought, and his eyes, while not unfriendly, told of his discomfort with casual conversation. She knew that look she wore it habitually too.

His gaze briefly met hers and slid away. Perhaps I never wanted the responsibility.

It was then that she spotted the photograph. He must have been looking at it before she came. A black and white picture, a little smaller than a mans wallet, tucked into his right hand between finger and thumb. Yours? she said, nodding towards his hand.

He lifted it, and looked at it as if for the first time. Yes.

Boy and girl?

Two boys.

She apologised, and they smiled awkwardly. My youngest needed a haircut. He handed it to her. She took it, held it under the light and studied the beaming faces, unsure what she was meant to say. They look nice.

Pictures eighteen months old. Theyll have grown some.

She nodded, as if he had shared with her some piece of parental wisdom.

You?

Oh. No . . . She handed back the picture. No.

They stood in silence again.

You miss them?

Every day. Then his voice hardened. They probably dont even remember what I look like.

She did not know what to say whatever she was intruding on would not be eased by a cigarette and a few minutes of smalltalk. She felt suddenly that engaging him in conversation had been rash and misjudged. His job was to stand outside their door. He had no choice if she chose to talk to him. He would not want to be bothered by women at all hours.

Ill leave you, she said, quietly, then added, Thank you for the cigarette. She trod it out, then bent down to pick up the butt. She was afraid to take it into the cabin – what would she do with it in the dark? But if she put it into her pocket it might burn through the fabric. He had failed to notice her predicament, but as she hesitated by the door he turned. Here, he said, holding out a hand. The palm was weathered, leathery with years of salt and hard work.

She shook her head, but he held his hand closer, insistent. She placed the little butt on it, and blushed. Sorry, she whispered.

No problem.

Goodnight, then.

She opened the door, was sliding silently round it into the darkness when she heard his voice. It was quiet enough to reassure her that her judgement of him had been right, but light enough to show he had not taken offence. Light enough to suggest some kind of offering.

So, whose is the dog? it asked.