Page 101 of The Ship of Brides
She wondered if there was a polite way of asking him to leave her.
He was wearing his engineer’s overalls; it was too dark to see the oil on them but she could smell it under the scent of the smoke. She hated the smell of oil: she had treated too many burned men who had been saturated with it, could still feel the tacky density of the fabric she had had to peel off their flesh.
I shall start nursing again in England, she told herself. Audrey Marshall had sent her off with a personal letter of recommendation. With her service record there would be no shortage of opportunities.
‘Ever been to India before?’
She was annoyed at the interruption of her thoughts. ‘No.’
‘Seen a lot of countries, have you?’
‘A few,’ she said. ‘Mainly bases.’
‘You’re a well-travelled woman, then.’
It’s because Margaret isn’t here, she thought. He’s one of those men who needs an audience. She did her best to smile. ‘No more than anyone else who’s seen service, I imagine.’
He lit himself another cigarette and blew the smoke meditatively into the sky. ‘But I bet you could answer me a question,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘Is there a difference?’
She frowned. On the shore, two vehicles were locked in an impasse, horns blaring. The sound echoed across the dockyard, drowning the music.
‘I’m sorry?’ She had to lean forward temporarily to hear him.
‘In the men.’ He smiled, revealing white teeth in the darkness. ‘I mean, is there a nationality you prefer?’
From his expression she knew she had heard what she suspected. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. She moved past him, her cheeks burning, but as she reached for the handle of the hatch, he stepped in front of her.
‘No need to have an attack of modesty on my account,’ he said.
‘Will you excuse me?’
‘We all know what you are. No need to skirt round it.’ He spoke in a sing-song voice so that it was a second before she had gauged the menace in what he was saying.
‘Please would you let me pass?’
‘You know, I had you all wrong.’ Dennis Tims shook his head. ‘We called you Miss Frigidaire in the mess. Miss Frigidaire. We couldn’t believe you’d even married. Had you down as wedded to one of those Bible-bashers, a virgin for life. How wrong we were, eh?’
Her heart was racing as she tried to assess whether she would be able to push past him for the door. One of his hands rested lightly on the handle. She could feel the confidence behind his strength, the sureness of a man who always, physically, got his own way.
‘So prim and proper, with your blouses buttoned up to your neck. And really you’re just some whore who no doubt persuaded some fool pollywog sailor to stick a ring on your finger. How’d you do it, eh? Promise him you’d save it all for him, did you? Tell him he was the only one who meant anything?’
He put out a hand towards her breast and she batted it away.
‘Let me out,’ she said.
‘What’s the matter, Miss Priss? Not like anyone’s around to know.’ He gripped her arms then, pushed her backwards towards the guard rail. She stumbled as his weight met her like a solid wall. In the distance, from the hotel near the harbour, she could hear laughter.
‘I’ve seen girls like you in a million ports. Shouldn’t allow your sort on board,’ he muttered wetly into her ear.
‘Get off me!’
‘Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to believe you’re not making a bit on the side while you’re here—’
‘Please—’
