Page 105 of The Ship of Brides
She stared at her shoes for some time. Then she raised her head. ‘Captain Highfield, are you putting me off the ship?’ Her voice was low and calm.
He was half relieved that she had said it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I feel I have no choice.’
She appeared to be considering something. Her demeanour suggested that there was almost nothing surprising in what he had said to her. But in the faintest narrowing of her eyes there was contempt for it too.
This was not what he had expected. Anger, perhaps. Histrionics, like the other two unfortunates. He had posted the rating outside in anticipation.
‘You are free to say something,’ he said, when the silence became oppressive. ‘In your defence, I mean.’
There was a lengthy pause. Then she placed her hands in her lap. ‘In my defence... I am a nurse. A nursing sister, to be more precise. I have been a nurse for four and a half years. In that time I’ve treated several thousand men, some of whose lives I saved.’
‘It’s a very good thing – that you managed to—’
‘Become a worthwhile human being?’ Her tone was sharp.
‘That’s not what—’
‘But I can’t, can I? Because I am never to be allowed to forget my so-called past. Not even several thousand miles distant from it.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that—’
She looked at him directly. He thought she might have squared her shoulders.
‘I know quite well what you were suggesting, Captain. That my service record is the least important thing about me. Like most of the occupants of this ship, you choose to determine my character by the first thing you heard. And then act upon it.’
She smoothed her dress over her knees and took a deep breath, as if she were having some trouble containing herself. ‘What I was going to say, Captain Highfield, before you interrupted me, is that I have treated in my career probably several thousand men, some of whom had been terrorised and physically brutalised. Some of whom were my enemies. Many of whom were only half alive. And not one,’ she paused for breath. ‘Not one of them treated me with the lack of consideration you have just shown.’
He had not expected her to be so composed. So articulate.
He had not expected to find himself the accused.
‘Look,’ his tone was conciliatory, ‘I can’t pretend I don’t know about you.’
‘No, and neither can I, apparently. I can only try to lead a useful life. And not think too hard about things that may have been out of my control.’
They remained in an uneasy silence. His mind raced as he tried to work out how to deal with this extraordinary situation. Outside, he could hear muffled conversation and lowered his voice, sensing a way to salvage their dignity. ‘Look – are you saying that what happened wasn’t your doing? That you might have been... more sinned against than sinning?’
If she would plead for herself, make a promise about her future conduct, then perhaps...
‘I’m saying that it’s none of your concern either way.’ Her knuckles were white with some contained emotion. ‘The only things that are your business, Captain, are my profession, which, as you’ll know from your passenger lists and my service record, should you have cared to look at it, is nurse, my marital status and my behaviour on board your ship, which, I think you’ll find, has met all your requirements for decorum.’
Her voice had gained strength. The tips of her pale ears had gone pink, the only sign of any underlying lack of composure.
He realised, with some bewilderment, that he felt as if he were the one in the wrong.
He glanced down at the papers that detailed the procedures for putting off brides. ‘Put her off at Port Said,’ the Australian Red Cross supervisor had said. ‘She might have to wait a bit for a boat back. Then again, a lot of them disappear in Egypt.’ Her ‘them’ had contained an unmistakeable note of contempt.
God, it was a mess. A bloody mess. He wished he’d never embarked on the conversation and opened this can of worms. But she had entered the system now. His hands were tied.
Perhaps recognising something in his expression, she got to her feet. Her hair, scraped back from her forehead, emphasised the high, almost Slavic bones of her face, the shadows under her eyes. He wondered briefly whether before she left, she would try to hit him, as the little one had, and then felt guilty for having thought it. ‘Look, Mrs Mackenzie, I—’
‘I know. You’d like me to leave.’
He was struggling for something to say, something that might appropriately convey the right mixture of authority and regret.
She was half-way towards the door, when she said, ‘Do you want me to look at your leg?’
His final words stalled on his lips. He blinked.
