Page 115 of The Ship of Brides
A voice shouted from somewhere ahead, ‘Quickly, ladies, please. Those with surnames N to Z gather at Muster Station B, all others to Muster Station A. Just keep moving now.’
Margaret had made her way to the edge of the crowd when the women’s service officer caught her arm.
‘This way, madam.’ She held out her arms, pointing forward, a physical barrier to the starboard exit.
‘I have to pop downstairs.’ Margaret cursed under her breath as someone elbowed her in the back.
‘Nobody is allowed downstairs. Muster stations only.’
Margaret felt the crush of bodies pushing past her, smelt the mingling of several hundred brands of scent and setting lotion. ‘Look, it’s very important. I have to fetch something.’
The woman looked at her as if she was a fool. ‘There is a fire on board,’ she said. ‘There is absolutely no going downstairs. Captain’s orders.’
Margaret’s voice rose, a mixture of anxiety and frustration. ‘You don’t understand! I have to go there! I have to make sure – I have to look after my – my—’
Perhaps the WSO was more anxious than she wanted to let on. Her temper flared right back. She blew her whistle, trying to steer someone to the right, then pulled it from her pursed lips and hissed, ‘Don’t you think everyone has something they want to keep by them? Can you imagine the chaos if we let everyone start digging around for photograph albums or pieces of jewellery? It’s a fire. For all we know it could have started in the women’s cabins. Now, please move on or I’ll have to get someone to move you.’
Two marines were already locking the exit hatch. Margaret gazed around her, trying to locate another way down, and then, her chest tight, moved forwards in the crush.
‘Avice.’ Frances stood in the doorway of the silent dormitory, staring at the motionless form on the bunk in front of her. ‘Avice? Can you hear me?’
There was no response. For a minute, Frances had thought this was because Avice, like most of the brides, now declined to speak to her. She would not normally have persisted. But something, perhaps in the pale set of the other woman’s face, the dazed look in her eyes, made her ask again.
‘Just go away,’ came the reply. It sounded reduced, at odds with the aggression of the words.
Then the siren had started. Outside, in the gangway, a fire alarm rang, shrill and insistent, followed by the sound of rapid footfalls outside the door.
‘Attack party close up at fire in centre engine. Location centre engine. All passengers to the muster stations.’
Frances glanced behind her, all else forgotten. ‘Avice, that’s the alarm. We’ve got to go.’ At first she thought perhaps Avice had not understood what the siren meant. ‘Avice,’ she said irritably, ‘that means there’s a fire on board. We’ve got to go.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not going.’
‘You can’t stay here. I don’t think it’s a drill this time.’ The sound of the alarm sent adrenaline coursing through Frances. She realised she was waiting for the sound of an explosion. The war’s over, she told herself, and forced herself to breathe deeply. It’s over. But that didn’t explain the panicked sounds outside. What was it? A stray mine? There had been no thump of ammunition, no jarring vibration in the air that told of a direct hit. ‘Avice, we’ve got to—’
‘No.’
Frances stood in the middle of the dormitory, unable to make sense of the girl’s behaviour. Avice had never been in battle: her body would not thrill with fear at the mere sound of a siren. But she must understand. ‘Will you go with Margaret, for Pete’s sake?’ Perhaps it was because it was Frances asking her to leave.
Avice lifted her head. It was as if she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘You’re okay,’ she said, her voice hard. ‘You’ve got your husband, in spite of everything. Once you get off this ship you’re free, you’re respectable. I’ve got nothing but disgrace and humiliation ahead of me.’
The alarm had been joined by a distant Tannoy. ‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’ Frances was having trouble keeping her thoughts straight.
‘Avice, I—’
‘Look!’ Avice was holding out a letter. It was as if she were deaf to the anxious voices, feet running outside. ‘Look at it!’
Fear meant that initially Frances could not make sense of the words on the paper in front of her. It had sucked the moisture from her mouth, sent her thoughts tumbling against each other. Every cell was screaming at her to move towards the door, to safety. With Avice’s eyes on her, she ran her gaze distractedly over the letter again, this time picking out ‘sorry’ and grasped that she might be in the presence of some personal catastrophe. ‘Sort it out later,’ she said, gesturing towards the door. ‘Come on, Avice, let’s get to the muster station. Think of the baby.’
‘Baby? The baby?’ Avice stared at Frances as if she were an imbecile, then sank down on her pillow in weary resignation.
‘Oh, just go,’ she said. She buried her face in her pillow, leaving Frances to stand dumbly by the door.
It took Nicol several seconds to realise that the arms hauling at him were not Tims’s. He had been flailing around, fists flying, head moving dully backwards and forwards with each impact, but he was dimly conscious that the last time they had landed on flesh the wail of protest had not been the stoker’s. He reeled back, eyes stinging as he tried to focus, and gradually, became aware of Tims several feet away, two seamen bent over him.
