Page 120 of The Ship of Brides
‘Think you can limp into harbour?’
Highfield sat in the bridge, watching the grey skies clear to reveal patches of pure blue, as if in apology for the evening before. ‘We’re less than a day away. We’ve got one working engine. I don’t see why not.’
‘Sounds like the old girl suffered a bit.’ McManus’s voice was low. ‘And a little bird tells me you were a little too stuck in for comfort.’
Highfield dismissed thoughts of armament clamps and his raw throat. He took another swig of the honey and lemon that his steward had prepared for him. ‘Fine, sir. Nothing to worry about. The men... looked after me.’
‘Good man. I’ll take a look at your report. Glad you were able to bring it all under control – without frightening the ladies too much, I mean.’ His laugh echoed tinnily down the wire.
Highfield stepped out of the bridge, and stood on the flight deck. At the aft end, a row of men were making their way slowly along it, scrubbing off traces of the smoke that had filtered upwards, their buckets of grey, foaming water slopping as they went. They worked around the areas that had buckled, which were not safe to walk on. Several marines had been busy constructing barriers around them. The damage was visible, but it was all orderly. When they sailed into Plymouth, Highfield’s ship would be under control.
He had not lost a single one.
No one was close enough to hear the shaking breath that Highfield slowly let out as he turned to go back into the bridge. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.
At least a hundred women had queued patiently by the main hatch since breakfast, waiting to be allowed back to their cabins. There had been hushed conversations about the state of their belongings, fears for cherished and carefully chosen arrival outfits now perhaps wrecked by water and smoke. Although there was no obvious damage on this deck, a brush against a wall or bunk left one with a shadow that revealed everything was veiled with a fine layer of soot. As they stood and talked, quieting for every piped instruction in case it heralded their being allowed in, more women drifted towards the queue.
Margaret, heavily pregnant and cumbersome as she was, tore through the hatch the minute it was opened, and was already in her cabin by the time the other brides had made it to the bottom of the stairwell. ‘Maudie! Maudie!’
The door had been open. She knelt down and peered under the two bottom bunks. ‘Maudie!’ she cried.
‘Have you tried the canteen? There’s a lot of them still up there.’ A WSO had stuck her head briefly round the door. Margaret turned and stared at her perplexed, until she realised the woman thought she was looking for another bride.
‘Maudie!’ She checked under every blanket, lifting bedrolls and tearing the sheets from the bunks in her desperation. Nothing. She was not in the beds, in any of the bags. She was not even in Margaret’s hat, traditionally her place of comfort.
Margaret was hit with the scale of the search ahead at the exact moment she heard the scream. She stood very still for a minute, and then, as someone else cried, ‘What on earth is it?’ she threw herself out of the door and lumbered down the passageway to the bathrooms.
Afterwards she thought she had probably known even before she got there. It was the only other place Maudie knew on the ship, the only other place she must have thought she might find Margaret. She stood in the doorway, staring at the girls gathered by the sinks. She followed their eyes to the little dog lying pressed against the back of the door, several dark streaks on the tiled wall where she must have tried to scrabble her way out.
Margaret stepped forward and fell to her knees on the damp floor. A great sob escaped her. The dog’s limbs were stiff, the body cold. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’
Margaret’s face crumpled like a child’s. She gathered the little dog’s body into her arms. ‘Oh, Maudie, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’
She stayed there for some minutes, kissing the wet hair, trying to will the body into life, knowing that it was hopeless.
She did not actually cry, those watching reported, just sat, holding the dog, as if absorbing some great pain.
Eventually, at the point where the anxious glances around her became whispers, she peeled off her cardigan and folded the dog into it. Then, with a grunt, one hand on the smudged wall, she got to her feet. She held the bundle close to her, as one would hold a baby.
‘Would you... would you like me to fetch someone?’ A woman laid a hand on her arm.
She didn’t seem to hear.
Crying bitterly, Margaret walked back along the passageway, clasping her swaddled burden. Those who were not preoccupied with their own smoked belongings peered into it, curious about this baby’s identity.
An uneasy hush had descended on the ship. Those women returning to their cabins did not chatter with relief, even though the worst damage to anyone’s belongings had been a coating of soot. The night had shown them the precariousness of their position, and it had shaken them. The voyage was no longer an adventure. There was not one who wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by an ache to be home. Whatever that turned out to be.
The WSO placed a hand under her arm as Frances lifted herself on to the bed, surprised by how tired that small act made her feel. The woman pulled a blanket over her, then made to adjust the other round her shoulders. The marine removed his own supporting arm, and let go of her hand with a hint of reluctance. She caught his eye and her exhaustion briefly disappeared.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, to the WSO. ‘Thank you, but really I am. I’d be just as good in my own bunk.’
‘Dr Duxbury says anyone who’s been in the water needs to spend a few hours under observation. You might have hypothermia.’
‘I can assure you I haven’t.’
‘Orders are orders. You’ll probably be out by teatime.’ The WSO moved to Avice’s bed, tucking in her blankets in a brisk, maternal gesture that reminded Frances suddenly of the hospital at Morotai. But they were in a side room off the infirmary, some kind of detergent store, Frances guessed, from the boxes around them and the pervasive smell of bleach. There were charts on the walls, with lists of supplies, and locked cabinets containing items that might be flammable. Frances shivered.
‘Sorry about the room,’ the WSO was saying. ‘We need the infirmary for the men who inhaled smoke, and we couldn’t have you mixing. This was the only place we could put you two. Only for a few hours, though, eh?’
