Page 121 of The Ship of Brides
The marine, inches from her bed, was staring at her. Frances felt the warmth of his eyes and savoured it. She could still feel the imprint of his arm round her as he half walked, half carried her back on board, his head so close to hers that, if she had inclined her neck a little further, she could have felt his skin against hers.
‘Now, Mrs Radley, are you comfortable?’
‘Fine,’ Avice said, into her pillow.
‘Good. I’ve got to pop next door and get the men comfortable, but I’ll be back as soon as I can. When you’re feeling up to it, I’ve brought you some nice clean clothes to change into. I’ll put them just here.’ She placed the carefully folded pile on a small cabinet. ‘Now, I’m sure you ladies could do with a cup of tea. Marine, would you do the honours? It’s chaos downstairs and I don’t want to have to fight my way to the galley.’
‘I’d be delighted.’
She felt his hand, the brief squeeze, and for a second she forgot about this room, about Avice, the fire. She was on a lifeboat, her eyes locked on to this man’s, saying everything she had ever wanted to say, everything she had never believed she would want to say, without uttering a word.
‘I’ll take a look at those cuts later,’ she murmured to him, and fought the urge to touch his face. She imagined how his skin would feel under her fingertips, the tenderness with which she would care for the bruised flesh.
He glanced behind him as he walked towards the door. Smiled when he saw she was still watching him, one hand raised unconsciously to her hair.
‘I don’t suppose you particularly want to be stuck with me, do you?’ As he closed the door, Avice’s voice cut into the silence.
Reluctantly, Frances brought her thoughts to the woman in front of her. ‘I don’t mind who I’m with,’ she replied coolly.
It was as if their hours in the lifeboat had never happened, as if Avice, uncomfortable at having been rescued by this woman, was now determined to restore the distance between them.
‘I’ve got a stomach-ache. This bodice is too tight. Will you help me out of it?’
Avice slid slowly out of her bed, her hair separated into pale, salted fronds. Frances helped her out of the ruined party dress, the stiff girdle and brassière, with impersonal care. It was only as she helped Avice back on to the bed that she saw the mark spreading slowly across the back of the peach silk robe. She stooped to pick up the soiled dress and saw further evidence. She waited until Avice had lain down, then stood stiffly beside her. ‘I have to tell you something,’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding.’
In the little room, piled high with boxes, they examined the robe in silence. Avice took it off and stared at the ruby stain, which was even now making its way on to the sheet. She saw in Frances’s face what it meant. There was no visible change in her demeanour. She accepted the clean towel that Frances fetched without comment.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Frances, a pebble of discomfort lodged inside her. ‘It – it may have been the shock of the water.’ She had been prepared for Avice to scream at her, that she might relish the chance to add this lost child to Frances’s list of supposed sins. But she said nothing, just acceded to Frances’s quiet requests to lie still, put this towel there, take a painkiller or two.
Finally she spoke. ‘Just as well, really,’ she said. ‘Poor little bastard.’
There was a brief, shocked silence, as if even she was surprised by her choice of words.
Frances’s eyes widened.
Avice shook her head. Then suddenly, lurching up and forward like somebody choking, she began to wail. Racking sobs filled the little room and she sank back on to the narrow bed, her face buried in the sheet, the muffled noise passing through her as if with seismic tremors.
Frances dropped the dress, clambered quietly on to Avice’s bed and sat beside her, stunned. She stayed there for some time until, unable to bear the terrible sound any longer, she put her arms round the girl and held her. Avice neither pushed her away nor leant in to her. It was as if she was so locked into her own private unhappiness that she did not know Frances was there.
‘It will be all right,’ Frances said, not knowing if she could justify her words. ‘It will be all right.’
It was some time before the sobbing subsided. Frances fetched more painkillers from the dispensary and a sedative, in case it proved necessary. When she returned, Avice was lying back against the wall, a pillow propped under her. She wiped her eyes, then gestured to Frances to pass her her dress, from which she pulled a piece of tattered, damp paper. ‘Here, you can read this properly now,’ she said.
‘Not Wanted Don’t Come?’
‘No. Oh, he wants me, all right...’
Avice thrust it towards her and, conscious that they had traversed some barrier, Frances took it and this time read properly the bits that had not run in the waters of the Atlantic.
I should have told you this a long time ago. But I love you, darling, and I couldn’t bear the thought of your sad face when I told you, or the slightest possibility of losing you... Please don’t misunderstand me – I’m not asking you not to come. You need to know that the relationship between me and my wife is far more like brother and sister than anything. You, my darling, mean far more to me than she ever could...
I want you to know I meant every word I said in Australia. But you must understand – the children are so young, and I am not the type to take my responsibilities lightly. Perhaps when they are a little older we can think again?
So, I know I’m asking a lot of you, but just think about this in your days left on board. I’ve got a fair bit put away, and I could set you up in a lovely little place in London. And I can be with you a couple of nights a week, which, when you think of it, is more than most wives see their men in the Navy...
Avice, you always said that us being together was all that mattered. Prove to me, darling, that this was the truth...
As Frances digested the final words, she didn’t know whether she should look Avice full in the face. She did not want her to think she was gloating. ‘What will you do?’ she said carefully.
