Page 124 of The Ship of Brides
They toasted Sister Luke, her future husband, the end of the war and Churchill for good measure. Shortly after ten o’clock they walked out into the tented ward, a little more erect, a little less relaxed, as they stood before their charges.
‘She’s in B Ward,’ said the sister, who was reading a letter at the night desk.
‘With Corporal Mackenzie,’ said the matron, turning to Captain Baillie not a little triumphantly. It would work out well for everyone. ‘There, you see?’
They walked through the sandy pathway between the beds, careful not to wake those men already sleeping, then pushed back the curtain to enter the next ward, Captain Baillie pausing to slap, with a curse, the mosquito that had landed on the back of his neck. Then they stopped.
Sister Luke glanced up as she heard them enter. She looked at them with wide, unreadable eyes. She was leaning over Alfred ‘Chalkie’ Mackenzie’s bed, three-quarters of which was still covered by a mosquito net. She was pulling a white Navy-issue sheet over his face.
Avice was sleeping when the marine returned with two new, still-hot cups of tea. He knocked twice and entered, watching his feet as he crossed the little room. He placed the two mugs on the table between the beds. He had been half hoping that the WSO would be with them.
Frances had been standing over Avice and jumped, evidently having not expected to see him. A little colour rose to her cheeks. He thought she looked exhausted. A few hours ago he might have given in to the urge to touch her. Now, having heard her words, he knew he would not. He moved back towards the door and stood, legs apart, shoulders square, as if to reaffirm something to himself.
‘I – I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d been called off to do something else.’
‘I’m sorry I took so long.’
‘Dr Duxbury’s given me the all-clear. I’m just getting my things together so I can go back. Avice will probably spend tonight in here. I may come back to make sure she’s okay. They’re a bit overstretched.’
‘She all right?’
‘She’ll get there,’ Frances said. ‘I was going to find Maggie. How is she?’
‘Not too good. The dog...’
‘Oh.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, no. And she’s all by herself?’
‘I’m sure she’d be glad of your company.’ She still hadn’t changed her clothes and he ached to wipe the dark smudge from her cheek. His hand tightened behind him.
She stepped forward, glanced back at the sleeping Avice. ‘I thought about what you said,’ she said, her voice low and conspiratorial, ‘that the war has made us all do things we’re not proud of. Until you said that, I had always thought I was the only one...’
He had not anticipated this. He took a step backwards, not trusting himself to speak, half wanting to cry to her not to go on. Half desperate to hear her words.
‘I know we haven’t always been able to speak... honestly. That it’s... complicated, and that other loyalties might not always...’ She tailed off, and her eyes flashed up at him. ‘But I wanted to thank you for that. You’ve... I’ll always be glad you told me. I’ll always be so grateful that we met each other.’ The last words were rushed, as if she had had to force them out while she still had the courage to say them.
He felt suddenly small, wretched. ‘Yes. Well,’ he said, when he could form words, ‘it’s always nice to have made a friend.’ He felt mean even opening his mouth as he added, ‘Ma’am.’
There was a little pause.
‘Ma’am?’ she repeated.
The shy smile had disappeared; a movement so delicate he thought only he could have detected it. I have no choice, he wanted to shout at her. It is for you I’m doing this.
She searched his face. What she found there made her look down and away from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go now. Things to do. But... you’ll like England.’
‘Thank you. I’ve heard a lot about it from the lectures.’
The rebuke in her words felt like a blow. ‘Look... I hope you’ll always think of me...’ his hands were rigid at his sides ‘...as your friend.’ That word had never sounded so unwelcome.
She blinked a little too swiftly, and in shame he made himself look away.
‘That’s very kind, but I don’t think so, Marine,’ she said. She let out a small breath, then turned, and began to refold the clothes in the little pile on her bed. Her voice, when it shot back, was sharp with hurt: ‘After all, I don’t even know your name.’
Margaret stood towards the aft end of the flight deck by the lashings, a cardigan stretched round her thickened waist, a headscarf trying and failing to stop her hair whipping too hard round her face. Her back was to the bridge and her head was dipped over the bundle in her arms.
The skies were grey now, rain-laden clouds hanging heavy and sullen in the sky. Huge, wheeling albatross tailed the boat, riding the therms as if they were attached by invisible wires. From time to time she looked down at the little bundle and more tears plopped on to the woollen fabric, darkening it in small, irregular spots. She wiped them gently with a thumb and uttered another silent apology to the stiff little body.
