Page 48 of The Ship of Brides
‘What’s he in for, Nicol?’
‘Quarrels and disturbances, sir. And drunkenness.’
‘Not like you, Soames.’
‘No, sir.’
The older man shook his head. ‘You speaking for him, are you, Nicol?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make sure you get some sleep afterwards. You’re on watch again tonight. You look bloody awful.’ He nodded at the younger man. ‘Soames, it’s a bad business. Use your loaf next time, not your fists.’
The master-at-arms moved slowly on to the next man – conduct to the prejudice of good order, drugs/alcohol – and Soames slumped against the wall.
‘You’re all for it,’ the master-at-arms said. ‘It’s the captain today, not the executive officer, and I can tell you he’s not in the best of moods.’
‘I’m going to get it, aren’t I?’ Soames groaned.
In normal circumstances Nicol might have disputed this, might have been reassuring, upbeat. But with one hand still resting against the letter in his trouser pocket, he had neither the energy nor the desire to make someone else feel better. He had put off opening it for days, guessing, dreading the nature of its contents. Now, seven days after they had left Sydney, he knew.
As if knowing could ever make anything any better.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.
Dear Henry,
I’m disappointed but not surprised I haven’t heard back from you. I want to say again how sorry I am. I never set out to hurt you. But we have had hardly a word from you in so long, and I am really very fond of Anton. And he is a good man, a kind man, who pays me a lot of heed...
This is not meant to be a criticism of you. I know we were awfully young when we married, and perhaps if the war had not come when it did... Still, as we both know, our world today is full of such if-onlys...
He had read the first paragraph and thought that, ironically, life was easier when his letters were still censored.
It was almost twenty minutes before they were up. They paused outside the captain’s office, then Nicol followed the younger man in and they saluted. Captain Highfield was seated behind the desk, flanked by the marine captain and a lieutenant Nicol didn’t recognise, who was writing something in a ledger. For some seconds he gave no sign that he was aware of the new occupants of the room.
Nicol nudged the younger man. ‘Cap,’ he hissed, his own black beret held in front of him. Soames removed his.
The officer beside the captain read out the charge: the boy had been scrapping with another dabber in the seamen’s mess. He had also been drinking – spirits, far in excess of the daily ‘sippers’ ration to ratings.
‘How do we plead?’ said Captain Highfield, still writing. He had tall, elegant script, somehow at odds with his short, stubby fingers.
‘Guilty, sir,’ said Soames.
Yes, I am guilty. And weak. But, to be truthful, for the last four years I might as well have been a widow for the word I have had from you. I spent three of those years lying awake week after week praying for your safety; that you might come back to us, talking to the children of you daily, even when I suspected you did not remember us. When you did come back you were like a stranger.
Finally, the captain looked up. He eyed the young man, then addressed the marine. ‘Nicol, isn’t it?’
‘Sir.’
‘What can you tell me about this young man’s character?’
Nicol cleared his throat, gathered his thoughts. ‘He’s been with us a little over a year, sir. A dabber. He’s been very steady during that time, hard-working, quiet.’ He paused. ‘A good sort.’
‘So, Soames, given this glowing character reference, what turned you into a brawling idiot?’
The boy’s head dipped. ‘Look up, man, when you’re talking to me.’
‘Sir.’ He blushed. ‘It’s my girl, sir. She... she was to see me off in Sydney. We’ve been stepping out some time. But she’s been... well, it’s one of the others in C Deck, sir.’
