Page 52 of The Ship of Brides
‘Have you anything planned for this afternoon?’
Frances had been studying a copy ofDaily Ship News. She looked up sharply with the guarded expression that made Avice want to yell, ‘It isn’t a trick question, you know.’ Her pale red hair was pulled into a tight chignon. If she had been anyone else, Avice would have offered to do her something more flattering. She’d be pretty if she brightened herself up a little.
‘No,’ said Frances. Then, when the ensuing silence threatened to overwhelm them both, ‘I thought I might just sit here for a while.’
‘Oh. Well, I suppose the weather’s improved, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought the lecture sounded rather dull today,’ said Avice. She abhorred a conversational vacuum.
‘Oh?’
‘Rationing and somesuch.’ She sniffed. ‘Frankly, once we get to England I plan to do as little cooking as possible.’
Behind them a group of girls pushed back their chairs noisily and rose from their table, barely breaking their conversation.
The two women watched them go.
‘Have you finished your letter?’ Frances asked.
Avice’s hand closed over her writing-pad, as if its contents might somehow become visible. ‘Yes.’ It had come out sharper than she’d intended. She made a conscious effort to relax. ‘It’s to my sister.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve written two others this morning. One to Ian, and another to an old schoolfriend. She’s the daughter of the McKillens?’
Frances shook her head.
Avice sighed. ‘They’re very big in property. I hadn’t written to Angela since I left Melbourne... I don’t know when we’ll be able to post them, though. I’d love to know when I’ll get one from Ian.’ She examined her fingernails. ‘I’m hoping it will be Ceylon. I’ve been told they might bring aboard post there.’
She had dreamt of a fat little cushion of Ian’s letters, waiting in some sweltering tropical post office. She would tie them with red ribbon and read them in private, luxuriously, one at a time, like someone enjoying a box of chocolates. ‘It’s rather strange,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘going all this way and not speaking for so long.’ Her finger traced Ian’s name on the envelope. ‘Sometimes it all feels a bit unreal. Like I can’t believe I married this man, and now I’m on this boat in the middle of nowhere. When you can’t speak to them, it’s hard to keep hold of the fact that it’s all real.’
Five weeks and four days since his last letter. The first she had received as a married woman.
‘I try to imagine what he’s thinking now, because the worst thing about waiting so long for letters is that you know all the feelings are out of date. Things he might have been upset about then will have passed. Sunsets he described are long gone. I don’t even know where he is. The one thing we all count on, I suppose, is that their feelings for us haven’t changed, even if we’re not speaking. I suppose that’s our test of faith.’
Her voice had dropped, become contemplative. She realised that for several minutes she had forgotten to feel sick. She sat up a bit. ‘Don’t you think?’
Something odd happened to Frances’s expression: it closed over, became neutral, mask-like. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
And Avice knew she might as well have said that the sky had gone green. She felt unbalanced and irritated, as if her gesture towards intimacy had been deliberately rebuffed. She was almost tempted to say something to that effect but at that moment Margaret waddled back to the table bearing a tea tray. Propped in her mug was a large vanilla ice-cream, the third she had eaten since they had sat there.
‘Listen to this, girls. Old Jean will love it. There’s going to be a crossing-the-line ceremony. It’s a sailors’ tradition, apparently, about crossing the equator, and there’s going to be all sorts of fun on the flight deck. The guy at the tea urn just told me.’
Frances’s rudeness was forgotten. ‘Will we have to get dressed up?’ Avice’s hand had risen to her hair.
‘Dunno. I know nothing about it – they’re going to post something on the main noticeboard later. But it’ll be a laugh, right? Something to do?’
‘Ugh. I’m not joining in. Not with my stomach.’
‘Frances?’ Margaret had bitten the top off her cone. A small blob of ice-cream was stuck to the tip of her nose.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ah, come on,’ said Margaret. The chair creaked in protest as she sat down. ‘Let your hair down, woman. Cut loose a little.’
Frances gave her a tentative smile, showing small white teeth. She might even, Avice saw, with a start, be beautiful. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.
