Page 55 of The Ship of Brides
‘Why didn’t you want promotion?’
‘Don’t know.’ Possibly he realised this had sounded a little abrupt, because he went on, ‘Perhaps I never saw myself as sergeant material.’
His face seemed frozen into disappointment, she thought, and his eyes, while not unfriendly, told of his discomfort with casual conversation. She knew that look: she wore it habitually too.
His gaze briefly met hers and slid away. ‘Perhaps I never wanted the responsibility.’
It was then that she spotted the photograph. He must have been looking at it before she came. A black and white picture, a little smaller than a man’s wallet, tucked into his right hand between finger and thumb. ‘Yours?’ she said, nodding towards his hand.
He lifted it, and looked at it as if for the first time. ‘Yes.’
‘Boy and girl?’
‘Two boys.’
She apologised, and they smiled awkwardly. ‘My youngest needed a haircut.’ He handed it to her. She took it, held it under the light and studied the beaming faces, unsure what she was meant to say. ‘They look nice.’
‘Picture’s eighteen months old. They’ll have grown some.’
She nodded, as if he had shared with her some piece of parental wisdom.
‘You?’
‘Oh. No...’ She handed back the picture. ‘No.’
They stood in silence again.
‘You miss them?’
‘Every day.’ Then his voice hardened. ‘They probably don’t even remember what I look like.’
She did not know what to say: whatever she was intruding on would not be eased by a cigarette and a few minutes of small-talk. She felt suddenly that engaging him in conversation had been rash and misjudged. His job was to stand outside their door. He had no choice if she chose to talk to him. He would not want to be bothered by women at all hours.
‘I’ll leave you,’ she said, quietly, then added, ‘Thank you for the cigarette.’ She trod it out, then bent down to pick up the butt. She was afraid to take it into the cabin – what would she do with it in the dark? But if she put it into her pocket it might burn through the fabric. He had failed to notice her predicament, but as she hesitated by the door he turned. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out a hand. The palm was weathered, leathery with years of salt and hard work.
She shook her head, but he held his hand closer, insistent. She placed the little butt on it, and blushed. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered.
‘No problem.’
‘Goodnight, then.’
She opened the door, was sliding silently round it into the darkness when she heard his voice. It was quiet enough to reassure her that her judgement of him had been right, but light enough to show he had not taken offence. Light enough to suggest some kind of offering.
‘So, whose is the dog?’ it asked.
10
The voyage was a nightmare. Due to breakdowns, it took eight weeks. We had one murder, one suicide, one Airforce Officer who went crazy etc. All of this against the background of a crew neglecting their work in order to have time to pursue ‘brides’ and later to engage in virtually public, gymnastic sexual activity with them. They appeared to use every available location on the ship, including one couple who specialised in the ‘Crows Nests’.
from the papers of the late Richard Lowery, naval architect
Sixteen days
The first Not Wanted Don’t Come arrived on the morning of the sixteenth day the brides had been on board. The telegram arrived just after eight a.m. in the radio room, shortly after the long-range weather reports. Its content was noted by the radio operator. He carried it swiftly to the captain, who was eating toast and porridge in his rooms. He read it, then summoned the chaplain, who summoned the relevant WSO, and all three spent some time pontificating on what was known of the character of the bride concerned, and how well – or otherwise – she was likely to take the news.
The subject of the telegram, a Mrs Millicent Newcombe (née Sumpter) was called in to the captain’s office at ten thirty a.m. – it had been thought only fair to let the girl enjoy a good breakfast first; many had not yet entirely recovered from seasickness. She arrived white-faced, convinced that her husband, a pilot, flying Seafires, had been shot down and was missing, presumed dead. So great had been her distress that none of the three was quick enough to tell her the truth, and merely stood uncomfortably as she sobbed into her handkerchief. Eventually Captain Highfield put matters straight, telling her in a sonorous voice that he was terribly sorry but it wasn’t that. It really wasn’t that at all. Then he had handed her the telegram.
Afterwards, he told his steward, she had gone quite pale – paler even than when she had suspected her husband’s death. She had asked, several times, whether they thought it was a joke, and when she heard that all such telegrams were investigated and verified as a matter of course, she had sat down, squinting at the words in front of her as if they didn’t make sense. ‘It’s his mother,’ she said. ‘I knew she’d do for me. I knew it.’
