Page 57 of The Ship of Brides
Now that most were seated, Margaret could see that the crowd was mixed. It was the first time since they had slipped anchor that so many men and women had been gathered together without formal separation. The officers, though, stood apart in their whites. The heat on the deck evoked an expectant, festival atmosphere, and as she lumbered through the crowd, she was conscious of the women’s bare arms and legs, the bolder attention of the men.
A short distance away another heavily pregnant woman was looking for somewhere to sit, a sun hat on her head, her pale skin mottled in some uncomfortable reaction to the heat. She caught sight of Margaret and her face twisted into acknowledgement, part smile, part sympathy. Behind her, a man in overalls offered a laughing girl a paper cup, and she thought wistfully of Joe, buying her lemonade at a local fair on one of the first times they had walked out together.
She lowered herself into the space Jean had cleared for her, trying to prop herself on the hard surface in a way that wouldn’t make her limbs ache. Minutes later she found herself ducking inelegantly as a large crate was passed over the women’s heads by one of the ratings to a moustachioed engineer, whom she recognised from Dennis’s mess. ‘There you go, missus,’ he said, placing it beside her. ‘Sit yourself on that.’
‘Very civil of you,’ she said, embarrassed, a small part of her resentful that her condition meant she required it.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘We’re drawing lots over there, and none of us wanted the job of hauling you to your feet.’
Considering Margaret’s facility with bad language, it was perhaps fortunate that at that moment ‘Neptune’ arrived, in a wig made of unbraided rope, his face painted a violent green. He was surrounded by a number of equally outlandishly dressed companions, who were introduced as (a rather hairy) Queen Amphitrite, the Royal Doctor, Dentist and Barber, and the oversized Royal Baby, modesty protected by a towelling napkin and slathered in a layer of the grease more commonly associated with a well-tuned engine. Behind them, accompanied by the red-haired trumpet-player, came a band of bare-chested men, cheered loudly by the assembled troops and women, who were apparently to act as enforcers. They were introduced without explanation as ‘Bears’.
‘I’d dare to “bear”. Hey! I’d “bear all” for you, mate!’ Jean’s face was glowing with excitement. ‘Look at him! He’s as fit as a Mallee bull!’
‘Oh, Jean,’ sighed Avice.
Despite her air of exasperation, it was clear to everyone that Avice was feeling better. It was apparent in the way she had spent a full twenty minutes doing her hair, even without the aid of a proper mirror or hairspray. It was apparent in the way that she sprayed herself so liberally with scent that Maude Gonne had sneezed for almost half an hour. But it was mostly apparent in the sudden lifting of her spirits at being in mixed company. ‘Look. There’s all sorts of ranks here,’ she said happily, neck craned to make out who was in the crowd. ‘Look at all the stripes! I thought it was just going to be a load of horrid old engineers.’
Margaret and Frances exchanged a look.
‘And horrid old engineers’ wives?’ said Margaret, drily, but Avice didn’t appear to hear.
‘Oh, I wish I’d got out my dress with the blue flowers,’ she said, to no one in particular, as she eyed her cotton skirt. ‘It’s so much nicer.’
‘You all right?’ said Frances, nodding at Margaret’s belly. Despite her large, floppy sunhat, she seemed ill at ease.
‘Fine,’ said Margaret.
‘Need a drink or anything? It’s quite warm.’
‘No,’ said Margaret, a little impatiently.
‘I don’t mind going to the canteen.’ It was as if Frances was desperate to go.
‘Oh, stop fussing,’ said Avice, straightening her hem. ‘If she wants something, she’ll ask for it.’
‘I’ll speak for myself, thanks. I’m fine,’ said Margaret, turning to Frances. ‘I’m not ill, for goodness’ sake.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Well, don’t. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’ She lowered her head, fighting her ill-temper. Beside her, Frances had gone very still, reminding Margaret uncomfortably of Letty.
‘Hear ye, hear ye,’ said Neptune, lifting his trident so that it glinted in the sun. Slowly the noise subsided to a barely suppressed communal giggle, the odd whisper rippling through the crowd like a breeze across a cornfield. Satisfied that he had the women’s full attention, he lifted a scroll of paper.
‘You ladies now by Britain claim’d
Will find our company is shamed.
And offences grave and numerous here
Old Neptune’s court has come to hear.
Rating, captain, all the same,
Before our sea king’s judgement famed
And all will find their sins are met
With punishment both foul and wet,
