Page 63 of The Ship of Brides
‘Bit of an accident,’ said Tims, wiping bloodied hands on his trousers. He did not look at the woman. ‘We’ve just been sorting it out.’ He mouthed the words as much as spoke them.
The officer looked from his hands to Avice, to Margaret, was briefly distracted by Margaret’s belly. ‘What are you girls doing down here?’
She waited for an answer. No one spoke. Beside her, Avice realised, Irene’s hand was pressed to her chest, clutching a handkerchief, in the manner of a consumptive heroine. Her social assurance and confidence had deserted her and her mouth hung a little open.
When she turned back Tims had disappeared. The injured man now sat lopsidedly on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest.
‘You do know there are grave penalties for being in the men’s area?’
There was a heavy silence. The officer bent down, took in the state of the man, the fact that the other had vanished. Then she saw Jean. ‘Oh, my goodness. Please don’t tell me this is what I think it is.’
‘It’s not,’ said Margaret.
The woman’s eyes moved to her. ‘Oh, my goodness,’ she said again. ‘The captain will have to be informed.’
‘Why? It wasn’t us.’ Avice had yelled to be heard over the engines. ‘We only came to get Jean.’
‘Avice!’ Frances was scrambling to her feet. She stood between the woman and Jean’s prostrate form. ‘Leave it to us. We’ll get her back to her room.’
‘I can’t do that. I’ve been told to report any parties, any drinking, any... misdemeanours. I’ll need all your names.’
‘But it wasn’t us!’ said Avice, with a glance at Irene. ‘It’s only Jean who’s disgraced herself!’
‘Jean?’
‘Jean Castleforth,’ said Avice, desperately. ‘We really are nothing to do with it. We just came down because we heard she was in trouble.’
‘Jean Castleforth,’ said the woman. ‘And yours?’
‘But I haven’t so much as looked at another man! I don’t even like alcohol!’
‘I said we’ll take her home,’ said Frances. ‘I’m a nurse. I’ll look after her.’
‘You’re not suggesting I ignore this? Look at her!’
‘She’s just—’
‘She’s no better than a brass, is what she is!’
‘How dare you?’ Frances was surprisingly tall when she stood straight. Her features had sharpened. Her fists, Avice noted, were balled. ‘How dare you?’
‘Are you telling me they forced her to come down here?’ The woman wrinkled her nostrils against the smell of alcohol on Jean’s breath.
‘Why don’t we all just—’
Quivering with rage, Frances turned on Avice. ‘Get out of here! Just get away from me. And listen, you – you women’s officer, or whatever you are – you can’t report her for this, you hear? It wasn’t her fault.’
‘My orders are to report any misdemeanours.’
‘She’s sixteen years old. They’ve obviously got her drunk and... abused her. She’s sixteen!’
‘Old enough to know what she’s doing. She shouldn’t be down here. None of you should be.’
‘They got her drunk! Look at her! She’s virtually unconscious! You think she should lose her reputation, possibly her husband, because of this?’
‘I don’t—’
‘You can’t ruin the girl’s whole life because of one drunken moment!’ Frances was standing over the woman now, some sense of barely concealed – what was it?
