Page 64 of The Ship of Brides
Avice, shocked by this unrecognisable Frances, found herself instinctively stepping backwards.
The officer could see it too: she had squared up a little, in a manner that suggested some defensive strategy. ‘As I said, my orders are to—’
‘Oh, shut up about your bloody orders, you officious—’
It was impossible to say why Frances, flushed and electric, had lifted her arm but Margaret was already pulling her backwards. ‘Frances,’ she was murmuring, ‘calm down, okay? It’s okay.’
It was a few moments before Frances appeared to hear her. She was rigid, filled with tension. ‘No, it’s not okay. You’ve got to tell her,’ she said, her eyes glittering.
‘But you’re not helping her,’ said Margaret. ‘You hear me? You’ve got to back off.’
Something in Margaret’s eyes stayed Frances. She blinked several times, then let out a deep, shuddering breath.
Irene’s hand – she was still clutching the handkerchief – was shaking. As Avice looked away from it, the officer had turned and, as if grateful for the means of escape, was walking briskly, with purpose, down the passageway.
‘She’s just a kid!’ Frances yelled. But the woman was gone.
11
Congratulations to Mrs H. Skinner and Mrs H. Dill who both have wedding anniversaries this week. Mrs Skinner has been married two years and Mrs Dill a year and although this happy occasion may find them separated from their husbands we sincerely hope that this will be the last anniversary they will spend apart and wish them every happiness in their future life.
‘Celebration Time’,Daily Ship News,
from the papers of Avice R. Wilson, war bride,
Imperial War Museum
Eighteen days
At sea, it was impossible to say at what time dawn broke, not because it varied from day to day, or continent to continent, but because across the flattened arc of a marine horizon the glowing crack that sheared into the darkness could be seen hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles away, long before it might be visible on land, long before it meant a new day. And, more importantly, because below decks, in a narrow passageway without windows or doors, without anything but artificial light, it was impossible to tell whether it had happened at all.
This was one, but not the only, reason Henry Nicol did not like the hour between five and six in the morning. Once he had enjoyed the early watch, when the seas had been new and magical to him, when, unused to living in such close quarters with other men, he had relished the quietest time aboard ship: those last dark minutes before the ship segued into the mechanics of its day and woke, by degrees, around him. The one time he could imagine himself the only person in the world.
Later, when he had been home on leave and the children were babies, one or both would inevitably wake at this time, and he would hear his wife slide heavily out of bed, half seeing, if he chose to open an eye, her hand reaching unconsciously to her pin curls, the other reaching for her dressing-gown as she whispered, ‘Hold on, Mother’s coming.’ He would turn over, pinned to his pillow by the familiar mix of guilt and impatience, aware even in half-sleep of his own failure to feel what he should for the woman padding across the linoleum: gratitude, desire, even love.
For some time now 0500 had become not the herald of a new dawn but a bald figure of timing for conversion: in America, it would be five o’clock the previous evening. And in America, his 1900 hours would be waking-up time for his boys. But this time the distance in geography would be only half of it: their whole lives would be running on different time lines. He had often wondered how they would remember him, if they could not imagine him existing half a day, even a whole day ahead. Now there would be no more thinking of them in the present tense, imagining, as he sometimes did, They’ll be having breakfast now. They’ll be brushing their teeth. They might be outside, playing with a ball, a car, the wagon I made for them from bits of wood. Now he would think of them historically.
Some other man’s hands throwing the ball.
On the other side of the steel door a woman murmured in sleep, her voice rising as if in a question. Then silence.
Nicol stared at his watch, adjusted the previous day as they entered another time zone. My hours are speeding towards nothing, he thought. No home, no sons, no heroic return. I have given up my best years and watched my friends freeze, drown and burn. I have given up my innocence, my friends their lives, so that I might grieve for what I was never sure I even wanted. At least, until it was too late.
Nicol leant back, hardened his mind against the familiar thoughts, trying to dislodge the huge weight that had settled upon him, that pulled on his heart and lungs. Willing the last hour to pass faster. Willing the dawn to come.
‘Off caps!’
The paymaster failed to look up as the seaman stepped forward, swivelled his cap from his head and laid it on the table before him. The two men at his side were flicking through drawers of banknotes, passing each other handwritten slips.
‘Andrews, sir. Air mechanic, first class. Seven two two one nine seven two. Sir.’
As the younger man stood expectantly before him, the paymaster flipped pages, then ran his finger swiftly down his accounts book. ‘Three pounds twelve shillings.’
‘Three pounds twelve shillings,’ repeated the paymaster’s assistant, beside him.
The mechanic cleared his throat. ‘Sir – with respect, sir – that’s less than we were getting before Australia, sir.’
The paymaster wore the expression of one who had heard every complaint, every financial try-on not once but several thousand times. ‘We were serving in the Pacific, Andrews. You were getting extra pay for operating in a war zone. Would you like us to organise a couple of kamikaze guests to warrant your extra two shillings?’
