Page 82 of The Ship of Brides
‘I am. I want a real humdinger of a storm. One I can tell Stan about. Oh, I know we won’t feel much on a big old girl like this, but I’d like to sit up here and watch. A bit of excitement, you know? Like the movies, but real. Far as I’m concerned, it’s all getting a bit boring.’
Frances gazed out of the window. Some unfathomable distance away bolts of lightning illuminated the skies. The rain was heavier now, hammering on the metal roof so that they had to speak up to be heard. On the other side of the canteen several brides were pointing at the distant horizon.
‘Oh, come on, Frances. You like a bit of excitement too, don’t you? Look at that lightning! You telling me that doesn’t get you a bit – you know?’ Jean jiggled on her seat. ‘I mean, look at it.’
Just for a moment, Frances allowed herself to see the squall as Jean did, to let its raw energy flood over her, illuminate her, charge her up. But the habits of years were too strong, and when she turned to Jean, her demeanour was calm, measured. ‘You might want to be careful what you wish for,’ she said. But she kept her eyes on the distant storm.
They were about to leave, standing beside each other at the canteen doorway, waiting for the rain to ease off a little so that they could bolt towards the hatch that led down to the cabins, when the rating arrived. He pushed through the door, dripping wet after having made the short journey across the deck, bringing with him a gust of the rain-soaked cool air.
‘I’m looking for a Jean Castleforth,’ he said, reading from a piece of paper. ‘Jean Castleforth.’ His voice had been portentous.
‘That’s me.’ Jean grabbed the man’s arm. ‘Why?’
The rating’s expression was unreadable. ‘You’ve been called to the captain’s office, madam.’ Then, as Jean stood still, her expression rigid, he said to Frances, as if Jean were no longer there, ‘She’s one of the young ones, right? I’ve been told it’s best if someone comes with her.’
Those words halted any further questions. He led them on what Frances thought afterwards was the longest short walk of her life. Suddenly heedless of the rain, they strode briskly across the hangar deck, past the torpedo store, and up some stairs until they reached a door. The rating rapped on it sharply. When he heard, ‘Enter,’ he opened it, stood back, one arm out, and they walked in. At some point during the walk, Jean had slid her hand into Frances’s and was now gripping it tightly.
The room, set on three sides with windows, was much brighter than the narrow passageway and they blinked. Three people were silhouetted against one of the windows, and two faced them. Frances noted absently that the floor was carpeted, unlike anywhere else on the ship.
She saw with alarm that the chaplain was there, then recognised the women’s officer who had come across them that night in the engine area. The temperature seemed to drop and she shivered.
Jean’s eyes darted round the grim faces in front of her and she was shaking convulsively. ‘Something has happened to him, hasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Oh, God, you’re going to tell me something’s happened to him. Is he all right? Tell me, is he all right?’
The captain exchanged a brief look with the chaplain, then stepped forward and handed Jean a telegram.
‘I’m very sorry, my dear,’ he said.
Jean looked at the telegram, then up at the captain. ‘M... H... Is that an H?’ She traced the letters with her finger. ‘A? You read it for me,’ she said, and thrust it at Frances. Her hand shook so much that the paper made a rattling sound.
Frances took it in her left hand, keeping hold of Jean’s hand in the other. The girl’s grip was now so tight that the blood was pooling in her fingertips.
She took in the content of the telegram a second before she read it out. The words dropped from her mouth like stones. ‘“Have heard about behaviour on board. No future for us.”’ She swallowed. ‘“Not Wanted Don’t Come.”’
Jean stared at the telegram, then at Frances.
‘What?’ she said, into the silence. Then: ‘Read it again.’
Frances wished that in the telling of those words there was some way to soften their impact.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Jean.
‘News travels between ships,’ said the WSO, quietly. ‘Someone must have told one of the other carriers when we docked at Ceylon.’
‘But no one knew. Apart from you...’
‘When we spoke to your husband’s superiors to verify the telegram, they said he was rather disturbed by news of your pregnancy.’ She paused. ‘I understand that, according to your given dates, it would be impossible for him to be the father.’ The woman spoke cruelly, Frances thought, as if she were pleased to have found some other stick with which to beat Jean. As if the Not Wanted Don’t Come had not been sufficiently damaging.
Jean had gone white. ‘But I’m not pregnant – that was—’
‘I think in the circumstances, he probably feels that is irrelevant.’
‘But I haven’t had a chance to explain to him. I need to speak to him. He’s got it all wrong.’
Frances stepped in. ‘It wasn’t her fault. Really. It was a misunderstanding.’
The woman’s expression said she had heard this many times. The men just looked embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the captain. ‘We have spoken to the Red Cross and arrangements will be put in place for your passage back to Australia. You will disembark at—’
