The days were marked off for some women by letter-writing and devotions, for others by lectures and movies, punctuated by walks round the free sections of the blustery deck or by the odd game of bingo. With food provided, and their lives dictated by the rules, there were few decisions to make. Marooned on their floating island, they became passive, surrendered themselves to these new rhythms, surrounded by nothing except the slowly changing climate, the increasingly dramatic sunsets, the endless ocean. Gradually, inevitably, in the same way as a pregnant woman cannot imagine the birth, it became harder to look forward to their destination, too much of a struggle to imagine the unknown.
Still harder to think back.
In this stilled atmosphere, news of the Not Wanted Don’t Come filtered through the ship as rapidly and pervasively as a virus. The collective mood, which had taken on a hint of holiday as the girls felt less nauseous, was suddenly, distantly, fraught. A new low note of anxiety underlay the conversation in the canteen; a spate of headaches and palpitations presented themselves to the sick bay. There was a rapid rise in the number of queries about when the next batch of letters was to arrive. At least one bride confided in the chaplain that she thought she might have changed her mind, as if by saying the words, and hearing his reassurance, she could ward off the possibility of her husband doing the same.
That one piece of paper, and its four bald words, had brought home to them rudely the reality of their situation. It told them that their future was not necessarily their own, that other unseen forces were even now dictating the months and years to follow. It reminded them that many had married in haste, and that no matter what they felt, what sacrifices they had made, they were now waiting, like sitting ducks, for their husbands to repent at leisure.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the arrival that afternoon of King Neptune and his cohorts prompted an atmosphere on board that could at best be described as fevered and at worst as manic.
After lunch Margaret had dragged the others up on to the flight deck. Avice had declared she would rather rest on her bunk, that she was feeling too delicate to enjoy herself. Frances had said, in her cool little voice, that she didn’t think it was her kind of thing. Margaret, who had not failed to notice the chill in the air between the two, and a little unbalanced herself by the discovery in the bathroom that morning of a weeping girl convinced – in the face of no evidence – that she was about to get a telegram, had determined it would do them all good to go.
Her motives were not entirely selfless: she didn’t want to act as a buffer for the others’ jangling moods, couldn’t face yet another afternoon ricocheting aimlessly between the canteen and the confines of the dormitory.
Jean, at least, had needed no persuading.
When they had emerged outside, the flight deck – normally deserted apart from rows of attentive seagulls, lost brides, or lonely pairs of seamen scrubbing their way backwards in steady formation – was a seething mass of people, the sun bouncing off the deck around them, their chatter lifting above the sound of the engines as they seated themselves around a newly constructed canvas tank. It was several seconds before Margaret noticed the chair suspended above it from the mobile crane.
‘Good God! They’re not going to stick us in that, are they?’ she said.
‘Need a dockyard crane for you,’ said Jean, as she pushed, elbows out like elephants’ ears, through the crowd, oblivious to sharp looks and muttering. ‘Come on, girls. Plenty of room over here. Mind your backs! Pregnant lady coming through.’
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,
Whether failing to share with friends his grog
Or being termed a pollywog,
You’ll hear the charge, and then we’ll see
How Neptune choose to punish thee.’
‘It’s hardly Wordsworth, is it?’ sniffed Avice.
‘Who?’ said Jean.
‘Now our ratings, our tadpoles, pollywogs
Will have to fight like cats and dogs
To save themselves from Neptune’s pack
And earn the right to be “Shellback”.
Captain, chaplain, or humble docker,
They’ve sent too many to Davy Jones’ locker.
So we will decide, O ladies fair,
Just who gets a spell in our dunking chair.’
Eventually, after much catcalling and something that might have qualified as a scuffle, the first ‘tadpole’ was called up: a young rating whose squint was explained by the spectacles borne aloft like a prize behind him. His guilt, apparently, was predicated on it being only his second time of crossing the line – the first had been in wartime, and had not been commemorated. As the women howled their approval, he was first charged with ‘failing to acknowledge the territory of Neptune’, then, as the enforcers held him down, the Royal Dentist filled his mouth with what looked like soapsuds, leaving him gagging and choking. He was then lifted into the chair and, at the lowering of Neptune’s trident, summarily ducked, as the women clapped and cheered.
‘It’s not very dignified, is it?’ said Avice, leaning forward for a better view.
At this point, the Bears moved into the crowd, eyeing the women with theatrical intent. The brides, in turn, shrieked obligingly and clutched each other, vowing loudly and without any intent whatsover, to protect each other. They were melodramatic enough for Margaret to roll her eyes. Beside her, Frances didn’t flinch. But, then, she seemed so little moved by the presence of men that Margaret wondered how she had ever come to be married at all.
One of the Bears stopped in front of them. His chest still wet from some previous assault, green-faced with a string of shells around his neck, he bent low and peered at the women. ‘What sinners and miscreants do we have here, then?’ he said. ‘Which of you is deserving of punishment?’ He was met by a collective shriek as the brides parted like biblical waves around him.
Except Frances. As he paused in front of her, she sat very still and stared back at him, until, realising he would get no sport from her, he turned to Margaret. ‘Aha!’ he cried, advancing towards her. Margaret was about to protest smilingly that there was no way they were putting her in that bloody chair when he swivelled round, like a pantomime villain, to face the delighted audience around him. ‘I see I shall have to find another victim,’ he said, thrusting a hand towards her, ‘for it is Neptune’s law that one must not offend a whale!’
The brides around them fell about. Margaret, who had been about to make some smart retort, found herself tongue-tied. They were all laughing at her. As if her pregnancy made her some kind of joke. ‘Oh, rack off,’ she said crossly. But that only made everyone laugh louder.
She sat there as he prowled off after other game, her eyes filled inexplicably with tears. Frances’s hat was pulled low on her head, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
‘Bloody eejit,’ Margaret muttered, then louder: ‘Bloody eejit.’ As if saying it might make her feel better.