‘But who on earth would have married her? Do you think it was one of her . . . customers?’
‘And what if he doesn’t know? Don’t you think the Navy should tell him?’
It had been the same story all over the ship. For the last few days Frances Mackenzie, possibly the least conspicuous passenger the Victoria had ever transported, had become its most notorious. Those who had had any dealings with her were fascinated that this supposedly demure young woman had such a chequered past. Others found the story of her past career compelling, and felt obliged to embellish it with information that no one was yet in a position to disprove. That was if anyone had had the inclination to do so; the next shore leave was still a fair distance away and there was little doubt it was the most fascinating thing that had happened on the voyage so far.
‘I heard she was on the train. You know, the one they used to send up to the troops. It was full of . . . those sorts.’
‘Do you think they had to check her for diseases? I know they did on the American transports. I mean, we might have been sharing a bathroom with her, for goodness’ sake.’
Margaret had fought the urge to interrupt, to inform these stupid, gossiping women that they didn’t know what they were talking about. But it was difficult when she herself had no idea of the truth.
It wasn’t as if Frances was saying anything. On the night of the accident, she had retired to her bed and lain there, pretending to be asleep until the others had gone out in the morning, often doing the same when they came back. She had barely spoken, keeping her conversation to an absolute practical minimum. She had given the dog some more water. Had propped the door ajar. If that was all right with them. She had avoided the main canteen. Margaret wasn’t sure that she was eating anything at all.
Avice had asked, rather ostentatiously, to be moved to another cabin, and when the only other bunk on offer had proven not to her liking, she had announced loudly that she wanted as little to do with Frances as possible. Margaret had told her not to be so bloody ridiculous, and not to listen to a load of bloody gossip. There would be no truth in it.
But it was difficult to be as vehement as she would have liked when Frances was doing so little to defend herself.
And even Margaret, never usually lost for words, had difficulty in knowing what to say to her. She was, she suspected, a little naïve at the best of times, and was having trouble reconciling the severely dressed, rather prim young woman with ‘one of those’. Margaret’s only knowledge of such women came from the poster with a picture of one in Dennis Tims’s mess, with the uncompromising message: ‘Venereal Disease – the Silent Killer’; and the Westerns she had seen with her brothers, where the women all sat together in the back of some saloon. Had Frances worn tight-bodiced dresses and a dollop of rouge on her face to welcome men in? Had she enticed them upstairs, spread her legs and invited them to do God only knew what to her? These thoughts haunted Margaret, colouring her every exchange with Frances, despite all the kindnesses the girl had shown her. She knew it and it made her ashamed. She suspected that Frances knew it too.
‘Well, I think it’s disgusting. Frankly, if my parents knew I was travelling with someone like that they would never have let me on board.’ The girl in front of her straightened her shoulders with a self-righteous shudder.
Margaret stared at the powdered-egg recipes in front of her, at her distracted scrawl.
‘It makes you wonder,’ said the girl next to her.
Margaret stuffed her notebook into her basket, got up and left the room.
Dear Deanna,
I can’t tell you what fun I’m having on board – quite a surprise, all things considered. I somehow find myself in the running for Queen of the Victoria, a prize they award to the bride who has proven themself a cut above in all matters feminine. It will be lovely to be able to show Ian that I can be such an asset to him and his career. I have so far won points in craft, dressmaking, musical ability (I sang ‘Shenandoah’ – the audience were most appreciative) and – you’ll never guess – Miss Lovely Legs! I wore my green swimsuit with the matching satin heels. I hope you didn’t mind too much me taking them. You seemed to wear them so seldom, and it seemed silly you keeping them ‘for best’ when there is so little social life left in Melbourne now the Allies are leaving.
How are you? Mummy’s letter said you were no longer in correspondence with that nice young man from Waverley. She was rather vague about what had happened – I find it very hard to think anyone would so cruelly drop a girl like that. Unless he had found someone else, I suppose.
Men can be such an enigma, can’t they? I thank goodness every day that Ian is such a devoted soul.
I must go, dearest sister. They are ‘piping the hands to bathe’, and I am simply desperate for a swim. I will post this when we next dock, and be sure to tell you of any adventures I have there!
Your loving sister,
Avice
It was the first time the brides had been allowed to bathe, and there were few who, still feeling the effects of the water shortage, were not making the most of it. As Avice finished her letter and headed out on to the foredeck, she could see around her hundreds of women submerged in the clear waters, squealing as they floated around lifeboats, while the marines and officers not manning the boats leant over the ship’s side, smoking and watching them.
There was no sign of the baby yet. Avice had examined herself with some pride, the still-flat stomach but an attractive hint of fullness to her bosom. She wouldn’t be one of these flabby whales, like Margaret, who sat puffing and sweating in corners, ankles and feet as grotesquely swollen as an elephant’s. She would make sure she stayed trim and attractive until the end. When she was large she would retire into her home, make the nursery pretty and not reveal herself again until the baby came. That was a ladylike way to do it.
Now that she no longer felt nauseous, she was sure that pregnancy would positively agree with her: aided by the constant sunshine, her skin glowed, her blonde hair had new highlights. She drew attention wherever she went. She had wondered, now that her condition was public knowledge, whether she should cover up a little, whether it was advisable to be a little more modest. But there were so few days left before they entered European waters that it seemed a shame to waste them. Avice shed her sundress, and straightened up a little, just to make sure that she could be seen to her best advantage before she lay decoratively on the deck to sunbathe. Apart from that unfortunate business with Frances (and what a turn-up that had been for the books!), and what with her steady notching up of points for Queen of the Victoria, she thought she had probably made the voyage into rather a success.
A short distance away, on the forecastle, Nicol was propped against the wall. Normally he would not have smoked on deck, especially not on duty, but over the past days he had smoked steadily and with a kind of grim determination, as if the repetitive action could simplify his thoughts.
‘Going in later?’ One of the seamen, with whom he had often played Uckers, a kind of naval Ludo, appeared at his elbow. The men would be piped to bathe when the last of the women were out.
‘No.’ Nicol stubbed out his cigarette.
‘I am. Can’t wait.’
Nicol feigned polite interest.
The man jerked a thumb at the women. ‘That lot. Seeing them out having a good time. Reminds me of my girls at home.’
‘Oh.’
‘We got a river runs past the end of our garden. When my girls were small we’d take them in on sunny days – teach them to swim.’ He made a br**ststroke motion, lost in his memories. ‘Living near water, see, they got to know how to stay afloat. Only safe, like.’
Nicol nodded in a way that might suggest assent.
‘Times I thought I’d not see them again. Many a time, if I’m honest. Not that you let yourself think like that too often, eh, boy?’
Despite himself Nicol smiled at the older man’s description of him.
‘Still . . . still. Better times ahead.’ He drew hard on his cigarette, then dropped it into the water. ‘I’m surprised old Highfield let ’em in. Would have thought the sight of all that female flesh’d be too much for him.’
The afternoon was set fair, as it had been for days. Below them, in the glassy waters, two women writhed and squealed their way on to one of the lifeboats, while others leant over the ship’s rail shouting encouragement. Another shrieked hysterically as her friend splashed her.
The man gazed at them in benign appreciation. ‘Cold fish, that Highfield. Always thought it. You got to wonder about a man always wants to be by himself.’
Nicol said nothing.
‘Time was, I would have argued the toss with anyone said he was a bad skipper. Got to admit, when we was on the convoys he did us proud. But you can tell he’s lost it now. Confidence shot, isn’t it, since Indomitable?’
The older man was breaking an unspoken convention among the men not to talk about what had happened on that night, let alone who might be to blame. Nicol did not respond, except to shake his head.
‘Couldn’t hand down orders. Not when it counted. I’ve seen it before – them that want to do everything their bloody selves. I reckon if he’d had his head screwed on proper that night he could have handed down orders and we would have saved a lot of men. He just got stuck in his bloody self. Didn’t look at the big picture. That’s what you need in a skipper – an ability to see the bigger picture.’
If he had had a shilling for every armchair strategist he’d met in his years of service, Nicol observed, he’d have been a rich man.
‘I allus thought it was a bit of a joke on the top brass’s part, giving him her sister ship to bring home . . . No . . . I don’t think you know a man till you seen him around his nearest and dearest. I’ve served under him five year and I’ve not heard a single person speak up for him.’
They stood in silence for some time. Finally, perhaps recognising that their exchange had been rather one-sided, the man asked, ‘You’ll be glad to see your family again, eh?’
Nicol lit another cigarette.
She was not there. He hadn’t thought she would be.
He had lain awake for the rest of that night, Jones’s words haunting him almost as much as his own sense of betrayal. Slowly, as the night gave way to day, his own disbelief had evaporated, steadily replaced by the putting together of odd clues, inconsistencies in her behaviour. Standing in the bowels of the ship, he had wanted her to deny it indignantly; wanted to hear her outrage at the slur. None had been forthcoming. Now he wanted her to explain herself – as if, in some way, she had tricked him.
He hadn’t needed to ask any further questions to clarify what he had been told; not of her, anyway. When he returned to the mess she had still been the talk of the men. Wide-eyed little thing she had been, Jones-the-Welsh said, leaning out of his hammock for a cigarette. A ton of makeup on her, almost like the others had done it to her for a joke.
Nicol had paused in the hatch, wondering whether he should turn round. He wasn’t sure what made him stay.
Jones himself had apparently been presented with her but declined. She stuck out because of her shape: ‘Thin as a whippet,’ he said, ‘with no tits to speak of.’ And because she was drunk, he said. He curled his lip, as if he had been offered something distasteful.
The manager had sent her upstairs with one of his mates and she’d fallen up the steps. They had all laughed: there was something comical about the skinny girl with all the makeup, drunk as a skunk, her legs all over the place. Actually, he said, more seriously, ‘I thought she was under age, you know what I’m saying? Didn’t fancy having my collar felt.’
Duckworth, an apparent connoisseur of such things, had agreed.
‘Bloody hell, though. You’d never know now, would you? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’