No, Duckworth had observed. But for them recognising her, no one would have known.
Nicol had begun to pull down his hammock. He had thought he might try for some sleep before his next watch.
‘Now now, Nicol,’ came Jones’s voice from behind him. ‘Hope you’re not thinking about slipping in there for a quickie later. Need to save your money for that missus of yours.’ He had guffawed. ‘Besides, she’s a bit better-looking now. Bit more polish. She’d probably charge you a fortune.’
He had thought he might hit him. Some irrational part of him had wanted to do the same to her. Instead he had pasted a wry smile on his face, feeling even as he did that he was engaged in some sort of betrayal, and disappeared into the wash cubicle.
Night had fallen. Victoria pushed forward in the black waters, oblivious to the time or season, to the moods and vagaries of her inhabitants, her vast engines powering obediently beneath her. Frances lay in her bunk, listening for the now familiar sounds, the last pipes, muttered conversations and faltering footsteps that spoke of the steady settling of the ship’s passengers to sleep, the sniffs and grunts, the slowing of breath that told the same story of the two other women in her cabin. The sounds of silence, of solitude, the sounds that told her she was free once again to breathe. The sounds she seemed to have spent a good portion of her life waiting for.
And outside, just audible to the trained ear, the sound of two feet shifting on the corridor floor.
He arrived at four a.m. She heard him murmuring something to the other marine as they changed guard, the muffled echo of the other man’s steps as he went to some mess, or to sleep. She listened to the man outside as she had for what felt like hundreds of nights before.
Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she rose from her bunk. Unseen by the two sleeping women on each side of her, she tiptoed towards the steel door, her footsteps sure and silent in the dark. Just before she reached it, she stood still, eyes closed as if she were in pain.
Then she stepped forward, and quietly, carefully, laid her face against it. Slowly she rested her entire length, her thighs, her stomach, her chest against it, palms pressed flat on each side of her head, feeling the cool metal through her thin nightgown, its immovable solidity.
If she turned her head, kept her ear pressed against the door, she could almost hear him breathing.
She stood there, in the dark, for some time. A tear rolled down her face and plopped on to her bare foot. It was followed by another.
Outside, apart from the low rumble of the engines, there was silence.
17
Among the 300 different items the Red Cross has put aboard for the use of brides are bed linen, towels, stationery, medical and beauty preparations, and tons of tinned fruit, cream, biscuits, meat and boxes of chocolates. It has also provided 500 canvas folding deck-chairs and a special book on midwifery.
Sydney Morning Herald, 3 July 1946
Twenty-six days
A major port, especially one that had formed an important staging-post for most of the war years, can safely be assumed to have seen most things pass through its gates. Guns, armoury, foodstuffs, silks, spices, troops, traders, holy texts and foul waste had all passed through, eliciting little comment.
Old hands could remember the nightmare roaring of the six white tigers confined to crates en route to the home of an American movie mogul; others the glowing gold dome of a temple for some vainglorious European head of state. More recently, for several weeks the harbour had hummed with a rare fragrance after a crane carrying five thousand bottles of sickly perfume had dropped its cargo on to the dockside.
But the sight of some six hundred women waiting to go ashore at Bombay brought the traffic at Alexandra Lock to a standstill. The women, lining the decks in their brightly coloured summer dresses, waved down with hats and handbags, their voices filled with the energy of three and a half weeks spent at sea. Hundreds of children ran along either side of the dock, their arms stretched upwards, calling to the women to toss down more coins, more coins. Small tugboats, hovering beneath the great bow like satellites, noisily dragged Victoria round, pulling her into position alongside the quay. As the ship glided gracefully into place, many of the women exclaimed loudly at how such a huge ship could fit through the lock; others exclaimed rather more vigorously at the smell, pressing white handkerchiefs to their glowing faces. And all along the quay eyes lifted to the great aircraft-carrier that no longer carried aircraft. Men and women stood in brightly coloured robes and saris, troops, dockyard workers, traders, all paused to watch the Ship of Brides manoeuvre her way in.
‘You must stick together and stay in the main thoroughfares.’ The WSO was struggling to be heard over the clamour of those desperate to disembark. ‘And you must return by twenty-two hundred hours at the latest. Captain Highfield has made it clear he will not tolerate lateness. Do you all understand?’
It was only a matter of months since the Indian sailors’ mutiny at the harbour; they had gone on strike in protest against their living conditions. How this had escalated was still a matter of some debate, but it was indisputable that it had erupted into a fierce gun battle between English troops and the mutineers that had lasted several days. There had been several heated discussions about the wisdom of letting the women ashore but given that they had remained aboard at Colombo and Cochin, it did not seem fair to keep them any longer. The officer held up a clipboard, wiping her face with her free hand. ‘The duty officer will be taking names as each woman returns aboard. Make sure yours is among them.’
The heat was fierce and Margaret clung to the side of the ship, wishing, as the crowd pressed and writhed around her, that she could find somewhere to sit down. Avice, beside her, kept standing on tiptoe, shouting back what she could see, one hand shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight.
‘We must do the Gateway of India. Apparently everyone does the Gateway of India. And the Willingdon Club is meant to be lovely, but it’s a few miles out of the city. They’ve got tennis courts and a swimming-pool. Do you think we should get a taxi?’
‘I want to find a nice hotel, and put my feet up for half an hour,’ said Margaret. They had stood watching for almost the two hours it had taken Victoria to drop anchor, and the oppressive temperature had caused Margaret’s ankles to swell.
‘Plenty of time for that, Margaret. Us ladies in the family way must do our best to keep active. Ooh, look! They’re about to let us off.’
There was a queue for the gharries, the little horse-drawn carriages that would take the women to the Red Gate at the entrance to the dock. Those who had already made it down the gangplank were clustered around them, chattering away, checking and rechecking handbags and sunhats, pointing out the distant views of the city.
Through the gate, Margaret could see wide, tree-lined avenues, flanked by large hotels, houses and shops, the pavements and roads thick with movement. The solidity and space made her feel almost giddy after so long at sea, and several times she had found herself swaying, unsure whether it was due to heat or sea-legs.
Two women walked past, balancing oversized baskets of fruit on their heads with the same nonchalant ease as the brides wore their hats. They whispered to each other, covering their mouths and giggling through bejewelled fingers. As Margaret watched, one spied something on the ground. Her back ramrod straight, she stretched out a bare foot, picked up the object with her toes, took it in her hand and pocketed it.
‘Strewth,’ said Margaret, who had not seen her own feet for several weeks now.
‘There’s a dinner-dance at Green’s Hotel, apparently,’ Avice was checking notes in her pocket book. ‘Some of the girls from 8D are heading there later. I said we might meet them for tea. But I’m desperate to go shopping. I feel I’ve bought everything it’s possible to buy from the PX.’
‘I just want a bloody seat,’ Margaret muttered. ‘I don’t care about sightseeing or shopping. I just want dry land and a bloody seat.’
‘Do you really think you should use so much bad language?’ Avice murmured. ‘It’s really not becoming to hear it from someone in . . . your . . .’
It was then, as Avice’s voice tailed away, that Margaret became aware of a shushing. She wondered what had caused it. Following the others’ gaze, she turned to see Frances walking down the gangplank behind them. She was dressed in a pale blue blouse, buttoned to the neck, and khaki trousers. She wore her wide-brimmed sunhat and glasses, but her red-gold hair and long limbs confirmed her identity.
She hesitated at the bottom, conscious perhaps of the quiet. Then, seeing Margaret’s hand held aloft, she made her way through the women to where Margaret and Avice stood. As she moved, girls stepped back from her like parting seas.
‘Changed your mind, then?’ Margaret was conscious of her voice booming into the silence.
‘Yes,’ said Frances.
‘It’d drive you nuts to stay aboard too long, eh?’ Margaret looked at Avice. ‘Especially in heat like this.’
Frances stood very still, her eyes fixed on Margaret. ‘It is pretty close,’ she said.
‘Well, I vote we find some bar or hotel where we can—’
‘She’s not walking around with us.’
‘Avice!’
‘People will talk. And goodness knows what might happen – for all we know her former customers are walking the streets. They might think we’re one of those . . .’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous. Frances is perfectly welcome to walk with us.’
Margaret was aware that all the women around them were listening. Bunch of chattering harpies, that was what her dad would have called them. Surely nothing Frances had done, whatever her past, warranted such treatment?
‘You, perhaps,’ said Avice. ‘I’ll find someone else to walk with.’
‘Frances,’ Margaret said, daring any of the women to speak again, ‘you’re welcome to walk with me. I’d be glad of the company.’
It was hard to tell from behind her sunglasses, but Frances appeared to glance sideways at the sea of closed faces.
‘You can help me find somewhere nice to sit down.’
‘Just watch out she doesn’t find somewhere to lie down.’
Frances’s head shot round and her fingers tightened on her handbag.
‘Come on,’ Margaret said, holding out her hand. ‘Let’s hit the old Gateway of India.’
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Ah, come on! You might never get another chance to see India.’
‘No. Thank you. I – I’ll see you later.’ Before Margaret had a chance to say any more she had disappeared back through the crowd.
The women closed ranks, murmuring in righteous indignation. Margaret watched the distant gangplank, just able to make out the tall thin figure walking slowly up it. She waited until it had vanished inside. ‘That was mean, Avice.’
‘I’m not horrid, Margaret, so you needn’t look at me like that. I’m just honest. I’m not having my one trip ashore ruined by that girl.’ She straightened her hair, then placed a sunhat carefully on her head. ‘Besides, in our condition, I think it’s best if we keep our worries to a minimum. It can’t be good for us.’
The queue had moved on. Avice linked her arm with Margaret’s and walked her swiftly towards a gharry.
Margaret knew she should go to Frances: by even participating in this outing she had condoned Frances’s treatment. But she was desperate to feel land under her feet. And it was so difficult to know what to say.
With only a handful of brides left aboard, the ship had become a maelstrom of focused activity: teams of ratings prowled decks normally closed to men, scrubbing, painting and polishing. Several were on their knees on the flight deck, fighting with foam and wooden brushes to rid the grey concrete of its lingering rainbow puddles of aviation fuel. Small tugs unloaded huge crates of fresh fruit and vegetables, feeding them through hatches into the hold, while on the other side the tankers began to refuel the ship.