Page 103 of The Ship of Brides
Thirty-three days
The governor of Gibraltar was known not only throughout the Navy but the British civil service as an unusually intelligent man. He had built a reputation as a major strategist during the First World War, and his diplomatic career had seen him rewarded for his hawk-like tactical and observational skills. But even he had stared at the forward liftwell for several moments before he could acknowledge what he was seeing.
Captain Highfield, in the process of taking him up on to the flight deck ready for the welcoming performance by the Royal Marines Band, cursed himself for not checking the route beforehand. A liftwell was a liftwell. He had never thought they’d be bold enough to string their underwear along it. White, flesh-coloured, grey with overuse or cobweb-delicate and edged with French lace; the brassières and foundation garments waved merrily all the way up the cavernous space, mimicking the pennant that had welcomed the great man aboard. And now, here he was, the cream of the British diplomatic service, on Highfield’s great warship, surrounded by an orderly parade of immaculately dressed seamen, transfixed by lines of bloomers.
Dobson. The man would have known about this, yet had chosen not to warn him. Captain Highfield cursed his leg for confining him to his office that morning and allowing the younger man the opportunity. He had felt unwell, had decided to rest, knowing that today would be long and difficult, and had trusted Dobson to make sure that everything was A1. He might have known he’d find a way to undermine him.
‘I... You’ll find this is something of an unconventional crossing,’ Captain Highfield ventured, when he had composed himself enough to speak. ‘I’m afraid we’ve had to be a little... pragmatic about procedure.’
The governor’s mouth had dropped open, his cheeks betraying the faintest flush of colour. Dobson’s face, serene under his cap, gave away nothing.
‘I would add, Your Excellency, that this is by no means any indication of the level of our respect.’ He tried to inject a note of humour into his voice, but it fell flat.
The governor’s wife, handbag held in front of her, nudged her husband surreptitiously. She inclined her head. ‘Nothing we haven’t seen before, Captain,’ she said graciously, her mouth twitching with what might have been amusement. ‘I think the war has exposed us all to far more frightening scenes than this one.’
‘Quite,’ said the governor. ‘Quite.’ The tenor of his voice suggested that this was unlikely.
‘In fact, it’s admirable that you’re going to such lengths to keep your passengers comfortable.’ She laid a hand on his sleeve, a glimmer of understanding in her face. ‘Shall we move on?’
Things improved on the flight deck. Having embarked the governor and the other passengers at Aden, theVictoriahad begun to make her way slowly north along the Suez Canal, a silver vein of water, lined by sand dunes, that shimmered so brightly in the intense heat that those gazing from the sides of the ship felt obliged to shade themselves. Despite the heat, the brides were gay under parasols and sunhats, the band gamely keeping up despite the discomfort of even tropical rig in such temperatures.
The men having resumed their duties, the governor and his wife had agreed to judge the Tap Dancing competition, the latest in the series of the Queen of theVictoriacontests devised to keep the women occupied. Shielded by a large umbrella from the worst of the sun, armed with iced gin and tonic and faced with a line of giggling girls, even the governor had warmed. His wife, who had taken the time to chat to each contestant, eventually awarded the prize to a pretty blonde girl, a popular choice given the hearty congratulations of the other brides. She had confided to Highfield afterwards that she thought the Australians were ‘rather a nice lot. Terribly brave to leave their loved ones and come all this way.’ Infected with a little of the merriment of the afternoon, he had found it hard to disagree.
And then it had all gone wrong again.
Captain Highfield had been about to announce that the event was over, and suggest that he and his new passengers depart below decks to where the cook had prepared a late lunch, when he had noticed a flurry of activity on the starboard side. TheVictoriawas moving sedately past a military camp and the brides, spotting large numbers of Caucasian men, had flocked to the edge of the flight deck. Their brightly coloured dresses fluttering in the breeze, they waved gaily at the bronzed young men who had stopped work to watch them pass, calling down greetings. As he leant over to see, he could hear the women’s squeals, could just make out the enthusiastic waving from the bare-chested men below, now jammed up against the wire perimeter fence, squinting into the sun.
Highfield stared at the scene, making sure his suspicions were correct. Then it was with a heavy heart that he reached for the Tannoy. ‘I am gratified that you have given our guests, the governor and his wife, such a rousing welcome,’ he had said, watching the governor’s back stiffen in his tropical whites as he too took in the scene below. ‘There will be extra refreshments in the forward hangar for those who would like tea. In the meantime, you might be interested to know that the young men you are waving to are German prisoners.’
Irene Carter had approached her after the contest to tell her she was glad Avice had won – ‘Best to make the most of those legs before the old varicose veins set in, eh?’ – and to show off her latest delivery of post. She had received seven letters, no less than four from her husband.
‘You must read us yours,’ she said, sunglasses masking her eyes. ‘My mother says she’s been inviting yours round for tea since they discovered we were shipmates. They’ll be desperate to know what we’ve been doing.’
And I bet you’ve told her everything, thought Avice.
‘Hey-ho. I’m off to tea and to read Harold’s letters. Did you get many?’
‘Oh, heaps,’ said Avice, brandishing hers in the air. There had been only one from Ian. She had tucked it under her mother’s so that Irene couldn’t tell. ‘Good luck with the next contest, anyway,’ she said. ‘It’s fancy dress, I believe, so I’m sure you’ll do much better. You’re getting so tanned you could wear a scarf round your waist and go as a native.’ And clutching her ‘certificate’, Avice walked, with as little conceit as she could muster, away.
Frances wasn’t in the dormitory. She rarely was any more. Avice thought she was probably hiding somewhere. Margaret was attending a lecture on places to visit in England. She kicked off her shoes and lay down, preparing to read Ian’s latest communication in an atmosphere of rare privacy.
She scooted through the letters from her father (business, money, golf), mother (travel details, dresses) and sister (‘quite happy by myself, thank you, blah-blah-blah’), then came to Ian’s envelope. She gazed at his handwriting, wondering at how one could sense authority even in ink and paper. Her mother had always said there was something immature about men with bad handwriting. It suggested that their character was somehow unformed.
She glanced at her wristwatch: there was ten minutes before the first lunch shift. She had just time to read it. She peeled it open and gave a little sigh of pleasure.
A quarter of an hour later, she was still staring at it.
Frances and Margaret were seated in the deck canteen when the rating found them. They had been eating ices. Frances was now accustomed to the relative hush that descended whenever she dared show herself in public. Margaret had chattered away with grim determination. Once or twice she had asked the most persistent starers whether it was a bite of her ice-cream they were after and sworn at them under her breath as they blushed.
‘Mrs Frances Mackenzie?’ the rating had asked. He looked painfully young: his neck hardly filled the collar of his uniform.
She nodded. She had been half expecting him for days.
‘Captain would like to see you in his offices, ma’am. I’m to bring you.’
The canteen had gone quiet.
Margaret blanched. ‘Do you think it’s the dog?’ she whispered.
