Page 134 of The Ship of Brides
Her parents exchanged a glance. Deanna was unable to disguise her pleasure at this unexpected turn of events. It was as if she were impressed by the scale of Avice’s personal catastrophe.
As the four of them stood on the quay, the crowds milling around them, a distant loud-hailer called for someone, please, to come to the harbourmaster’s office to reclaim a small child. She was wearing a red coat and said her name was Molly. They had no further information.
Avice stared back at the ship. A bride was running recklessly down the gangplank in high heels. When she reached the bottom she launched herself into the arms of an officer, who lifted her off the ground, twirling her round and round in his arms. She could see he was an officer from his uniform. She had always been good on uniforms. Don’t say anything else, Avice willed them, biting her lip. Don’t say one more word. Or I’m going to stand here and howl so loudly that the whole of Plymouth will be brought to a halt.
Her mother adjusted her hat, pulled her fur a little closer round her shoulders, then took Avice’s arm and tucked it into the crook of her own. Perhaps understanding, perhaps seeing something in her daughter’s expression, she chose not to look her full in the face. When she spoke, there was a faint but definite break in her voice. ‘Well, dear, when you’re ready we’ll have a little chat at the hotel.’ She began to walk. ‘It’s a very nice hotel, you know. Beautiful-sized rooms. We’ve got our own lounge area attached to the bedrooms and views all the way to Cornwall...’
Frances walked slowly down the gangplank, her suitcase in her right hand, the other trailing lightly down the handrail. She was, she thought, invisible in this crowd of cheering, embracing people. As she drew closer to the dockside, she saw faces she recognised from the past six weeks, wreathed in smiles, contorted in emotional tears, pressed in passion to their husbands and, just for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like to be one of those girls for whom there was an embrace at the end of the gangplank, for whom there was not one but several pairs of welcoming arms to claim her.
She kept walking. A new start, she told herself. That was what it was all about. I have made a new start.
‘Frances!’ She turned to see Margaret, her dress riding up over her plump knees as she waved wildly. Joe stood beside her, an arm round her shoulders. An older woman held her other arm. She had a kind face, not unlike Margaret’s own, which was now beaming and tear-stained.
Frances went towards her. Her steps felt surprisingly unsteady on dry land and she struggled to walk without lurching. The two women dropped their bags and embraced.
‘You weren’t going to go without my address, were you?’
Frances shook her head, sneaking a glance at the two proud people who had claimed Margaret as their own. On the ship she and Margaret had felt like equals; now, alone in a sea of families, she felt diminished.
Margaret took a pen from her husband and accepted a scrap of paper from her mother-in-law. She put pen to paper, paused and laughed. ‘What is it?’ she said.
He laughed too, then scribbled something on the paper, which Margaret placed in Frances’s hand. ‘As soon as you get settled, you write me with your address, you hear? My good friend Frances,’ she explained to the two of them. ‘She helped look after me. She’s a nurse.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Frances,’ said Joe, thrusting out a huge hand. ‘You come and see us. Whenever.’
Frances tried to return some of his warmth in her own grasp. The older woman nodded and smiled, then glanced at her watch. ‘Joseph, train,’ she mouthed.
Frances knew it was time to leave.
‘You take care now,’ Margaret said, squeezing her arm.
‘I’ll look forward to hearing how it all goes,’ said Frances, nodding at her belly.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Margaret said, with confidence.
Frances watched the three of them as they made their way to the dockyard gates, still chatting, arms linked, until people closed round her and she couldn’t see any more.
She took a deep breath, trying to dislodge the huge lump in her throat. It will be all right, she told herself. A fresh start.
At that point, she glanced back at the ship. There were men moving around, women still waving. She could see nothing, no one. I’m not ready, she thought. I don’t want to go. She stood, a thin woman jostled by the crowds, tears streaming down her face.
Nicol pushed his way to the front of the queue and several of the waiting women protested loudly. ‘Frances Mackenzie,’ he shouted at the WSO. ‘Where is she?’
The woman bristled. ‘Do you mind? My job is to sign these ladies off the ship.’
He grabbed her, his voice hoarse with urgency. ‘Where is she?’
They stared at each other. Then her eyes narrowed and she ran her pen down several pages. ‘Mackenzie, you say. Mackie... Mackenzie, B.... Mackenzie, F. That it?’
He grabbed the clipboard.
‘She’s gone,’ she said, snatching it back. ‘She’s already disembarked. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
Nicol ran to the side of the ship and leant over the rail, trying to see her in the crowd, trying to make out the distinctive, strong, slim frame, the pale reddish hair. Below him thousands of people were still on the side, jostling, weaving past each other, disappearing and reappearing.
His heart lodged somewhere high in his throat, and, in despair, he began to shout, ‘Frances, Frances,’ already grasping the scale of his loss, his defeat.
His voice, roughened with emotion, hovered for a moment over the crowds, caught, and then sailed away on the wind, back out to sea.
