Page 43 of The Ship of Brides
I must go now, George. But I thought I should let you know that our sister is a little better. She says to tell you she is grateful for all you did, and hopes to be able to write herself soon. She has borne her loss so bravely.
I pray, as always, that your voyage is a safe one.
Your loving sister
Iris
Captain Highfield sat in his rooms, one steadying hand on his lead-crystal wine-glass as he read the letter he had put off opening since Sydney, a fork raised absently to his mouth. It had remained there, in mid-air, for several paragraphs now, and when he reached the end of the letter he put it down, then pushed away the congealing gammon steak and boiled potatoes.
He had been rather glad of the change in the weather: the women were easier to manage in the confines of their berths and cabins and, apart from a couple of cases of severe vomiting and the girl who had bruised herself rolling out of an upper bunk, the sick bay had not been unduly troubled. That said, the doctor was much on his mind at the moment.
At first he had wanted to ascribe it to the damp, the rheumatic twinge caused by the sudden drop in pressure. But the ache in his leg had become steadily more insistent, had mutated in form so that occasionally it sharpened, became a signal of malevolent intent. He knew he should go and get it seen to: the doctor in Sydney had impressed upon him the necessity of it. But he knew that if they found what he suspected they would have a reason to deprive him of this last voyage. They’d have him flown home. And even a ship full of women was preferable to no ship at all.
There was a knock on his door. Reflexively, Captain Highfield pushed his leg further under the table. ‘Enter.’
It was Dobson, bearing a thick sheaf of papers. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I’ve brought you the revised sick list. I thought you’d want to know that we’re down five of the eight WSOs.’
‘All sick?’
‘Four sick, sir. One confined to bed. She fell down the stairs by the transmitter room and sprained her ankle.’
Dobson was staring at the untouched food. No doubt that would be reported to his mess later, and the possible reasons for it discussed, Highfield thought. ‘What on earth was she doing outside the transmitter room?’
‘Lost, sir.’ Dobson shifted his balance expertly as the floor rose beneath him and spray obliterated the view from the window. ‘One of the engineers found two girls in the number-two flour store this morning. Somehow managed to lock themselves in. Seems an awful lot of them can’t read a map.’
The wine had soured in his mouth. Highfield exhaled silently. ‘So what will we do about going rounds tonight?’
‘I thought we could get a few of the marines to do it, sir. Clive and Nicol are pretty responsible fellows. To be honest, I can’t see there’ll be too much trouble with the ladies while we’re coming through the Bight. I’d say at least half are too busy moaning on their bunks to get up to any mischief. The canteens are almost empty.’
Dobson was right. Highfield hoped absently that the foul weather would last the entire six weeks. ‘Fine. Get the men to do it. How’s the water level?’
‘Not too bad, sir. We’re just about keeping on top of things, although I have to say the systems on this old girl are pretty tired. Some of the machinery looks like it’s held together with baling twine and good luck. Still, it’s helped that so many of the women are in bed.’ He grinned. ‘Less hair-washing, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that. Make sure we introduce another lecture on the dhobi. Make it compulsory. And for those who fail to implement it, the threat that they will be allowed no water for three days before they meet their husbands should do the trick.’
Dobson left, something a little irritating in his swagger. He fancied himself for captain, Rennick, Highfield’s steward, had told him, more than once. He had been glad to see other men who had served beneath him promoted, but there was something about Dobson’s manner that simply stuck in his craw. Something in the man’s eyes told him that, whether it was due to Hart or his own imminent retirement, he was written off; despite his history, his position, he was no longer a man to be reckoned with.
‘Man’s an ass,’ Rennick said, arriving to take the captain’s plate. He had been with Highfield almost ten years and his opinions were expressed with the confidence of their long acquaintance.
‘He’s an ass, but he’s the only executive officer I’ve got.’
‘The men have no respect for him. He’ll do you no good on this voyage.’
‘You know what, Rennick? Right now, ass or not, Dobson is the least of my worries.’
The steward shrugged, his lined Scottish face fixing the captain with an expression that suggested they both knew more than they chose to say. As he left the room, Highfield’s eyes fell to the letter in front of him. Then he took his wine-glass in his other hand and swept the piece of paper off the mahogany table into the bin below.
Dennis had been wrong about the marine. When Margaret and Frances arrived back at their cabin, he was standing outside, his hand raised as if to knock. ‘Hey!’ yelped Margaret, trying, against her own lumbering weight, and the swaying floor, to run down the passageway. ‘Hey!’
He lowered his hand long enough for Margaret to slide between him and the door.
‘Can I help?’ she said, panting, one hand under her belly.
‘I’ve brought you some crackers. Captain’s orders, ma’am. We’re doing it for everyone who’s sick.’
‘They’re asleep,’ said Margaret. ‘Best not to disturb them, wouldn’t you say, Frances?’
Frances glanced at the man, and then away. ‘Yes.’
