Page 44 of The Ship of Brides
‘Frances here’s a nurse,’ said Margaret. ‘She knows what’s best for sickness.’
There was a short silence.
‘Crackers tend to help.’ The marine was holding the box stiffly in both hands. ‘Shall I leave them with you, then?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Margaret took the box, wincing: the baby hadn’t enjoyed being rattled.
The man was staring at Frances. When he realised Margaret was watching him, he looked away quickly. ‘I won’t be here tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s a few gone sick because of the weather so I’ll be helping with the rounds. I’ve got permission to look in on you later if you’d prefer.’ He had a clipped way of talking, as if uncomfortable with casual conversation.
‘No,’ said Margaret. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She smiled broadly. ‘Thanks for offering, though. And you don’t have to call us “ma’am”. Seems a little... formal.’
‘Orders, ma’am.’
‘Oh. Orders.’
‘Right.’ He lifted a hand in a half-salute.
‘’Bye, then. And thanks for the crackers.’ Margaret fluttered her fingers. She was praying that Maude Gonne, alerted by her voice, wouldn’t bark.
When they opened the door Jean woke, raising a pale face from under her blanket. She refused the crackers and sat up slowly, revealing the upper half of a flannelette nightgown garlanded with little pink rosebuds. She looked, Margaret thought, shockingly young.
‘Do you think we should take anything?’ Maude Gonne had leapt on to her lap and was trying to lick her face.
‘Take anything where?’
‘The stokers’ mess. A drink or something.’
‘I’m not going,’ Frances said.
‘You must! I can’t go by myself.’
Jean squinted. Her eyes were shadowed. ‘Go where?’ she murmured.
‘Bit of a do downstairs,’ said Margaret. ‘I’m promised a game of poker. I’m going to head down there once I’ve given Maudie a quick run. Come on, Frances, you can’t sit here all night. You’ll be miserable.’
‘It’s really not my thing,’ said Frances. But she sounded half-hearted.
‘Then I’ll teach you.’
‘You’re not leaving me here,’ said Jean, and swung her legs over the edge of the bunk.
‘Are you sure?’ said Margaret. ‘It’s pretty rough outside.’
‘Better than puking my guts up in the company of Miss Prim,’ she said, jerking a thumb at the sleeping figure of Avice in the bunk opposite. A long silk robe in shell pink hung from it. ‘I’ll come with you. I’m not missing out if there’s a party. It’ll be the closest thing I’ve had to a laugh since we set off.’
If Margaret had thought the brides’ cabins cramped, little had prepared her for the sheer numbers of men who could be crowded into a single mess area, not much bigger than a working-man’s parlour. The first indicator was the odour: the musk that had characterised her brothers’ rooms at home had been condensed, amplified, until it met them in an unsavoury blast even outside the door. It was the smell of male bodies in permanent too-close contact, washed and unwashed, of sweat and alcohol and cigarettes and unlaundered linen and things that neither Frances nor Margaret wanted to think about. It was little surprise: four floors down, bang on the waterline, it was unlikely the mess had ever enjoyed more than the faintest whisper of fresh air. Directly above the starboard engine room, it was also in a state of almost constant vibration, the noise juddering away below their feet with an awesome, leviathan constancy.
‘I think we should go back,’ said Frances. She had dragged her feet all the way there, had anticipated trouble at the end of every passageway. Margaret had ended up clutching her sleeve, determined that the girl was going to have a good time, just once, if it killed her.
‘Past the officers’ bathrooms, right? Do you think those are the bathrooms?’
‘I’m not looking to see,’ said Jean. In the minutes between sneaking out of their dormitory and coming down the stairs she had recovered her colour. Behind her, Frances stumbled, and tried to catch her balance as the ship pitched again.
‘Here it is,’ said Margaret. ‘Hello?’ she called, and knocked tentatively, unsure if she would be heard above the din. ‘Is Dennis there?’
There was the briefest silence, then an outburst of catcalling and whistling. A cry of ‘Chaffer up, lads, we’ve got visitors.’ Then, after several minutes, in which Margaret and Frances wondered whether to leave, and Jean attempted unsuccessfully to peep through the inch-wide illuminated gap, the door swung open. A sweet-smelling Dennis, wearing a pressed shirt and clutching a bottle of amber liquid, waved his arm in the manner of someone proposing a grand entry.
‘Ladies,’ he said, stooping to address them, ‘welcome to the real engine of theVictoria.’
