Page 46 of The Ship of Brides
‘Thanks ever so much for the hospitality.’
‘Hospidaliddy,’ murmured Jackson.
‘Our pleasure,’ said Dennis. ‘Want one of us to check the passageway’s clear for you?’ Then his voice hardened. ‘Oi, Plummer, have a little respect.’
The music stopped. All eyes turned towards Dennis’s line of sight. The owner of Jean’s comic book had rested a hand casually on the back of her thigh, which was now removed. It was unclear whether Jean was too drunk to have noticed it. Either way, there was a subtle shift in the atmosphere. For a second or two, nobody spoke.
Then Frances stepped forward. ‘Yes, come on, Jean.’ It was as if she had been galvanised into life. ‘Get up. We must get back.’
‘Spoilsports.’ Jean half slid, half fell off the hammock, blew a kiss to the rating, and allowed her arm to be linked by Frances’s rigid one. ‘’Bye, lads. Thanks for a lovely time.’ Her hair had fallen across her face, half concealing a beatific smile. ‘Got to shake a leg in the morning.’ She wiggled one of hers clumsily, and Frances reached forward to pull her skirt down to a demure level.
Margaret nodded to the men round the table, then made her way to the door, suddenly awkward, as if only just aware of the potential pitfalls of their position.
Dennis seemed to grasp this. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It’s just the drink. No harm meant.’
‘None taken,’ said Margaret, raising a neutral smile.
He held out a hand. ‘Come again.’ He stooped forward and murmured, ‘I get sick of the sight of this lot.’
She knew what he was trying to say, and was grateful.
‘I’d appreciate another game,’ he added.
‘I’m sure we’ll be back,’ she said, as Frances dragged Jean out of the door.
Avice was awake when they sneaked into their cabin as silently as they could with Jean giggling and snorting between them.
They had seen only two others: wary girls, who had shared with them the briefest complicit grin before vanishing into a shadowy doorway. Margaret, however, had seen spectral monitors everywhere: her ears had burned with anticipated cries of ‘Hey! You! What do you think you’re doing?’ She knew from Frances’s serious face that she felt the same. Meanwhile, Jean had been sick twice, thankfully in the officers’ bathroom, which had been empty at the time, but was now giggling as she tried to relate to them the story she had been reading. ‘It was awful funny. Every time this girl does anything. Anything.’ Her face opened in exaggerated amazement. ‘All her clothes fall off.’
‘Hilarious,’ muttered Margaret. She was a strong girl (‘a bit of a heifer’, her brothers used to say), but the baby, combined with Jean’s almost dead weight and the incessant lurching of the ship, had caused her to grunt and sweat along the passageway. Frances had taken most of Jean’s weight and hauled her along silently, one hand gripping at pipes and rails, her face set with the effort.
‘Most times it’s down to her undies and whatnot. But there were at least two pictures where she had nothing on at all. Nothing. She had to do this with her hands.’ Jean wrestled herself out of their grasp – she was surprisingly strong for such a small girl – and made as if to cover her bosom and groin, her face an exaggeratedooh!of surprise.
‘Oh, come on, Jean.’
Margaret had peeped round the corner to where their dormitory was, and saw thankfully that the marines were not on duty. ‘Quick! We might only have a minute.’
It was then that the woman had stepped out of the darkness.
‘Oh!’ Frances gasped.
Margaret felt herself flush.
‘What’s going on, ladies?’
The officer came towards them at a trot, her bosom arriving shortly before she did. She was one of the WSOs, a short, auburn-haired woman who had directed them earlier to the laundry. There was something almost indecent in her haste, as if she had been waiting for some misdemeanour to take place. ‘What’s going on? You know brides are not allowed out of their dormitories at this time of night.’
Margaret felt her tongue swell to fill her mouth.
‘Our friend is ill,’ said Frances, coolly. ‘She needed to go to the bathroom, and we weren’t sure she would manage by herself.’
As if in corroboration, the deck lifted under them, sending all four staggering against the wall. As she slipped to her knees Jean swore, then belched.
‘Seasickness, is it?’
‘Terrible,’ said Margaret, heaving Jean up.
‘Well, I’m not sure—’
