Page 72 of The Ship of Brides
‘I think the question all the chaps want to know is how’s your water consumption?’
‘Fine,’ said Highfield, thinking back to that morning’s report. They had had some trouble with one of the desalination units, but the chief engineer had told him they were now running as normal.
Baxter was talking too loudly, as if conscious that he was listened to by other people at his end. ‘It’s just that we hear on the grapevine you’ve set up a hair salon, and we were wondering how you looked after a shampoo and set...’ He guffawed heartily, and Highfield thought he heard an echoing laugh behind him.
He was alone in the meteorological office, high above the shimmering deck and his leg had throbbed steadily all day. He had felt a vague sense of betrayal when it started; for days it had given him hardly any trouble, to the point at which he had convinced himself that it was healing without the need for medical intervention.
‘I spoke to Dobson before they put me through to you. He says those Aussie girls are giving you all a run for your money.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Causing the odd upset. Getting the men a bit agitated. Can’t say I envy you, old man. Load of women littering up the place with their washing and nail varnish and frillies and what-have-you. Wandering around in their next-to-nothings, distracting the men from their work. My boys here have opened a book on how many little Victors and Victorias will be running around in nine months’ time.’
There had been a noticeable lightening in the way senior naval personnel talked to each other since the end of the war. Now they were determined to poke fun, make jokes. Highfield, not for the first time, found himself hankering after the old ways. He tried to keep the affront from his voice. ‘My men are conducting themselves properly.’
‘It’s not the men’s behaviour I’m thinking of, George. I’ve heard about these colonial girls. Not quite the same reserve as their British sisters, if what I’ve heard about the nocturnal activities in Sydney are anything to go by...’
‘These girls are fine. Everything’s under control.’ He thought uncomfortably of the incident the women’s service officer had reported the previous week. Baxter and his like would know soon enough.
‘Yes. Well. My advice would be to keep ’em locked up as much as you can. We’ve had all sorts of trouble with our younger lads and women passengers. And that’s just the odd Wren or two. Dread to think what it must be like with more than six hundred. I think some of them have lost their heads now they know they’re heading home.’
In Highfield’s answering silence, he seemed finally to acknowledge that he was not going to get the response he desired. Highfield, meanwhile, had pulled up his trouser leg. It might have been his imagination, but the colour of the skin surrounding the wound was angrier than it had been when he last examined it. He dropped the fabric, clenching his jaw, as if he could make the damn thing better by a sheer act of will.
‘Yes... we’ve all had a bit of a chuckle at the thought of you and the hair salon. Of all the ships... of all the captains, eh? Still... I suppose it’s nice to know there’s some use for the old girl after she retires. You and she could set up the world’s first mobile beauty parlour.’
Highfield’s attention snapped away from his leg. ‘Retires?’
‘You know, when she’s decommissioned.’
‘Victoria’s being decommissioned?’
There was a brief silence. ‘I thought you knew, old man. She’s done. When the engineers were all over her in Woollomooloo they decided it wasn’t worth patching her up again. She’s finished when you get back to Blighty. They’ve decided they want to concentrate on a whole new class of carrier now that the war’s over. Not that it’s going to affect you too much, eh?’
Highfield sat down. Around him, the dials and maps of the meteorological office stared back mutely, oblivious of their imminent redundancy. So, he told the ship silently, you and me both. He hardly heard the other captain’s continuing conversation.
‘But jesting aside, how are you, old boy? Heard you took a knock withIndomitable. Quite the talk of the town, for a while. You had a few people worried.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Of course, of course. Can’t dwell on these things, can you? Shame, though. Young Hart served with me a couple of years ago. Quite shocked, when I heard. Nice young man. Stood out from the crowd.’
‘Yes. Yes, he did.’
‘Met his wife once, when we were out in Singapore. Nice little girl. I seem to recall she had just had twins. Which rather brings me to my reason for calling. London wired me this morning. They tell me you might have a few brides on board who are married to my men. We’re going to be alongside for a day or two and London thought it would be a nice gesture if we allowed them radio contact. What do you think? I dare say it would be good for my men’s morale to have a quick chat with the little woman.’
‘I don’t know...’
‘Well, don’t decide just yet. As I understand it, there’s only a handful of them anyway. I don’t suppose you’ll have hordes of hysterical girls knocking on your door. But it would mean a lot to my boys. And it all helps keep them out of trouble. We’re docking in Aden in a few days, and it’s always good to give the men a reminder of their responsibilities before they hit the shore.’ His laugh was low, guttural, confident that he would be understood.
Below on deck men in tropical rig were tidying away the last of the sports-day ropes and chairs, occasionally wiping sweat from their brows. A short distance away two young women strolled towards the deck canteen, the setting sun bouncing off their set, shining hair. They ducked together under the wing of one of the aircraft, one reaching out a slim hand to touch it as she passed and drawing it rapidly away, as if exclaiming that it was too hot. She was laughing at something the other had said and covered her mouth.
Behind them, the other fighter planes stretched across the deck, their smooth surfaces radiating heat. As redundant as the rest of the ship.
‘Highfield?’
‘Get your man to speak to my number one,’ Highfield said, eyes still fixed on the deck below. ‘We’ll send over a passenger list and you can let me know who your boys want to speak to. We’ll see if we can organise something.’
He put down his headphones. Then he turned to the radio operator. ‘Get me the commander-in-chief of the British Pacific Fleet. And whoever deals with the Lend-lease Agreement.’
