Page 73 of The Ship of Brides
The cabin had been empty that evening; Avice was at a fabric-flower-making session, which apparently counted towards the Queen of theVictoriacontest. Having decided Irene Carter was now her sworn enemy, she was intent on beating her to the title.
Jean, having whined about the oppressive heat, and tired of her reading lesson, was watching a film with two brides from the dormitory above.
Frances, having enjoyed an hour’s solitude and made a fuss of the old dog, was feeling restless, a little too warm for comfort. In the airless confines of the dormitory, her blouse lay stickily against her skin and the sheets moved tackily against the bedroll. She went to the bathroom and splashed her face several times with cold water.
She was about to leave the dormitory for the flight deck when Margaret burst in, flushed and breathless. ‘Ohmygoodness,’ she was saying, one plump hand at her throat. ‘Ohmygoodness.’
‘Are you all right?’ Frances leapt towards her.
Margaret mopped a faint sheen from her face. A heat rash had spread from her chest to her neck. She sat down heavily on her bunk.
‘Margaret?’
‘I’ve been summoned to the radio room. You’ll never guess – I’m to speak to Joe!’
‘What?’
Margaret’s eyes were wide. ‘Tonight! Can you believe it? TheAlexandrais just a short distance away, apparently, and we can pick her up on radio. There’s me and about five others who they say can speak to our husbands. I’m one of the lucky ones! Can you believe it? Can you?’
She grabbed the dog from her bed and kissed her vigorously. ‘Oh, Maudie, can you believe it? I’m going to speak to Joe! Tonight!’ Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror Avice had propped beside the door and groaned. ‘Oh, no! Look at the state of me. My hair always goes mad in the humidity.’ She lifted the unruly fronds in her fingers.
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to see you over the radio,’ Frances ventured.
‘But I still want to look nice for him.’ Margaret attacked her hair with Avice’s brush, vigorous strokes that left it springing up in electric bursts of benign rebellion. She pursed her lips. ‘Will you come with me? I feel so wobbly – I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Would you mind?’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s almost three months since I spoke to him. And I need someone to remind me not to swear in front of the captain.’
Frances looked at her feet.
‘Oh, golly, Moses, I’m sorry. I’m being tactless. I don’t mean to gloat. I’m sure you’d love to be speaking to your husband. I just thought if anyone was to be with me I’d like you.’
Frances took her hand. It was damp with either heat or nervous excitement. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.
‘Joe?’
Around her the light dimmed. Margaret shifted awkwardly, and asked in a whisper whether she was standing in the right place. The radio operator, earphones clamped to his head, fiddled with the myriad dials in front of him. Then, apparently satisfied by a series of chirrups and whistles, he adjusted the microphone in front of her. ‘Put your face close to there,’ he said, placing his hand gently on Margaret’s back to encourage her in. ‘That’s it. Now try again.’
‘Joe?’
In the little room tucked beneath the bridge, the handful of chosen brides, some accompanied by friends, nudged each other. The radio room was too small for so many people, and they stood stiffly, arms pressed close to their sides, a few fanning themselves with magazines, their faces shining in the heavy heat. Outside the sky had blackened, and somewhere, many miles away, the objects of their desire floated in the darkness.
‘Mags?’ The voice was distant, crackly. But, from Margaret’s expression, definitely his.
There was a collective sharp intake of breath, the sound a child might make when confronted by a Christmas tree. Margaret had been first up and it was as if until the brides heard this evidence it had been impossible to believe in the proximity of their men, that they might be able, after months of silence, to exchange a few precious words. Now they beamed at each other, as if their joy was contagious.
Margaret put out a hand to the microphone. Then, after a brief, embarrassed smile, ‘Joe, it’s me. How are you?’
‘I’m grand, love. Are you keeping well? Are they looking after you?’ The disembodied voice broke into the silence.
Margaret closed her hand round the microphone. ‘I’m fine. Me and Joe Junior both. It – it’s good to hear you,’ she faltered, evidently conscious that just as she was surrounded by strangers it was likely he was too. None of the women wanted to embarrass their men in front of their mates or superiors.
‘Are they feeding you well?’ came the voice, and the occupants of the radio room laughed. Margaret’s eyes flicked towards the captain, who stood back, arms crossed. He was smiling benignly. ‘They’re looking after us just fine.’
‘Good. You... watch out in this heat. Make sure you drink lots of water.’
‘Oh, I am.’
‘I’ve got to go, sweetheart, give the next fellow a turn. But you take care now.’
‘You too.’ Margaret moved in to the microphone, as if she could somehow get closer to him.
