Page 79 of The Ship of Brides
He covered his face with a hand. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’
‘Oh, Ian, sweetheart, please don’t—’
‘I can’t believe you—’
‘You do still want me, don’t you, darling?’ Her voice, tremulous and a little pleading, suggested more doubt than Avice felt. It had never occurred to her that Ian might change his mind.
‘You know I do... It’s just—’
‘You want to make sure you’re head of the household. Of course you do! You know I think you’re simply masterful. And if we had had more time I would have left it as long as anything. Oh, Ian, don’t be cross, darling, please. It’s only because I wanted to be Mrs Radley so badly.’
She pressed her nose to his and widened her blue eyes so that he might lose himself in them. ‘Oh, Ian, darling, I do love you so much.’
He had said nothing initially, just submitted to her kisses, her murmured entreaties, the gentle exploration of her hands. Then, slowly, she felt him thaw. ‘It’s only because I love you, darling,’ she whispered, and as he gave himself up to her, as she slowly became lost, felt their bodies restoring him to her, as the Sleeping Beast awoke, a little part of her reflected with satisfaction that, difficult as these things could sometimes be, through intelligence, charm and a bit of luck, Avice Pritchard usually had her way.
He had been a little odd at the wedding. She knew her mother thought so. He had been distracted, selectively deaf, bit his nails even (an unbecoming habit in a grown man). Given that there were only eight of them, and that he was an officer, she had thought his nervousness a little excessive.
‘Don’t be silly,’ her father had said. ‘All grooms are supposed to look like condemned men.’ Her mother had hit him playfully, and tried to raise a reassuring lipsticked smile.
Deanna had sulked. She had worn a blue suit, almost dark enough to be considered black, and Avice had complained about it to her mother, who had told her not to fuss. ‘It’s very hard for her, you being the first to get married,’ she had whispered. ‘Do you understand?’
Avice did. Only too well.
‘Still love me?’ she had said to him afterwards. Their parents had paid for everyone’s dinner and a night at the Melbourne Grand. Her mother had wept at the table and told her in a stage whisper, as she and Ian left to go upstairs, that it really wasn’t all that bad and it might help if she had a little drink or two first. Avice had smiled – a smile that reassured her mother and irritated the bejaysus out of her sister, to whom it said, I’m going to do It: I shall be a woman before you. She had even been tempted to tell her sister she had already done It the previous evening, but the way Deanna had been lately, she thought she was likely to blab to their mother and that was all she needed.
‘Ian? Do you still love me, now that I’m just boring Mrs Radley?’
They had reached their room. He closed the door behind her, took another swig of his brandy and loosened his collar. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. He had seemed more like himself then. He pulled her to him, and slid a warm hand chaotically up her thigh. ‘I love you to bits, darling girl.’
‘Forgiven me?’
His attention was already elsewhere. ‘Of course.’ He dropped his lips to her neck, and bit her gently. ‘I told you. I just don’t like surprises.’
‘I reckon there’s a storm brewing.’ Jones-the-Welsh checked the barometer at the side of the mess door, and lit another cigarette, then generated a shudder. ‘I can feel it inside me. Pressure like this – it’s got to break some time, right?’
‘What do you think that was this morning, Scotch mist?’
‘Call that a storm? That was a piss and a fart in a teacup. I’m talking about a proper storm, lads. A real wild woman of a storm. The kind that stands your hair on end, whips you round the chops and shreds your trousers afore you can say, “Ah, come on now, love. I was just calling you her name for a joke.”’
There was a rumble of laughter from various hammocks. Nicol, lying in his, heard the sound as a dull harbinger of darkening skies. Jones was right. There would be a storm. He felt tense, jittery, as if he had drunk too many cups of Arab coffee. At least, he told himself it was the storm.
In his mind Nicol saw, again, the imprint of that pale face, illuminated by moonlight. There had been no invitation in her glance, no coquettishness. She was not the kind of woman who considered flirting compensation for the condition of marriage. But there was something in her gaze. Something that told him of an understanding between them. A connection. Sheknewhim. That was what he felt.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said aloud, swinging his legs out of the hammock. He had not meant to speak, and as his feet hit the floor he felt self-conscious.
‘What’s the matter, Nicol, my love?’ Jones-the-Welsh put down his letter. ‘Someone done up your corset too tight? Not arrested enough people lately?’
Nicol closed his eyes. They were sore, gritty. Despite his exhaustion, sleep eluded him. It let him chase it through the daytime hours, occasionally suggesting that it would be his. Then as he relaxed, the urge evaporated and left him, with that imprint on the back of his eyelids. And an ache in his soul. How can I think like this? he would ask himself. Me of all people.
‘Headache,’ he said now, rubbing his forehead. ‘As you said. The pressure.’
He had told himself he was incapable of emotion. So shocked by the horrors of war, by the loss of so many around him that, like so many men, he had closed off. Now, forced to examine his behaviour honestly, he thought perhaps he had never loved his wife, that he had instead become caught up in expectation, in the idea that he should marry. He had had to – after she had revealed the consequence of what they had done. You married, you had your children and you grew old. Your wife grew sour with lack of attention; you grew bitter and introverted for your lost dreams; the children grew up and moved on, promising themselves they would not make the same mistakes. There was no room for wishful thinking, for alternatives. You Got On With It. Perhaps, he thought in his darkest moments, he found it hard to admit that war had freed him from that.
‘You know, Nic, the stokers are talking of having a party tonight. Now that the old lady’s settled down again.’ He patted the wall beside him. ‘I must say, it does seem a waste for all that female talent to miss out on the experience of a bit of good old naval hospitality. I thought I might look in later.’
Nicol reached for a boot and began to polish it. ‘You’re a dog,’ he said.
Jones-the-Welsh let out a joyous woof. ‘Oh, what’s the harm?’ he said. ‘Those who don’t want a bit of Welsh rarebit must be proper in love with their old men. So that’s lovely. Those who find the sea air has...’ here he raised an eyebrow ‘...given them a bit of an appetite, probably weren’t going to go the distance anyway.’
