Page 86 of The Ship of Brides
‘Let’s not think about it tonight, eh? Nothing we can do now.’
‘No,’ said Frances.
She had never been particularly interested in clothes, had fallen with relief into her uniform for almost as long as she could remember. She had never wanted to draw attention to herself. Now she smoothed her skirt: in comparison with the peacock finery of the other women, the dress she had once considered smart now looked dowdy. On a whim, she had released her hair from its tight knot at the back of her head, staring at herself in the little mirror, seeing how, as it hung loose on her shoulders, it softened her face. Now, with all the carefully set styles around her, the product of hours spent with rollers and setting lotion, she felt unsophisticated, unfinished, and wished for the reassurance of her hairpins. She wondered if she could voice her fears to Margaret, seek reassurance. But the sight of her friend’s perspiring face and swollen frame, squeezed into the same gingham dress she had worn for the last four days, stopped the question on her lips. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she said instead.
‘You beauty! Thought you’d never ask,’ Margaret said companionably. ‘I’d fetch them myself, but it’d take a crane to hoist me out of this chair.’
‘I’ll get you some soda.’
‘Bless you! Do you not want to dance?’
Frances stopped. ‘What?’
‘You don’t have to stay with me, you know. I’m a big girl. Go and enjoy yourself.’
Frances wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m happier at the edge of things.’
Margaret nodded, lifted a hand.
It wasn’t strictly true. Tonight, protected by the semi-darkness, by the sweetened atmosphere and lack of attention afforded her by the music, Frances had felt a creeping longing to be one of those girls whirling around on the dance floor. No one would judge her for it. No one would pay her any attention. They all seemed to accept it for what it was: an innocent diversion, a simple pleasure stolen under the moonlight.
She collected two glasses of soda and returned to Margaret, who was watching the dancers.
‘I never was one for dancing,’ said Margaret, ‘yet looking at that lot right now I’d give anything to be up there.’
Frances nodded towards Margaret’s belly. ‘Not long,’ she said. ‘Then you can foxtrot half-way across England.’
She had told herself it didn’t matter, not seeing him. That, looking like she did, she might even prefer it. He was probably lost in that dark crowd, dancing with some pretty girl in a brightly coloured dress and satin shoes. Anyway, she had become so used to pushing men away that she wouldn’t have known how to behave otherwise.
The only dances she had been to in her adult life had been in hospital wards; those had been easy. She had either danced with her colleagues, who were generally old friends and kept a respectful distance, or with patients, to whom she felt vaguely maternal, and who generally retained an air of deference for anyone ‘medical’. She would often find herself murmuring to them to ‘watch that leg’, or checking whether they were still comfortable as they crossed the floor. The matron, Audrey Marshall, had joked that it was as if she was taking them for a medicinal promenade. She wouldn’t have known how to behave, faced with these laughing, cocky men, some so handsome in their dress uniforms that her breath caught in her throat. She wouldn’t have known how to make small-talk, or flirt without intent. She would have felt too self-conscious in her dull pale blue dress beside everyone else’s glorious gowns.
‘Hello there,’ he said, seating himself beside her. ‘I wondered where I might find you.’
She could barely speak. His dark eyes looked steadily out at her from a face softened by the night. She could detect the faint scent of carbolic on his skin, the characteristic smell of the fabric of his uniform. His hand lay on the table in front of her and she fought an irrational urge to touch it.
‘I wondered if you’d like to dance,’ he said.
She stared at that hand, faced with the prospect of it resting on her waist, of his body close to hers, and felt a swell of panic. ‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘Actually, I – I was just leaving.’
There was a brief silence.
‘It is late,’ he conceded. ‘I was hoping to get up here earlier, but we had a bit of an incident downstairs in the kitchens, and a few of us got called to sort it out.’
‘Thank you, anyway,’ she said. ‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.’ There was a lump in her throat. She gathered up her things, and he stood up to let her pass.
‘Don’t go,’ said Margaret.
Frances spun round.
‘Go on. For God’s sake, woman, you’ve kept me company all bloody night and now the least you can do is have a turn round the dance floor. Let me see what I’m missing.’
‘Margaret, I’m sorry but I—’
‘Sorry but what? Ah, go on, Frances. There’s no point in both of us being wallflowers. Shake a leg, as our dear friend would have said. One for Jean.’
She looked back at him, then at the crowded deck, the endless whirl of white and colour, unsure whether she was fearful of entering the throng or of being so close to him.
‘Get on with it, woman.’
