Frances was talking about life on board a hospital ship. As her quiet, precise voice detailed the rounds, the injuries of a young marine she had treated outside the Solomon Islands, Margaret thought of that smile, then of Letty. Of the brief, blushing youthfulness of her, that strange almost-prettiness that beset her features when she had dared briefly to believe in a future with Murray Donleavy. She pushed away the memory, feeling darkly ashamed.
The temperature had not cooled as much as it had on previous evenings, and a balminess in the air reminded her of summer at home, of sitting out on the front porch, bare feet warm against the rough boards, the sound of the occasional slap as one of her brothers abruptly ended the night flight of some carnivorous insect. She tried to imagine what they would be doing that night. Perhaps Daniel would be sitting on the porch skinning rabbits with his penknife . . .
Suddenly she became aware of what Frances was telling her. She stopped. Got Frances to repeat herself. ‘Are you sure? He knows?’ she said.
Frances’s hands were thrust deep into her pockets. ‘That’s what he said. He asked whose she was.’
‘Did you tell him?’
‘No.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘What do you mean, you didn’t say anything?’
‘I didn’t say anything. I shut the door.’
They fell back against the pipe-lined wall as two officers walked past. One tipped his hat, and Margaret smiled politely. She waited until they were far down the gangway before she spoke again. ‘He told you he knew about the dog and you didn’t ask him whether he was going to tell on us? Or how long he had known? Nothing?’
‘Well, he hasn’t told on us yet, has he?’
‘But we don’t know what he’s going to do.’ Frances’s jaw, Margaret realised, was peculiarly set.
‘I just . . . I didn’t want to get into a discussion about it.’
‘Why not?’ Margaret asked incredulously.
‘I didn’t want him to get any ideas . . .’
‘Ideas? About what?’
Frances managed to look furious and defensive at once. ‘I didn’t want him to think he could use the dog as a bargaining ploy.’
There was a lengthy silence, Margaret frowning in incomprehension.
‘It’s a big deal. I thought he might want something . . . in return.’ She seemed faintly embarrassed now, as if she had understood how this logic might sound.
Margaret shook her head. ‘Jeez, Frances. You’ve got a strange view of how people go about things.’
They had arrived at their cabin. Margaret was trying to think whether there had been some hidden meaning in the way the marine had waved to them and was about to suggest that she should be the one to talk to him when he arrived, but she was distracted by the sight of a girl running up the passageway. She had shoulder-length dark hair secured off her face with bobby pins, one of which had become detached and was hanging loose. She skidded to a halt when she reached them, and scanned their door. ‘You live here? 3G?’ she panted.
‘Yeah.’ Margaret shrugged. ‘So?’
‘You know a girl called Jean?’ she asked, still breathless. And when they nodded: ‘You might want to get downstairs. Keep an eye on your little mate, before someone official finds her. She’s got herself into a bit of trouble.’
‘Where?’ said Margaret.
‘Seamen’s mess. E Deck. Go left by the second flight of stairs. It’s the blue door near the fire extinguisher. I’ve got to go. The marines are going to be here in a minute. You’ll have to hurry.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Frances to Margaret. ‘I’ll be faster. You catch me up.’ She slipped off her shoes, dumped her cardigan and bag at their door, then sprinted down the passageway, her long thin legs flying up behind her as she went.
There were all manner of hardships one could endure, Avice thought, if one happened to be in the right company. Since she had found Irene Carter that afternoon, and had been invited to join her and her friends for tea, then a lecture (Irene had sewn some simply marvellous peg-bags) and finally supper, they had talked for so long and so animatedly that she had forgotten not only the time but how much she detested the old ship.
Irene Carter’s father owned Melbourne’s most prominent tennis club. She was married to a sub-lieutenant just returned from the Adriatic; the son of (here Avice paused for breath) someone high up in the Foreign Office. And she had brought no less than eleven hats with her, in case one couldn’t get them in England. Irene Carter was most definitely the right sort. And, with a rigour Avice suspected was rather lacking in her own character, she had determined to surround herself only with other girls of the right sort, in one case going so far as to organise a bunk swap so that the dark-skinned girl with glasses had been reallocated to a cabin where she would ‘find girls like herself’. She hadn’t needed to spell out what criteria this might include. Avice, looking at Irene and the perfectly lovely girls around her, could see that they were all alike, not just in dress and manner but in their attitudes.
‘Of course, you know what happened to Lolicia Tarrant, don’t you?’ Irene was saying, her arm lightly linked through Avice’s as they tripped down the steps into the main hangar. The others were walking a couple of steps behind.
‘No.’ Irene’s shoes were the same as the ones Avice’s mother had seen in a Paris magazine. She must have had them flown over.
‘Well, you know she was engaged to that pilot? The one with the . . . unfortunate moustache? No? Well . . . he wasn’t five weeks in Malaya when she took up with an American soldier.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Awful man. So coarse. You know what he used to say about Melbourne? “Half as big as New York City’s largest cemetery – and twice as dead.” Ugh. Used to repeat it endlessly, as if he were being terribly original every time.’
‘So what happened?’ Avice was wide-eyed, picturing Lolicia with the American.
‘Well, that was it. Her fiancé came back and was not best pleased to find Lolly promenading around with this GI, as you can imagine. Let’s just say it was more than the Brisbane line he’d been holding, you get my drift?’
‘Goodness,’ said Avice.
‘And nor was Lolly’s father best pleased when he found out. They’d been wary of the Americans since the murders, of course.’ All of the girls remembered the scandal there had been when four Melbourne women were murdered by Private Edward J. Leonski and Australia’s relationship with the GIs had soured.
‘He wasn’t a murderer.’
‘Oh, Avice, you are funny! No. But he did let all his GI friends know what he’d been up to with Lolly. In the most graphic detail. And his commanding officer apparently got the wrong end of the stick and sent Lolly’s father a letter, suggesting he keep better watch on his daughter.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’
‘Her reputation was shredded. Her fiancé wants nothing to do with her, even though half of what this officer said was untrue, of course.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Irene.
‘I thought you and she were friends,’ said Avice.
‘Now?’ Irene pulled a face and she shook her head, as if she were trying to dislodge an annoying insect. There was a long silence. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘are you going to enter for Queen of the Victoria? They’re having a Miss Lovely Legs contest next week, you know.’
They were half-way along the hangar deck when they came across Margaret. She was leaning against a noticeboard, one hand above her head, palm down, as if to support herself, while the other was clutching the point where her giant belly took a right-angled leap from her body.
‘Are you all right?’ said Avice, paralysed with the fear that the farm girl was about to give birth. She would have to get involved. Goodness only knew what Irene would think.
‘Stitch,’ said Margaret, through gritted teeth.
Avice felt almost faint with relief.
‘Would you like some help getting back to your cabin?’ asked Irene, courteously.
‘No.’ Margaret looked at Avice, then at her friend. Her nose, Avice noticed, had reddened with the sun. ‘I’ve got to go downstairs. Jean’s got herself involved in a little . . . episode.’
‘She shares our cabin,’ Avice explained.
‘You want some help?’ said Irene. She had bent her knees to look into Margaret’s flushed face.
‘I need to catch my breath.’
‘Well, you can’t possibly go and get your friend like that. Not down all those stairs. We’ll come with you.’
Avice began to remonstrate: ‘No . . . I don’t think we should . . . I mean, Jean is . . .’
But Irene had already slid her arm from Avice’s and was reaching for Margaret. ‘Better? Come on, take my arm. We’ll have a little adventure.’
Come on, girls, she had said. Haven’t had the remotest bit of excitement since setting foot on board. Let’s go and rescue a damsel in distress. And Avice heard Jean’s bawdy laugh in her ears, heard her saying that Margaret was ‘as itchy as an itchybug in Itchyville’ or some such and watched Irene – her only lifeline to a proper social life during this voyage – prepare to float away from her on a mist of disapproval. She closed her eyes, rehearsing her excuses and ways to distance herself from Jean’s vulgarity.
But Jean, when they found her, was not laughing. She wasn’t even standing.
They saw her legs before they saw her, emerging awkwardly from behind a stack of canisters by the overheated starboard engine room, her shoes, half on her feet, pointing towards each other. As they came closer their voices, which had been hushed down the long, narrow gangway, stilled as they took in the tableau before them. They could see enough of her top half to gather that she was drunk – drunk enough to murmur incoherently at nobody in particular. Drunk enough to half sit, half lie, legs splayed, on the hard, oily floor. Drunk enough not to care that her blouse was unbuttoned and a small pale breast had spilled out of a dislodged brassière.
Frances stood over her, her usually pale, grave face flushed and animated, her hair somehow uncoiling from its usually severe pinning, her being radiating electricity. A man, possibly a seaman, equally drunk, was reeling away from her, clutching his shoulder. His flies were undone, and there was a flash of something purple and obscene in the fleshy gap they exposed. As the new arrivals stared in mute, shocked horror, another man peeled out of the shadows behind Jean and, with a guilty glance at them, straightened his dress and rushed away. Jean stirred, muttered something, her hair in dark, sweaty fronds over her face. Amid the shocked silence, Margaret knelt down and tried to pull Jean’s skirt over those pale thighs.
‘You bastard,’ Frances was screaming at the man. They could see she was holding a large spanner in her bony hand. He moved and her arm came down, the spanner connecting with his shoulder in an audible crack. As he ducked away, tried to shelter, the blows rained down on him with the relentless, manic force of a jackhammer. As one hit the side of his head, a fine arc of blood spattered into the air from above his ear.
Before they had a chance to digest this scene, to let its meaning, the ramifications, sink in, Dennis Tims was running towards them, his taut bulk bringing renewed threat. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said, cigarette still in hand. ‘Mikey said—What the hell . . . ? Oh, Jesus,’ he said, taking in Frances, the man’s trousers, Jean on the floor, now supported by Margaret. ‘Oh, Jesus. Jesus . . . Thompson, you bloody—’ He dropped his cigarette and grabbed at Frances, who tried to shake him off, her face contorted. ‘You bastard!’ she yelled. ‘You dirty bastard!’