It was then that two brides fell into fisticuffs over the egg and spoon. (Pointless, really, as all the eggs were wooden.) The ‘Carry the Maiden’ race had culminated in an argument when a girl accused a rating of hoisting up her skirt. Sports day had officially ended.
‘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 with Indomitable. 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.’
The cabin had been empty that evening; Avice was at a fabric-flower-making session, which apparently counted towards the Queen of the Victoria contest. 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? The Alexandra is 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.’