looked into the wartime face of Joe as he had been in the Western Desert, muscular arms folded, eyes crinkling, his funny buck teeth in that small mouth, a soft mop of hair that was licensed because they had no Brylcreme in the Western Desert.
Whatever was that black thing on the sheet? A dead spider? Ailsa flicked at it with her nails. No, it was not alive: just something embroidered on to the sheets, to stop you filching them presumably, as if you would want to go off with such linen – linen that carried ancient stains neither boiling nor bleach had been able to remove.
One more sip: that’s right, stay down. It did. She eased on to her left side and prepared to doze. The ventilator grid snored as if a fat man were sleeping there, some inveterate wife-waker; the ship’s engine thrummed through her entire body. Ailsa opened her eyes. Another black spot on the edge of the pillow. It could not be, but was, a swastika.
*
Nia, placed on a seat bolted to the floor and told to show good manners, picked up her bun and brought it down with a thump on the table. Soon a couple of big girls had joined in the din, whacking cakes on their plates. Nia slid down under the table and crawled to the end, face levelwith a line of red sandals and white ankle-socks. Her cot sheet was clamped between her teeth and her golly was stuffed down the waistband of her skirt.
Bolting down a corridor, Nia felt the thrill of escape polluted by the shock of isolation. Through the tannoy came a male voice instructing all Other Ranks wives and children to attend for life boat drill on the deck aft.
The deck aft?
Nia ran against a tide of women and children forcing their way up the narrow corridor. Pelting back the way she had come, she ran straight into the hands of the Nice Lady. Dragged up to the deck, Nia grizzled quietly and made her limbs go limp and her lips pouty, as the lady struggled to get her into a life jacket. Finally she was handed over to Mrs Brean, who was instructed to keep a firm hold on her, as she was a demon.
‘I won’t run away,’ Nia confided to Babs.
‘How do I know that?’
‘ You’re not nasty.’ Nia, in a tender gesture her daddy often used, cupped Mrs Brean’s cheek in her palm, just softly, for a moment, so that the woman went still and gazed at the kiddie, surprised.
‘Ah, I expect you want your mum, darling, don’t you?’
‘I won’t be trouble.’ Nia shook her head emphatically.
‘Course you won’t, pet.’
The softened lady melted altogether as Nia raised her arms to allow the life jacket to be slipped off over her head. She held on to the back of Mrs Brean’s skirt as she turned to attend to her own brood, mentioning to a fellow wife the possibility of tombola later and something nice to – you know – when they’d got the kiddies to bed. Babs gestured with her hand, pouring a series of imaginarydrinks into her mouth at top speed, to her companions’ amusement. She did not feel Nia let go and slip back towards the door leading, Nia thought, to the cabins. She ducked beneath a cordon marking off one area of the deck from another. Khaki men in rows further along were being barked at as they struggled into life belts.
Down some stairs, up more. Her sandal-soles drummed on metal as Nia beetled along one passageway and down another. Hand over hand up a ladder. Panic raced along behind but Nia would not allow it to catch up. She burst through a half open metal door that silently closed behind her.
High up Nia stood on an iron platform, with railings, suspended above a gigantic stench. It rose from a room vast as an aircraft hangar she’d visited with her daddy, where she’d marvelled as the entrance was rolled back like a curtain and from the oily guts of the dark building a plane had taxied out. Was there a plane in the ship? Her father loved the oily insides of an aeroplane. Taking Golly out of her waistband, she showed him the sight. He waggled his sticky-outy arms, eyes wide in
Whatever was that black thing on the sheet? A dead spider? Ailsa flicked at it with her nails. No, it was not alive: just something embroidered on to the sheets, to stop you filching them presumably, as if you would want to go off with such linen – linen that carried ancient stains neither boiling nor bleach had been able to remove.
One more sip: that’s right, stay down. It did. She eased on to her left side and prepared to doze. The ventilator grid snored as if a fat man were sleeping there, some inveterate wife-waker; the ship’s engine thrummed through her entire body. Ailsa opened her eyes. Another black spot on the edge of the pillow. It could not be, but was, a swastika.
*
Nia, placed on a seat bolted to the floor and told to show good manners, picked up her bun and brought it down with a thump on the table. Soon a couple of big girls had joined in the din, whacking cakes on their plates. Nia slid down under the table and crawled to the end, face levelwith a line of red sandals and white ankle-socks. Her cot sheet was clamped between her teeth and her golly was stuffed down the waistband of her skirt.
Bolting down a corridor, Nia felt the thrill of escape polluted by the shock of isolation. Through the tannoy came a male voice instructing all Other Ranks wives and children to attend for life boat drill on the deck aft.
The deck aft?
Nia ran against a tide of women and children forcing their way up the narrow corridor. Pelting back the way she had come, she ran straight into the hands of the Nice Lady. Dragged up to the deck, Nia grizzled quietly and made her limbs go limp and her lips pouty, as the lady struggled to get her into a life jacket. Finally she was handed over to Mrs Brean, who was instructed to keep a firm hold on her, as she was a demon.
‘I won’t run away,’ Nia confided to Babs.
‘How do I know that?’
‘ You’re not nasty.’ Nia, in a tender gesture her daddy often used, cupped Mrs Brean’s cheek in her palm, just softly, for a moment, so that the woman went still and gazed at the kiddie, surprised.
‘Ah, I expect you want your mum, darling, don’t you?’
‘I won’t be trouble.’ Nia shook her head emphatically.
‘Course you won’t, pet.’
The softened lady melted altogether as Nia raised her arms to allow the life jacket to be slipped off over her head. She held on to the back of Mrs Brean’s skirt as she turned to attend to her own brood, mentioning to a fellow wife the possibility of tombola later and something nice to – you know – when they’d got the kiddies to bed. Babs gestured with her hand, pouring a series of imaginarydrinks into her mouth at top speed, to her companions’ amusement. She did not feel Nia let go and slip back towards the door leading, Nia thought, to the cabins. She ducked beneath a cordon marking off one area of the deck from another. Khaki men in rows further along were being barked at as they struggled into life belts.
Down some stairs, up more. Her sandal-soles drummed on metal as Nia beetled along one passageway and down another. Hand over hand up a ladder. Panic raced along behind but Nia would not allow it to catch up. She burst through a half open metal door that silently closed behind her.
High up Nia stood on an iron platform, with railings, suspended above a gigantic stench. It rose from a room vast as an aircraft hangar she’d visited with her daddy, where she’d marvelled as the entrance was rolled back like a curtain and from the oily guts of the dark building a plane had taxied out. Was there a plane in the ship? Her father loved the oily insides of an aeroplane. Taking Golly out of her waistband, she showed him the sight. He waggled his sticky-outy arms, eyes wide in
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