Free Ship of Brides by Jojo Moyes

Lerwick, from the corner. ‘I keep dreaming of the breezes.’
    ‘Cups of tea without chlorinated water.’
    ‘Cold English beer.’
    ‘No such thing, mate.’
    Normally heat like this would have left them all listless, the patients dozing on their beds, the nurses moving slowly between them, wiping damp faces with cool cloths, checking for ulcers, infection, dysentery. But the imminent departure of the POWs, the fact that they were mending, that they were here at all, had injected something into the atmosphere. Perhaps it was the sudden realisation that long-standing units, tightly knit groups that had supported each other through the horror of the last years, were about to be disbanded, separated by miles, in some cases continents, and might not meet again.
    Audrey Marshall, watching the people before her, felt her throat constrict – a sensation so rare that she was briefly perplexed by it. Suddenly she understood the girls’ need to party, the men’s determination to drink, dance and plough their way with forced merriment through these last hours together. ‘Tell you what,’ she said, gesturing towards the drip in the corner, where one of the physiotherapists was drinking beer from a false limb, ‘make mine a large one.’
    The singing started not long afterwards: ‘Shenandoah’. The reedy, drink-lubricated voices drifted through the canvas into the night sky.
    It was half-way through the chorus that the girl entered. Audrey didn’t see her at first – the whisky had perhaps dulled the sharp senses that usually ensured she missed nothing. But as she raised her own voice in song, enjoying the sight of the recovering men singing in their beds, the nurses clutching each other, their eyes occasionally welling with sentimental tears, she became aware of a sudden froideur , the sideways glances that told her something had changed.
    She was standing in the doorway, her pale, freckled face porcelain still, her thin shoulders erect in her uniform as she took in the scene before her. She was holding a small suitcase and a kitbag. Not much to show for six years in the Australian General Hospital. She stared into the crowded tent as if it had altered her resolve to come in, as if she were about to change her mind. Then she caught Audrey Marshall looking at her, and walked over slowly, staying as close as she could to the side of the tent.
    ‘Packed already, Sister?’
    She hesitated before she spoke. ‘I’ll be boarding the hospital ship tonight, Matron, if it’s all right by you. They could do with a bit of help with the very sick men.’
    ‘They didn’t ask me,’ said Audrey, trying not to sound aggrieved.
    The girl looked at the floor. ‘I – I offered. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I could be of more use . . . that you probably didn’t need me any more.’ With the music it was difficult to hear her.
    ‘You don’t want to stay and have a last few drinks with us?’ Even as she said it Audrey wasn’t sure why she’d asked. In the four years they had worked together Sister Mackenzie had never been one for parties. Now she probably understood why.
    ‘You’re very kind, but no, thank you.’ She was already looking at the doorway, as if calculating how soon she could leave.
    Audrey was about to press the point, unwilling to let her drift off, to let this be the way her years of service should end. But as she tried to find the right words, she became aware that for the most part the girls had stopped dancing. Several of them stood in huddles, their eyes cold, assessing. ‘I’d like to say—’ she began, but one of the men interrupted.
    ‘Is that Sister Mackenzie? You hiding her there, Matron? Come on, Sister, you can’t go without saying a proper goodbye.’
    Private Lerwick was trying to get out of bed. He had put his feet on the ground and was steadying himself with one hand on the iron bedhead. ‘Don’t you go anywhere, Sister. You made me a promise, remember?’
    Audrey caught the