Into Suez by Stevie Davies

Mona, Joe – my good friend – she’s been so sweet to me and Nia. Mona – my husband.’
    Joe shook hands cordially. How glad he was, he said, that Ailsa had made a pal on a voyage that cannot have been much fun for anyone. He was grateful to her. Half-caste ? Dark as weak coffee and not with sunburn, that was for sure. Seemed a decent type though. And well-spoken . An educated, superior voice if ever Joe heard one. With this thought, all ease and naturalness drained away: he was the tinplate apprentice, son of a furnaceman, the lowest of the low at the South Wales Canister Company.
    Joe gripped Ailsa beneath the elbow, to move her on. But the crush of jubilation made movement impossible and the Military Police were nowhere to be seen. Chalkie jounced both his boys in his arms, whilst kissing his wife. The children’s hair was white as wheat and their cheeksflushed with heat and over-excitement. Joe was introduced to Chalkie’s ladylike wife, Irene, and spoke to a tearful foreigner who could not find her husband. Corporal Webster, RAF Fanara, she said, did he know him? had he seen him? My friend Ailsa will help me , she said desperately, gripping Ailsa’s arm. My good friend . Who wouldn’t panic in these circumstances: just off the ship and no husband? With her baby-blonde hair and pale complexion, she looked ready to faint with anxiety.
    ‘Stick with us, Mrs Webster,’ Joe said, ‘until we find him. Don’t worry: he’ll be here.’
    A moon-faced bloke Joe recognised by sight shouldered his way through the crush: Hedda! he was calling, over people’s shoulders. You’re all right, I’m here, you’re safe now .
    As the crowd parted, he barged though and, taking his wife in his arms, lifted her clean off her feet, both of them laughing and weeping, swung her round, kissed her. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said to Joe. ‘Norman Webster. And this is my darling Hedwig.’
    The Military Police directed the passengers through customs. The crowd thinned. As Joe was about to pick up Nia and follow them, Ailsa said, ‘You must meet Ben, Joe, Mona’s husband. And Alex.’
    As the senior officer and his companion arrived, Joe stood smartly to attention and saluted.
    *
    A bad moment, terrible, Ailsa thought afterwards in the train. Joe’s hand had shot up, a barrier that put them all in their places. With this signal, all possibility of conversation had died.
    The Royal Air Force had semaphored to them through the language of Joe’s salute a reminder that fraternisation between officers and Other Ranks could never be countenanced. Fraternisation, Joe’s ramrod arm had said, would undo the proper and natural order of things; it would soften military discipline, the foundation of the Empire. Joe had held his arm rigid, quivering, far longer than was called for, blank-faced, eyes staring forward at the officers’ shoulders, as if for parade ground inspection. It is a sad day for the RAF, his mute stance had said, when a sergeant has to instruct a senior officer in King’s regulations.
    ‘No need for that, old chap…’
    Habibi , thrown into confusion, had been left with his hand held out for a handshake. Ailsa saw his sloppy uniform and springy curls as if through her husband’s eyes. Alex had had the presence of mind to return Joe’s salute, as regulations required, just touching his temple in greeting, a superior kind of Wotcher, mate . But Joe, a statue, had remained at attention. Face brick-red; not blinking.
    Unbelievably, Joe had carried on saluting, despite his pal Roy White’s humorous nudge. Before the barrier of his hand could fall to separate them, Mona had reached for Ailsa and hugged her, pulling her under the brim of her hat, into its dusky, patterned red shade. She’d kissed her on the mouth, while Ailsa pulled back because of Joe – poor Joe, caught in this trap. She wasn’t saying goodbye, Mona had whispered, not now, not ever.
    ‘Be happy, chérie, liebste, habiba .’
    ‘Oh, Mona … and