We pushed through the swinging doors into the large empty dining room and headed over to the buffet, which was still being set up: big metal trays of steaks, mashed potatoes, salad, green beans, dinner rolls, creamed corn, dishes of butter and gravy, mustard and dressing. Barbara filled her plate and I took some salad and potato, a soft white roll. As plentiful and appetising as the food was, I missed the familiarity of the bread at home, the denser texture, the absence of that airy sweetness. And I preferred the flavour of lamb to this bland dry beef we always ate.

We sat and Barbara talked of the nursery she would set up for her child, the clothes she had been sewing, how her husband’s mother had been asking whether she would baptise the baby once it was born. Barbara was Protestant but had married a Catholic from a large Italian family in Boston.

‘I wonder what it will be like, having all these relatives all of a sudden, all these strangers in my life?’ She chewed thoughtfully, her face rounded and flushed, looking more like a girl at that moment than a woman.

I shrugged and we both ate in silence, lost in our thoughts about a future that was unknowable, despite our furious imagining.

•

How I would have survived those last days without Brynn I’ll never know, for the despair of travelling to the future while longing for the past is as bad as any I have felt. She and I lay side by side in deckchairs on our final day on board the Mariposa, wrapped in our coats as the weather had turned cold. She read to me from a pamphlet the Red Cross ladies had been handing out: ‘A Bride’s Guide to the USA’. It was compiled by Good Housekeeping in Britain for brides moving to America from England, but the Red Cross had told us that the advice ought to apply to us as well.

‘Keep your accent while you can,’ Brynn read in her haughtiest voice. ‘Most English accents, especially when spoken by a girl, are regarded in America as charming.’

‘Where are you from, little lady?’ I replied in a deep Southern drawl.

Brynn swatted me with the pamphlet. ‘Pay attention. You’ll never succeed in bride school if you don’t pay attention.’

‘Pardon me. Continue.’

‘Remember that, except in the smallest towns, lipstick is expected.’

‘Even on men?’

‘Especially on men.’

‘So wear lipstick and speak with a Pommy accent?’

‘Wait, there’s more.’ Brynn flipped some pages. ‘Work.’ She read: ‘Your main job will be running the house. Since your husband’s prospects of promotion may be improved by an attractive home, you may add more to the family budget by homemaking than by working for pay, unless you can get a really good job at a good salary.’

‘Promotion to what? Head tobacco farmer?’

‘And what, pray tell, is a good salary?’