Night Over Water

by Ken Follett

  “Well”—she lowered her voice—“one of us will have to get on top.” He murmured into her ear: “Would you like to get on top?”

  She giggled. “I think I might.”

  “I’ll have to consider that,” he said thickly. “What do you weigh?”

  “Eight stone and two breasts.”

  “Shall we get changed?”

  She took off her hat and put it down on the seat beside her. Mark pulled their cases from under the seat. His was a well-used cordovan Gladstone bag, hers a small, hard-sided, tan leather case with her initials in gold lettering.

  Diana stood up.

  “Be quick,” Mark said. He kissed her.

  She gave him a swift hug, and as he pressed against her she felt his erection. “Goodness,” she said. In a whisper she added: “Can you keep it like that until you get back?”

  “I don’t think so. Not unless I pee out the window.” She laughed. He added: “But I’ll show you a quick way to make it hard again.”

  “I can’t wait,” she whispered.

  Mark picked up his case and went out, going forward toward the men’s room. As he left the compartment, he passed Mervyn coming the other way. They looked at one another like cats across a fence, but they did not speak.

  Diana was startled to see Mervyn dressed in a coarse flannel nightshirt with broad brown stripes. “What on earth have you got on?” she asked incredulously.

  “Go on, laugh,” he said. “It was all I could find in Foynes. The local shop has never heard of silk pajamas—they didn’t know whether I was queer or just daft.”

  “Well, your friend Mrs. Lenehan won’t fancy you in that getup.” Now why did I say that? Diana wondered.

  “I don’t suppose she’d fancy me in anything,” Mervyn said crossly, and he passed on out of the compartment.

  The steward came in. Diana said: “Oh, Davy, would you make up our beds now, please?”

  “Right away, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up her case and went out.

  As she passed through number 5 compartment, she wondered where Mervyn was sleeping. None of these bunks was made up yet, nor any in number 6; and yet he had disappeared. It dawned on Diana that he must be in the honeymoon suite. An instant later she realized that she had not seen Mrs. Lenehan seated anywhere when she walked the length of the plane a few moments earlier. She stood outside the ladies’ room, with her bag in her hand, frozen still with surprise. It was outrageous. Mervyn and Mrs. Lenehan must be sharing the honeymoon suite!

  Surely the airline would not allow it. Perhaps Mrs. Lenehan had already gone to bed, and was out of sight in a curtained bunk in a forward compartment.

  Diana had to know.

  She stepped to the door of the honeymoon suite and hesitated.

  Then she turned the handle and opened the door.

  The suite was about the same size as a regular compartment, and had a terra-cotta carpet, beige walls and the blue upholstery with the pattern of stars that was also in the main lounge. At the rear of the room was a pair of bunks. On one side were a couch and a coffee table, and on the other a stool, a dressing table, and a mirror. There were two windows on each side.

  Mervyn stood in the middle of the room, startled by her sudden appearance. Mrs. Lenehan was not present, but her gray cashmere coat was draped over the couch.

  Diana slammed the door behind her and said: “How could you do this to me?”

  “Do what?”

  It was a good question, she thought in the back of her mind. What was she so angry about? “Everyone will know that you’re spending the night with her!”

  “I had no choice,” he protested. “There were no other seats left.”

  “Don’t you know how people will laugh at us? It’s bad enough your following me like this!”

  “Why would I care? Everyone laughs at a chap whose wife runs off with another fellow.”

  “But this is making it worse! You should have accepted the situation and made the best of it.”

  “You ought to know me better than that.”

  “I do—that’s why I tried to prevent you following me.”

  He shrugged. “Well, you failed. You’re not clever enough to outwit me.”

  “And you’re not clever enough to know when to give in gracefully!”

  “I’ve never pretended to be graceful.”

  “And what kind of tramp is she? She’s married—I saw her ring!”

  “She’s a widow. Anyway, what right have you got to be so damn superior? You’re married, and you’re spending the night with your fancy man.”

  “At least we’ll be in separate bunks in a public compartment, not tucked away in a cozy little bridal suite,” she said, suppressing a guilty pang as she recalled how she had planned to share a bunk with Mark.

  “But I’m not having an affair with Mrs. Lenehan,” he said in an exasperated tone, “whereas you’ve been dropping your drawers for that playboy all bloody summer, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t be so vulgar,” she hissed; but she felt somehow he was right. That was exactly what she had been doing: whipping her panties off as quick as she could every time she got near Mark. He was right.

  “If it’s vulgar to say it, it must be worse to do it,” he said.

  “At least I was discreet—I didn’t flaunt it and humiliate you.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I’ll probably find I was the only person in Greater Manchester who didn’t know what you were up to. Adulterers are never as discreet as they think.”

  “Don’t call me that!” she protested. It made her feel ashamed.

  “Why not? It’s what you are.”

  “It sounds vile,” she said, looking away.

  “Be thankful we don’t stone adulteresses like they did in the Bible.”

  “It’s a horrible word.”

  “You should be ashamed of the deed, not the word.”

  “You’re so bloody righteous,” she said wearily. “You’ve never done anything wrong, have you?”

  “I’ve always done right by you!” he said angrily.

  She became thoroughly exasperated with him. “Two wives have run away from you, but you’ve always been the innocent party. Will it ever occur to you to wonder where you might be going wrong?”

  That got to him. He grabbed her, holding her arms above the elbow, and shook her. “I gave you everything you wanted,” he said angrily.

  “But you don’t care how I feel about things,” she shouted. “You never did. That’s why I left you.” She put her hands on his chest to push him away—and at that moment the door opened and Mark came in.

  He stood there in his pajamas, staring at the two of them, and said: “What the hell is this, Diana? Are you planning to spend the night in the honeymoon suite?”

  She pushed Mervyn away and he let her go. “No, I’m not,” she said to Mark. “This is Mrs. Lenehan’s accommodation—Mervyn’s sharing it.”

  Mark laughed scornfully. “That’s rich!” he said. “I have to put this in a script sometime!”

  “It’s not funny!” she protested.

  “But it is!” he said. “This guy comes chasing his wife like a lunatic. Then what does he do? He shacks up with a girl he meets on the way!”

  Diana resented his attitude, and found herself unwillingly defending Mervyn. “They’re not shacked up,” she said impatiently. “These were the only seats left.”

  “You should be glad,” Mark said. “If he falls for her, maybe he’ll stop chasing you.”

  “Can’t you see I’m upset?”

  “Sure, but I don’t understand why,” he said. “You don’t love Mervyn anymore. Sometimes you talk as if you hate him. You’ve left him. So why do you care who he sleeps with?”

  “I don’t know, but I do! I feel humiliated!”

  Mark was too cross to be sympathetic. “A few hours ago you decided to go back to Mervyn. Then he annoyed you and you changed your mind. Now you’re mad at him for sleeping with someon
e else.”

  “I’m not sleeping with her,” Mervyn put in.

  Mark ignored him. “Are you sure you’re not still in love with Mervyn?” he said angrily to Diana.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say to me!”

  “I know, but is it true?”

  “No, it isn’t true, and I hate you for thinking it might be.” She was in tears now.

  “Then prove it to me. Forget about him and where he sleeps.”

  “I was never any good at tests!” she shouted. “Stop being so bloody logical! This is not the debating society!”

  “No, it’s not!” said a new voice. The three of them turned around and saw Nancy Lenehan in the door, looking very attractive in a bright blue silk robe. “In fact,” she said, “I believe this is my suite. What the hell is going on?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Margaret Oxenford was angry and ashamed. She felt sure the other passengers were staring at her and thinking about the dreadful scene in the dining room, and assuming that she shared her father’s horrible attitudes. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye.

  Harry Marks had rescued the shreds of her dignity. It had been clever of him, and so gracious, to step in and hold her chair like that, then offer her his arm as she walked out: a small gesture, almost silly, but for her it had made a world of difference.

  Still, it was only a vestige of her self-respect that she had retained, and she boiled with resentment toward Father for putting her in such a shameful position.

  There was a cold silence in the compartment for two hours after dinner. When the weather started to get rough, Mother and Father retired to change into their nightclothes. Then Percy surprised Margaret by saying: “Let’s apologize.”

  Her first thought was that this would involve further embarrassment and humiliation. “I don’t think I’ve got the courage,” she said.

  “We’ll just go up to Baron Gabon and Professor Hartmann, and say we’re sorry Father was so rude.”

  The idea of somehow mitigating her father’s offense was very tempting. It would make her feel a lot better. “Father would be furious, of course,” she said.

  “He doesn’t have to know. But I don’t care if he is angry. I think he’s going round the bend. I’m not even afraid of him anymore.”

  Margaret wondered whether that was true. As a small boy, Percy had often said he was not afraid when in fact he was terrified. But he was not a small boy anymore.

  She was actually a little worried by the thought that Percy might no longer be under Father’s control. Only Father could restrain Percy. With no rein on his mischief, what might he do?

  “Come on,” Percy said. “Let’s do it now. They’re in number three compartment—I checked.”

  Still Margaret hesitated. She cringed at the thought of walking up to the men Father had insulted. It could cause them more pain. They might prefer to forget the whole thing as quickly as possible. But they might also be wondering how many other passengers secretly agreed with Father. Surely it was more important to make a stand against racial prejudice?

  Margaret decided to do it. She had often been fainthearted and she had usually regretted it. She stood up, steadying herself by holding on to the arm of her seat, for the plane was bucking every few moments. “All right,” she said. “Let’s apologize.”

  She was trembling a little with apprehension, but her shakiness was masked by the unsteadiness of the plane. She led the way through the main lounge into number 3 compartment.

  Gabon and Hartmann were on the port side, facing each other. Hartmann was absorbed in reading, his long, thin body in a curve, his close-cropped head bent, his arched nose pointing at a page of mathematical calculations. Gabon was doing nothing, apparently bored, and he saw them first. When Margaret stopped beside him and held on to the back of his seat for support, he stiffened and looked hostile.

  Margaret said quickly: “We’ve come to apologize.”

  “I’m surprised you are so bold,” Gabon said. He spoke English perfectly, with only the trace of a French accent.

  It was not the reaction Margaret had hoped for, but she plowed on regardless. “I’m most dreadfully sorry about what happened, and my brother feels the same way. I admire Professor Hartmann so much. I told him earlier.”

  Hartmann had looked up from his book, and now he nodded agreement. But Gabon was still angry. “It’s too easy for people like you to be sorry,” he said. Margaret stared at the floor and wished she had not come. “Germany is full of polite wealthy people who are ‘most dreadfully sorry’ for what is happening there,” Gabon went on. “But what do they do? What do you do?”

  Margaret felt her face flush crimson. She did not know what to do or say.

  “Hush, Philippe,” Hartmann said softly. “Can’t you see that they’re young?” He looked at Margaret. “I accept your apology, and thank you.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, “have I made everything worse?”

  “Not at all,” Hartmann said. “You have made it a little better, and I’m grateful to you. My friend the baron is terribly upset, but he will see it my way eventually, I think.”

  “We’d better go,” Margaret said wretchedly.

  Hartmann nodded.

  She turned away.

  Percy said: “I’m terribly sorry.” He followed her out.

  They staggered back to their compartment. Davy was making up the bunks. Harry had disappeared, presumably to the men’s room. Margaret decided to get ready for bed. She picked up her overnight case and made her way to the ladies’ room to change. Mother was just coming out, looking stunning in her chestnut-colored dressing gown. “Good night, dear,” she said. Margaret passed her without speaking.

  In the crowded ladies’ room she changed quickly into her cotton nightdress and toweling bathrobe. Her nightclothes seemed dowdy among the brightly colored silks and cashmeres of the other women, but she hardly cared. Apologizing had brought her no relief, in the end, because Baron Gabon’s remarks had rung true. It was too easy to say sorry and do nothing about the problem.

  When she returned to her compartment, Father and Mother were in bed behind closed curtains, and a muffled snore came from Father’s bunk. Her own bed was not ready, so she had to sit in the lounge.

  She knew very well that there was only one way out of her predicament. She had to leave her parents and live on her own. She was now more determined than ever to do so; but she was no nearer to solving the practical problems of money, work and accommodation.

  Mrs. Lenehan, the attractive woman who had joined the plane at Foynes, came and sat beside her, wearing a bright blue robe over a black negligee. “I came to ask for a brandy, but the stewards seem so busy,” she said. She did not seem very disappointed. She waved a hand to indicate all the passengers. “This is like a pajama party, or a midnight feast in the dormitory—everyone wandering around in dishabille. Don’t you agree?”

  Margaret had never been to a pajama party or slept in a dormitory, so she just said: “It’s very strange. It makes us all seem like one family.”

  Mrs. Lenehan fastened her seat belt: she was in a mood to chat. “It’s not possible to be formal when you’re in your nightclothes, I guess. Even Frankie Gordino looked cute in his red p.j.s, didn’t he?”

  At first Margaret was not sure who she meant; then she remembered that Percy had overheard an angry exchange between the captain and an F.B.I., agent. “Is that the prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of him?”

  “I guess not. He won’t do me any harm.”

  “But people are saying he’s a murderer, and worse than that.”

  “There will always be crime in the slums. Take Gordino away and somebody else will do the killing. I’d leave him there. Gambling and prostitution have been going on since God was a boy, and if there has to be crime it might as well be organized.”

  This was a rather shocking speech. Perhaps something about the atmosphere of the plane led people to be unusuall
y candid. Margaret also guessed that Mrs. Lenehan would not have talked like this in mixed company: women were always more down-to-earth when there were no men around. Whatever the reason, Margaret was fascinated. “Wouldn’t it be better for crime to be disorganized?” she said.

  “Certainly not. Organized, it’s contained. The gangs each have their own territory and they stay there. They don’t rub people out on Fifth Avenue and they don’t demand protection money from the Harvard Club. So why bother them?”

  Margaret could not let this pass. “What about the poor people who waste their money gambling? What about the wretched girls who ruin their health?”

  “It’s not that I don’t care about them,” Mrs. Lenehan said. Margaret looked carefully at her face, wondering whether she was sincere. “Listen,” she went on. “I make shoes.” Margaret must have looked surprised, for Mrs. Lenehan added: “That’s what I do for a living. I own a shoe factory. My men’s shoes are cheap, and they last for five or ten years. If you want to, you can buy even cheaper shoes, but they’re no good—they have cardboard soles that last about ten days. And believe it or not, some people buy the cardboard ones! Now I figure I’ve done my duty by making good shoes. If people are dumb enough to buy bad shoes there’s nothing I can do about it. And if people are dumb enough to spend their money gambling when they can’t afford to buy a steak for supper, that’s not my problem either.”

  “Have you ever been poor yourself?” Margaret asked.

  Mrs. Lenehan laughed. “Smart question. No, I haven’t, so maybe I shouldn’t shoot my mouth off. My grandfather made boots by hand and my father opened the factory that I now run. I don’t know anything about life in the slums. Do you?”

  “Not much, but I think there are reasons why people gamble and steal and sell their bodies. They aren’t just stupid. They’re victims of a cruel system.”

  “I suppose you’re some kind of Communist.” Mrs. Lenehan said this without hostility.

  “Socialist,” Margaret said.

  “That’s good,” Mrs. Lenehan said surprisingly. “You may change your mind later—everyone’s notions alter as they get older—but if you don’t have ideals to start with, what is there to improve? I’m not cynical. I think we should learn from experience but hold on to our ideals. Why am I preaching at you like this? Maybe because today is my fortieth birthday.”