by Ken Follett
“Many happy returns.” Margaret normally resented people who said she would change her mind when she was older: it was a condescending thing to say, and often said when they had lost an argument but would not admit it. However, Mrs. Lenehan was different. “What are your ideals?” Margaret asked her.
“I just want to make good shoes.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Not much of an ideal, I guess, but it’s important to me. I have a nice life. I live in a beautiful home. My sons have everything they need. I spend a fortune on clothes. Why do I have all this? Because I make good shoes. If I made cardboard shoes I’d feel like a thief. I’d be as bad as Frankie.”
“A rather socialist point of view,” Margaret said with a smile.
“I just adopted my father’s ideals, really,” Mrs. Lenehan said reflectively. “Where do your ideals come from? Not your father, I know.”
Margaret blushed. “You heard about the scene at dinner.”
“I was there.”
“I’ve got to get away from my parents.”
“What’s keeping you?”
“I’m only nineteen.”
Mrs. Lenehan was mildly scornful. “So what? People run away from home at ten!”
“I did try,” Margaret said. “I got into trouble and the police picked me up.”
“You give in pretty easy.”
Margaret wanted Mrs. Lenehan to understand that it was not from lack of courage that she had failed. “I’ve no money and no skills. I’ve never had a proper education. I don’t know how I’d make a living.”
“Honey, you’re on your way to America. Most people arrived there with a lot less than you, and some of them are millionaires now. You can read and write English. You’re personable, intelligent, pretty.... You could get a job easily. I’d hire you.”
Margaret’s heart seemed to turn over. She had begun to feel resentful of Mrs. Lenehan’s unsympathetic attitude. Now she realized she was being given an opportunity. “Would you?” she said. “Would you hire me?”
“Sure.”
“As what?”
Mrs. Lenehan thought for a moment. “I’d put you in the sales office: licking stamps, going for coffee, answering the phone, being nice to customers. If you made yourself useful you’d soon be promoted to assistant sales manager.”
“What does that involve?”
“It means doing the same things for more money.”
To Margaret it seemed like an impossible dream. “Oh, my goodness, a real job in a real office,” she said longingly.
Mrs. Lenehan laughed. “Most people think of it as drudgery!”
“To me it would be such an adventure.”
“At first, maybe.”
“Do you really mean it?” Margaret asked solemnly. “If I come to your office in a week’s time, will you give me a job?”
Mrs. Lenehan looked startled. “My God, you’re deadly serious, aren’t you?” she said. “I kind of thought we were talking theoretically.”
Margaret’s heart sank. “Then you won’t give me a job?” she asked plaintively. “All this was just talk?”
“I’d like to hire you, but there’s a snag. In a week’s time I may not have a job myself.”
Margaret wanted to cry. “What do you mean?”
“My brother is trying to take the company away from me.”
“How can he do that?”
“It’s complicated, and he may not succeed. I’m fighting him off, but I can’t be sure how it will end.”
Margaret could hardly believe that this chance had been snatched away from her after only a few moments. “You must win!” she said fiercely.
Before Mrs. Lenehan could reply, Harry appeared, looking like a sunrise in red pajamas and a sky blue robe. The sight of him made Margaret feel calmer. He sat down and Margaret introduced him. “Mrs. Lenehan came to get a brandy but the stewards are busy,” she added.
Harry pretended to look surprised. “They may be busy, but they can still serve drinks.” He stood up and put his head into the next compartment. “Davy, just bring a cognac for Mrs. Lenehan right away, would you please?”
Margaret heard the steward say: “Sure thing, Mr. Vandenpost!” Harry had a way of getting people to do what he wanted.
He sat down again. “I couldn’t help noticing your earrings, Mrs. Lenehan,” he said. “They’re absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. She seemed pleased by the compliment.
Margaret looked more closely. Each earring was a simple large pearl inside a latticework of gold wire and diamond chips. They were quietly elegant. She wished she had on some exquisite jewelry to excite Harry’s interest.
“Did you get them in the States?” Harry asked.
“Yes, they’re from Paul Flato.”
Harry nodded. “But I think they were designed by Fulco di Verdura.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Lenehan said. “Jewelry is an unusual interest for a young man,” she added perceptively.
Margaret wanted to say He’s mainly interested in stealing it, so watch out! But in fact she was impressed by his expertise. He always noticed the finest pieces, and often knew who had designed them.
Davy brought Mrs. Lenehan’s brandy. He seemed able to walk without staggering despite the tossing of the plane.
She took it and stood up. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Good luck,” Margaret said, thinking of Mrs. Lenehan’s battle with her brother. If she won it, she would hire Margaret—she had promised.
“Thanks. Good night.”
As Mrs. Lenehan staggered off toward the rear of the plane, Harry asked a little jealously: “What were you talking about?”
Margaret hesitated to tell him about Nancy offering her a job. She was thrilled about it, but there was a snag, so she could not ask Harry to rejoice with her. She decided to hug it to herself a little longer. “We started off talking about Frankie Gordino,” she said. “Nancy believes that people like him should be left alone. All they do is organize things like gambling and... prostitution... which do no harm except to people who choose to take part in them.” She felt herself blush faintly: she had never spoken the word prostitution aloud before.
Harry looked thoughtful. “Not all prostitutes are volunteers,” he said after a minute. “Some are forced into it. You’ve heard of white slavery.”
“Is that what it means?” Margaret had seen the phrase in newspapers, but had vaguely imagined that girls were kidnapped and sent off to be chambermaids in Istanbul. How silly she had been.
Harry said: “There’s not as much of it as the papers make out. There’s only one white slaver in London—his name’s Benny the Malt. He’s from Malta.”
Margaret was riveted. To think all this was going on under her nose! “It might have happened to me!”
“It could have, that night you ran away from home,” Harry said. “That’s just the kind of situation Benny can work with. A young girl on her own, with no money and nowhere to sleep. He’d have given you a nice dinner and offered you a job with a dance troupe leaving for Paris in the morning, and you’d think he was your salvation. The dance troupe would turn out to be a strip show, but you wouldn’t find that out until you were stuck in Paris with no money and no way of getting home, so you’d stand in the back row and wiggle as best you could.” Margaret put herself in that situation and realized that she would probably do exactly that. “Then one night they’d ask you to ’be nice’ to a drunk stockbroker from the audience, and if you refused they’d hold you down for him.” Margaret closed her eyes, revolted and scared to think what might have happened to her. “Next day you might walk out, but where would you go? You might have a few francs, but it wouldn’t be enough to get you home. And you’d start thinking about what you were going to tell your family when you arrived. The truth? Never. So you’d drift back to your lodgings with the other girls, who at least would be friendly and understanding. And then you’d start to think that if you’ve done it once you c
an do it again; and the next stockbroker would be a little easier. Before you know it you’re looking forward to the tips the clients leave on the nightstand in the morning.”
Margaret shuddered. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s why I don’t think Frankie Gordino should be left alone.”
They were both quiet for a minute or two; then Harry said meditatively: “I wonder what the connection is between Frankie Gordino and Clive Membury.”
“Is there one?”
“Well, Percy says Membury’s got a gun. I’d already guessed he might be a copper.”
“Really? How?”
“That red waistcoat. A copper would think it was just the thing to make him look like a playboy.”
“Perhaps he’s helping to guard Frankie Gordino.”
Harry looked dubious. “Why? Gordino’s an American villain on his way to an American jail. He’s out of British territory and in the custody of the F.B.I. I can’t think why Scotland Yard would send someone to help guard him, especially given the cost of a Clipper ticket.”
Margaret lowered her voice. “Could he be following you?”
“To America?” Harry said skeptically. “On the Clipper? With a gun? For a pair of cuff links?”
“Can you think of another explanation?”
“No.”
“Anyway, perhaps all the fuss about Gordino will take people’s minds off my father’s appalling behavior at dinner.”
“Why do you think he let rip like that?” Harry said curiously.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t always like this. I remember him being quite reasonable when I was younger.”
“I’ve run into a few Fascists,” Harry said. “They’re normally frightened people.”
“Is that so?” Margaret found the idea surprising and rather implausible. “They seem so aggressive.”
“I know. But inside, they’re terrified. That’s why they like marching up and down and wearing uniforms—they feel safe when they’re part of a gang. That’s why they don’t like democracy—too uncertain. They feel happier in a dictatorship, where you know what’s going to happen next and the government can’t be turned out all of a sudden.”
Margaret realized that this made a lot of sense. She nodded thoughtfully. “I remember, even before he got so bitter, he would get unreasonably angry about Communists, or Zionists, or trade unions, or Fenians, or fifth columnists—there was always someone about to bring the country to its knees. Come to think of it, it was never very likely that Zionists would bring England to its knees, was it?”
Harry smiled. “Fascists are always angry, too. They’re often people who are disappointed in life for some reason.”
“That applies to Father as well. When my grandfather died, and Father inherited the estate, he found it was bankrupt. He was broke until he married Mother. Then he stood for Parliament, and never got in. Now he’s been thrown out of his country.” She suddenly felt she understood her father better. Harry was surprisingly perceptive. “Where did you learn all this?” she said. “You’re not much older than I am.”
He shrugged. “Battersea is a very political place. Biggest Communist party branch in London, I believe.”
Understanding her father’s emotions better, she felt a little less ashamed of what had happened. It was still no excuse for his behavior of course, but all the same it was comforting to think of him as a disappointed and frightened man rather than a deranged and vindictive one. How clever Harry Marks was. She wished she could have his help in escaping from her family. She wondered whether he would still want to see her after they got to America. “Do you know where you’re going to live now?” she said.
“I suppose I’ll get lodgings in New York,” he said. “I’ve got some money and I can soon find more.”
He made it sound so easy. Probably it was easier for men. A woman needed protection. “Nancy Lenehan offered me a job,” she said impulsively. “But she may not be able to keep her promise, because her brother is trying to take the company away from her.”
He looked at her, then looked away with an uncharacteristically diffident expression on his face, as if he were a little unsure of himself for once. “You know, if you want, I wouldn’t mind, I mean, giving you a hand.”
It was what she had been hoping to hear. “Would you, really?” she said.
He seemed to think there was not much he could do. “I could help you look for a room.”
The relief was tremendous. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never looked for lodgings. I don’t know where to begin.”
“You look in the paper,” he said.
“What paper?”
“The newspaper.”
“Newspapers tell you about lodgings?”
“They have advertisements.”
“They don’t advertise lodgings in The Times.” It was the only newspaper Father took.
“The evening papers are best.”
She felt foolish, not knowing such a simple thing. “I really need a friend to help me.”
“I guess I can protect you from the American equivalent of Benny the Malt, at least.”
“I feel so happy,” Margaret said. “First Mrs. Lenehan, then you. I know I can make a life for myself if I have friends. I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know what to say.”
Davy came into the main lounge. Margaret realized the plane had been flying smoothly for the past five or ten minutes. Davy said: “Look out of the port windows, everyone. You’ll see something in a few seconds.”
Margaret looked out. Harry unfastened his seat belt and came closer to look over her shoulder. The plane tilted to port. After a moment Margaret saw that they were flying low over a big passenger liner, all lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Someone said: “They must have put the lights on for us: they normally sail without lights, since war was declared—they’re afraid of submarines.” Margaret was very conscious of Harry’s closeness to her, and she did not mind in the least. The crew of the Clipper must have talked by radio with the crew of the ship, for the ship’s passengers had all come out on deck, and stood there looking up at the plane and waving. They were so close that Margaret could see their clothes: the men wore white dinner jackets and the women long gowns. The ship was moving fast, its pointed bows knifing through the huge waves effortlessly, and the plane passed it quite slowly. It was a special moment: Margaret felt enchanted. She glanced at Harry and they smiled at one another, sharing the magic. He rested his right hand on her waist, on the side shielded by his body where no one could see it. His touch was featherlight, but she felt it like a burn. It made her hot and confused, but she did not want him to take his hand away. After a while the ship receded, and its lights were dimmed, then extinguished altogether. The Clipper passengers returned to their seats and Harry moved back.
More people drifted off to bed, and now only the cardplayers were left in the main lounge with Margaret and Harry. Margaret was bashful and did not know what to do with herself. She felt so awkward that she said: “It’s getting late. We’d better go to bed.” Why did I say that? she thought; I don’t want to go to bed!
Harry looked disappointed. “I guess I’ll make a move in a minute.”
Margaret stood up. “Thank you so much for your offer of help,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said.
Why are we being so formal? Margaret thought. I don’t want to say good night like this! “Sleep well,” she said.
“You too.”
She turned away, then turned back. “You do mean it, about helping me, don’t you? You won’t let me down.”
His face softened and he gave her a look that was almost loving. “I won’t let you down, Margaret. I promise.”
Suddenly she felt terribly fond of him. On impulse, without thinking about it, she bent down and kissed him. It was a fleeting brush of her lips on his, but she felt desire like an electric shock when they touched. She straightened up immediately, startled by what she had done
and the way she felt. For an instant they stared into one another’s eyes. Then she stepped into the next compartment.
She felt weak-kneed. Looking around, she saw that Mr. Membury had taken the top bunk on the port side, leaving the lower one free for Harry. Percy had also taken a top bunk. She got into the one below Percy’s and fastened the curtain.
I kissed him, she thought; and it was nice.
She slid under the covers and turned off the little light. It was just like being in a tent. She felt quite cozy. She could see out of the window, but there was nothing to look at: just clouds and rain. All the same it was exciting. It reminded her of times when she and Elizabeth had been allowed to pitch a tent in the grounds and sleep out, on warm summer nights when they were little girls. She had always felt she would never go to sleep, it was so exciting; but the next thing she knew it would be light, and Cook would be tapping on the canvas and handing in a tray of tea and toast.
She wondered where Elizabeth was now.
Just as she was thinking that, there was a soft tap on her curtain. At first she thought she had imagined it because she was thinking of Cook. Then it came again, a sound like a fingernail, tap, tap, tap. She hesitated, then lifted herself, leaning on her elbow, and pulled the sheet up around her throat.
Tap, tap, tap.
She opened the curtain a fraction and saw Harry.
“What is it?” she hissed, although she thought she knew.
“I want to kiss you again,” he whispered.
She was both pleased and horrified. “Don’t be silly!”
“Please.”
“Go away!”
“No one will see.”
It was an outrageous request, but she was sorely tempted. She remembered the electric tingle of the first kiss and wanted another. Almost involuntarily, she opened the curtain a little more. He put his head through and gave her a pleading look. It was irresistible. She kissed his mouth. He smelled of toothpaste. She intended a quick kiss like the last one, but he had other ideas. He nibbled her lower lip. She found it exciting. She instinctively opened her mouth a fraction, and she felt his tongue brush her lips dryly. Ian had never done that. It was a weird sensation, but nice. Feeling depraved, she put out her own tongue to meet his. He began to breathe heavily. Suddenly Percy moved in the bunk over her head, reminding her of where she was. She felt panicked: how could she do this? She was publicly kissing a man she hardly knew! If Father should see, there would be hell to pay! She broke away, panting. Harry pushed his head in farther, wanting to kiss her again, but she pushed him away.
