Night Over Water

by Ken Follett

  “Let me in,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed. “Please.”

  This was impossible. She was not even tempted: she was scared. “No, no, no,” she said.

  He looked crestfallen.

  She softened. “You’re the nicest man I’ve met for a long time, perhaps ever, but you’re not that nice,” she said. “Go to bed.”

  He realized she meant it. He gave a rueful half smile. He seemed about to speak, but Margaret closed the curtain before he could.

  She listened intently and thought she heard a soft footfall as he went away.

  She turned off the light and lay back, breathing hard. Oh my God, she thought, that was dreamy. She smiled in the dark, reliving the kiss. She had really wanted to go farther. She caressed herself gently as she thought about it.

  Her mind went back to her first lover, Monica, a cousin who had come to stay the summer Margaret was thirteen. Monica was sixteen, blond and pretty, and seemed to know everything, and Margaret adored her from the beginning.

  She lived in France, and perhaps because of that, or perhaps just because her parents were more easygoing than Margaret’s, Monica naturally walked around naked in the bedrooms and bathroom of the children’s wing. Margaret had never seen a grown-up naked, and she had been fascinated by Monica’s big breasts and the bush of honey-colored hair between her legs: she herself had only a small bust and a little downy hair, at that age.

  But Monica had seduced Elizabeth first—ugly, bossy Elizabeth, who had spots on her chin! Margaret had heard them murmuring and kissing in the night, and she had been by turns mystified, angry, jealous and finally envious. She saw that Monica became very fond of Elizabeth. She felt hurt and excluded by the little glances that went between them and the apparently accidental touch of hands as they walked in the woods or sat at tea.

  Then, one day, when Elizabeth went to London with Mother for some reason, Margaret came upon Monica in the bath. She was lying in the hot water with her eyes closed, touching herself between the legs. She heard Margaret, and blinked, but she did not stop, and Margaret watched, scared but fascinated, while Monica masturbated to a climax.

  That night Monica came to Margaret’s bed instead of Elizabeth’s; but Elizabeth threw a tantrum and threatened to tell all, so in the end they shared her, like wife and mistress in a jealous triangle. Margaret felt guilty and deceitful all summer, but the intense affection and the new-found physical delight was too wonderful to give up, and it ended only when Monica went back to France in September.

  After Monica, going to bed with Ian had been a rude shock. He had been awkward and clumsy. She realized that a young man such as him knew next to nothing about women’s bodies, so naturally he could not give her pleasure as Monica had. She soon got over the initial disappointment, however; and Ian loved her so desperately that his passion made up for his inexperience.

  Thinking of Ian made her want to cry, as always. She wished with all her heart that she had made love to him more willingly and oftener. She had been very resistant at first, although she longed for it as badly as he did; and he had pleaded with her for months before she finally gave in. After the first time, although she wanted to do it again, she had made difficulties. She had been unwilling to make love in her bedroom in case someone should find the door locked and wonder why; she had been frightened of doing it in the open air, even though she knew lots of hiding places in the woods around their home; and she had been uncomfortable about using his friends’ flats for fear she would get a bad reputation. Behind it all had been the terror of what Father would do if ever he found out.

  Tom apart by conflicting desire and anxiety, she had always made love furtively, hurriedly and guiltily; and they had managed it only three times before he went to Spain. Of course, she had blithely imagined that they had all the time in the world ahead of them. Then he had been killed, and with the news came the dreadful realization that she would never touch his body again; and she had cried so hard that she thought her heart would burst. She had thought they would spend the rest of their lives learning how to make one another happy; but she never saw him again.

  She wished she had given herself to him freely right from the start, and made love recklessly at every opportunity. Her fears seemed so trivial now that he was buried on a dusty hillside in Catalonia.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that she might be making the same mistake again.

  She wanted Harry Marks. Her body ached for him. He was the only man who had made her feel this way since Ian. But she had turned him down. Why? Because she was afraid. Because she was on a plane, and the bunks were small, and someone might hear, and her father was close by, and she was terrified of being caught.

  Was she being foolishly fainthearted again?

  What if the plane should crash? she wondered. They were on a pioneering transatlantic flight. Right now they were halfway between Europe and America, hundreds of miles from land in any direction: if something should go wrong they would all die in minutes. And her last thought would be regret that she had never made love to Harry Marks.

  The plane was not going to crash, but even so this might be her last chance. She had no idea what was going to happen when they got to America. She planned to join the armed forces as soon as she possibly could, and Harry had spoken about becoming a pilot in the Canadian air force. He might die fighting, like Ian. What did her reputation matter, who could worry about parental anger, when life could be so short? She almost wished she had let Harry in.

  Would he try again? She thought not. She had given him a very firm no. Any boy who ignored that kind of rejection would have to be a complete pest. Harry had been persistent, flatteringly so, but he was not mulish. He would not ask her again tonight.

  What a fool I am, she thought. He might be here now: all I had to say was yes. She hugged herself, imagining that Harry was hugging her; and in her mind she put out a tentative hand and stroked his naked hip. There would be curly blond hair on his thighs, she thought.

  She decided to get up and go to the ladies’ room. Perhaps Harry would get up at the same time, by lucky chance; or he might call the steward for a drink, or something. She put her arms into her robe, unfastened her curtains and sat up. Harry’s bunk was tightly curtained. She slid her feet into her slippers and stood up.

  Almost everyone had gone to bed now. She peeped into the galley: it was empty. Of course, the stewards needed sleep, too. They were probably dozing in compartment number 1 with the off-duty crew. Going in the opposite direction, she passed through the lounge and saw the diehards, all men, still playing poker. There was a whiskey bottle on the table, and they were helping themselves. She continued toward the back, weaving from side to side as the plane lurched. The floor rose toward the tail, and there were steps between the compartments. Two or three people sat up reading, with the curtains drawn back, but most bunks were closed and silent.

  The ladies’ powder room was empty. Margaret sat in front of the mirror and looked at herself. It struck her as odd that a man should find this woman desirable. Her face was rather ordinary, her skin very pale, her eyes an odd shade of green. Her hair was her only good feature, she sometimes thought: it was long and straight, and the color was a glowing bronze. Men often noticed her hair.

  What would Harry have thought of her body, if she had let him in? He might be revolted by big breasts: they might make him think of motherhood or cows’ udders or something. She had heard that men liked small, neat breasts, the same shape as the little glasses in which champagne was served at parties. You couldn’t get one of mine into a champagne glass, she thought ruefully.

  She would have liked to be petite, like the models in Vogue magazine, but instead she looked like a Spanish dancer. Whenever she put on a ballgown she had to wear a corset underneath it otherwise her bust wobbled uncontrollably. But Ian had loved her body. He said model girls looked like dolls. “You’re a real woman,” he had said one afternoon, in a snatched moment in the old nursery win
g, kissing her neck and stroking both her breasts at the same time with his hands under her cashmere sweater. She had liked her breasts then.

  The plane entered a bad patch of turbulence, and she had to hold on to the edge of the dressing table to avoid being thrown off the stool. Before I die, she thought morbidly, I’d like to have my breasts stroked again.

  When the plane steadied, she went back to her compartment. All the bunks were still tightly buttoned up. She stood there for a moment, willing Harry to open his curtain, but he did not. She looked along the aisle, up and down the length of the plane. No one stirred.

  All her life she had been fainthearted.

  But she had never wanted anything this much.

  She shook Harry’s curtain.

  For a moment nothing happened. She had no plan: she did not know what she was going to do or say.

  There was no sound from inside. She shook the curtain again.

  A moment later Harry looked out.

  They stared at one another in silence: he startled, she tongue-tied. Then she heard a sound behind her.

  Looking over her shoulder, she saw movement behind her father’s curtain. A hand grasped it from inside. He was about to get up and go to the bathroom.

  Without another thought, Margaret pushed Harry back onto his bed and clambered in with him.

  As she closed the curtain behind her she saw Father emerge from his bunk. By a miracle, he did not see her, thank God!

  She knelt at the foot of the bunk and looked at Harry. He was sitting at the other end with his knees under his chin, staring at her in the dim light that filtered through the curtain. He looked like a child who had seen Santa Claus come down the chimney: he could hardly believe his good fortune. He opened his mouth to speak, and Margaret silenced him with a finger on his lips.

  Suddenly she realized she had left her slippers behind when she jumped in.

  They were embroidered with her initials, so anyone could tell whose they were; and they were lying on the floor beside Harry’s, just like shoes outside a hotel bedroom, so everyone would know she was sleeping with him.

  Only a couple of seconds had passed. She peeped out. Father was climbing down the stepladder from his bunk, and his back was to her. She reached out between the curtains. If he should turn around now, she was finished. She scrabbled for the slippers and found them. She picked them up just as Father put his bare feet on the airline carpet. She whipped them inside and closed the curtain a split second before he turned his head.

  She should have been scared, but instead she felt thrilled.

  She did not have a clear idea of what she wanted to happen now. She just knew she wanted to be with Harry. The prospect of spending the night lying in her own bunk wishing he were there had become intolerable. But she was not going to give herself to him. She would like to—very much—but there were all sorts of practical problems, not the least of which was Mr. Membury, fast asleep a few inches above them.

  In the next moment she realized that, unlike her, Harry knew exactly what he wanted.

  He leaned forward, put his hand behind her head, pulled her to him and kissed her lips.

  After a momentary hesitation she abandoned all thought of resistance and gave herself up to the sensation.

  She had been thinking about it for so long that she felt as if she had already been making love to him for hours. But this was real: there was a strong hand on her neck, a real mouth kissing hers, a real person mingling his breath with her own. It was a slow, tender kiss, gentle and tentative, and she was aware of every small detail: his fingers moving in her hair, the roughness of his shaved chin, his warm breath on her soft cheek, his moving mouth, his teeth nibbling her lips, and finally his exploring tongue pressing between her lips and seeking her own. Yielding to an irresistible impulse, she opened her mouth wide.

  After a moment they broke apart, panting. Harry’s gaze dropped to her bosom. Looking down, she saw that her robe had fallen open, and her nipples were pressing against the cotton of her nightdress. Harry gazed as if hypnotized. Moving in slow motion, he reached out with one hand and lightly brushed her left breast with his fingers, stroking the sensitive tip through the fine fabric, causing her to gasp with pleasure.

  Suddenly clothing seemed intolerable. She shrugged off her robe quickly. She grasped the hem of her nightdress, then hesitated. A warning voice in the back of her mind said After this, there’s no turning back, and she thought Good! and pulled her nightdress over her head and knelt in front of him naked.

  She felt vulnerable and shy, but somehow the anxiety heightened her excitement. Harry’s eyes roamed over her body and she saw in his face both adoration and desire. Twisting in the cramped space, he got on his knees and leaned forward, bringing his head down to her bosom. She felt a moment of uncertainty: what was he going to do? His lips brushed the tops of her breasts, first one then the other. She felt his hand beneath her left breast, first stroking, then weighing, then squeezing softly. His lips tracked down until they came to her nipple. He nibbled gently. Her nipple was so taut it felt as if it would burst. Then he began to suck, and she groaned with delight.

  After a while she wanted him to do the same to the other one, but she was too shy to ask. However, perhaps he sensed her desire, for he did what she wanted a moment later. She stroked the bristly hair at the back of his head, then, yielding to an impulse, she pressed his head to her breast. He sucked harder in response.

  She wanted to explore his body. When he paused, she pushed him away, and undid the buttons of his pajama jacket. Both of them were breathing like sprinters but neither spoke for fear of being heard. He shrugged out of his jacket. There was no hair on his chest. She wanted him to be completely naked, as she was. She found the drawstring of his pajama trousers and, feeling wanton, pulled it undone.

  He looked hesitant and a little startled, giving Margaret the uneasy feeling that she might be bolder than other girls in his experience; but she felt that she had to continue what she had begun. She pushed him back until he was lying down with his head on the pillow, then grasped the waistband of his trousers and tugged. He raised his hips.

  There was a thatch of dark blond hair at the base of his belly. She drew the red cotton down farther, and then gasped as his penis sprang free, sticking up like a flagpole. She stared at it, fascinated. The skin was stretched taut over the veins and the end was swollen like a blue tulip. He lay still, sensing that this was what she wanted; but her looking at it seemed to inflame him, and she heard his breathing become hoarse. She felt impelled, by curiosity and some other emotion, to touch it. Her hand was drawn forward irresistibly. He gave a low groan as he saw what she was about to do. She hesitated at the last instant. Her pale hand wavered next to the dark penis. He made a sound like a whimper. Then, with a sigh, she grasped it, her slender fingers wrapping around the thick shaft. The skin was hot to her touch, and soft, but when she squeezed slightly—making him gasp—she found it was as hard as a bone underneath. She glanced at him. His face was flushed with desire and he was breathing hard through his mouth. She longed to please him. Shifting her grip, she began to rub his penis in a motion she had learned from Ian: gripping firmly to push down, then easing her grasp for the upward stroke.

  The effect took her by surprise. He moaned, closed his eyes tight, and pressed his knees together; and then, as she pressed down a second time, he jerked convulsively, his face screwed up in a grimace, and white semen spurted from the end of his penis. Astonished and mesmerized, Margaret continued the action, and with each downstroke more came out. She herself was possessed by lust: her breasts felt heavy, her throat was dry, and she could feel moisture trickling down the inside of her thigh. At last, at the fifth or sixth stroke, it ended. His thighs relaxed, his face became smooth, and his head slumped sideways on the pillow.

  Margaret lay down beside him.

  He looked ashamed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Don’t be sorry!” she replied. “It was amazing. I’ve never don
e that. I feel wonderful.”

  He was surprised. “Did you enjoy it?”

  She was too abashed to say yes aloud, so she just nodded.

  He said: “But I didn’t ... I mean, you didn’t ...”

  She said nothing. There was something he could do for her, but she was afraid to ask.

  He rolled onto his side so that they faced one another in the narrow bunk. He said: “In a few minutes, maybe...”

  I can’t wait a few minutes, she thought. Why shouldn’t I ask him to do for me what I did for him? She found his hand and squeezed it. Still she could not say what she wanted. She closed her eyes, then drew his hand to her groin. Her mouth was next to his ear, and she whispered: “Be gentle.”

  He got the idea. His hand moved, exploring. She was wet, dripping wet. His fingers slid easily between her lips. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. His finger moved inside her. She wanted to say Not there, higher! and as if reading her thoughts he drew his finger out and slid it up to the most sensitive place. She was instantly transfixed. Her body was racked with spasms of pleasure. She shuddered convulsively, and to stop herself crying out she sank her teeth into the flesh of Harry’s upper arm and bit. He froze, but she rubbed herself against his hand and the sensations continued unabated.

  When at last the pleasure eased, Harry moved his finger again, and she was abruptly shaken by another climax as intense as the first.

  Then finally the spot became too sensitive, and she pushed his hand away.