Night Over Water

by Ken Follett

  “Really?” She was thrilled. They would have rooms in the same building! It was exactly what she wanted. She had been half afraid that he would go over the top and ask her to marry him, and half afraid he would not want to see her again; but this was ideal: she could stay close to him and get to know him better without making a foolishly hasty commitment. And she would be able to sleep with him. But there was a snag. “If I work for Nancy Lenehan, I’ll be in Boston.”

  “Maybe I’ll go to Boston too.”

  “Would you?” She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “It’s as good a place as any. Where is it, anyway?”

  “New England.”

  “Is that like old England?”

  “Well, I’ve heard that the people are snobbish.”

  “It’ll be just like home.”

  “What sort of rooms will we get?” she said excitedly. “I mean, how many, and so on?”

  He smiled. “You won’t have more than one room, and you’ll find it a struggle to pay even for that. If it’s anything like the English equivalent, it will have cheap furniture and one window. With luck there might be a gas ring or a hot plate for you to make coffee. You’ll share the bathroom with the rest of the house.”

  “And the kitchen?”

  He shook his head. “You can’t afford a kitchen. Your lunch will be the only hot meal of the day. When you come home you can have a cup of tea and a piece of cake, or you could make toast if you’ve got an electric fire.”

  She knew that he was trying to prepare her for what he saw as unpleasant reality, but she found the whole thing wonderfully romantic. To think of being able to make tea and toast yourself, anytime you liked, in a little room of your own, with no parents to worry about and no servants to grumble at you.... It sounded heavenly. “Do the owners of these places generally live there?”

  “Sometimes. It’s good if they do, because then they keep the place nice; although they poke their noses into your private life, too. But if the owner lives elsewhere, the building often gets run down: broken plumbing, peeling paint, leaking roofs, that sort of thing.”

  Margaret realized she had an awful lot to learn, but nothing Harry said could dismay her: it was all too exhilarating. Before she could ask any more questions, the passengers and crew who had disembarked arrived back, and at the same moment Mother returned from the ladies’ room, looking pale but beautiful. Margaret’s elation was punctured. Recalling her conversation with Mother, she realized that the thrill of escaping with Harry would be mingled with heartache.

  She did not normally eat a lot in the morning, but today she was ravenous. “I’d like some bacon and eggs,” she said. “Quite a lot, in fact.” She caught Harry’s eye and realized that she was hungry because she had been making love to him all night. She smothered a grin. He read her mind and looked away hastily.

  The plane took off a few minutes later. Margaret found it no less exciting even though this was the third time she had experienced it. She no longer felt afraid, though.

  She mulled over her conversation with Harry. He wanted to go to Boston with her! Although he was so handsome and charming, and must have had lots of chances with girls just like herself, he seemed to have fallen for her in a special way. It was terribly sudden, but he was being very sensible: not making extravagant vows, but ready to do just about anything to stay with her.

  That commitment erased all doubt from her mind. Until now she had not allowed herself to think of a future with Harry, but suddenly she felt completely confident in him. She was going to have everything she wanted: freedom, independence and love.

  As soon as the plane leveled out they were invited to help themselves from the breakfast buffet, and Margaret did so with alacrity. They all had strawberries and cream except for Percy, who preferred cornflakes. Father had champagne with his strawberries. Margaret also took hot rolls and butter.

  As Margaret was about to return to the compartment, she caught the eye of Nancy Lenehan, who was hovering over the hot porridge. Nancy was as trim and smart as ever, with a navy silk blouse in place of the gray one she had worn yesterday. She beckoned to Margaret and said in a low voice: “I got a very important phone call in Botwood. I’m going to win today. You can take it that you have a job.”

  Margaret beamed with pleasure. “Oh, thank you!”

  Nancy put a small white business card on Margaret’s bread plate. “Just call me when you’re ready.”

  “I will! In just a few days! Thank you!”

  Nancy put a finger to her lips and winked.

  Margaret returned to her compartment elated. She hoped Father had not seen the business card: she did not want him asking questions. Fortunately, he was too intent on his food to notice anything else.

  But as she ate, she realized that he had to be told sooner or later. Mother had begged her to avoid a confrontation, but it could not be done. She had tried to sneak away the last time, and it had not worked. This time she had to announce openly that she was leaving, so that the world would know. There must be no secret about it, no excuse to call the police. She must make it clear to him that she had a place to go and friends to support her.

  And this plane was surely the place to confront him. Elizabeth had done it on a train, and that had worked because Father had been obliged to behave himself. Later, in their hotel rooms, he could do anything he liked.

  When should she tell him? Sooner rather than later: he would be in his best mood of the day after breakfast, full of champagne and food. Later, as the day wore on and he had a cocktail or two and some wine, he would become more irascible.

  Percy stood up and said: “I’m going to get some more cornflakes.”

  “Sit down,” Father said. “There’s bacon coming. You’ve had enough of that rubbish.” For some reason he was against cornflakes.

  “I’m still hungry,” Percy said; and to Margaret’s astonishment he went out.

  Father was dumbfounded. Percy had never openly defied him. Mother just stared. Everyone waited for Percy to return. He came back with a bowl full of cornflakes. They all watched. He sat down and began to eat.

  Father said: “I told you not to take more of those.”

  Percy said: “It’s not your stomach.” He continued to eat.

  Father looked as if he was about to get up, but at that moment Nicky came in from the galley and handed him a plate of sausages, bacon and poached eggs. For a second Margaret thought Father might throw the plate at Percy; but he was too hungry. He picked up the knife and fork and said: “Bring me some English mustard.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t carry mustard, sir.”

  “No mustard?” Father said furiously. “How can I eat sausages without mustard?”

  Nicky looked scared. “I’m sorry, sir—no one has ever asked before. I’ll make sure we have some on the next flight.”

  “That’s not much use to me now, is it?”

  “I guess not. I’m sorry.”

  Father grunted and began to eat. He had taken out his anger on the steward, and Percy had got away with it. Margaret was amazed. This had never happened before.

  Nicky brought her bacon and eggs and she tucked in heartily. Could it really be that Father was softening at last? The end of his political hopes, the beginning of the war, his exile, and the rebellion of his elder daughter might have combined to crush his ego and weaken his will.

  There would never be a better moment to tell him.

  She finished her breakfast, and waited for the others to finish theirs. Then she waited for the steward to take away the plates; then she waited while Father got more coffee. Finally there was nothing left to wait for.

  She moved to the middle seat of the divan, next to Mother and almost opposite Father. She took a deep breath and began. “I’ve got something to tell you, Father, and I hope you won’t be cross.”

  Mother murmured: “Oh, no ...”

  Father said: “What now?”

  “I’m nineteen years old and I’ve never
done a stroke of work in my life. It’s time I began.”

  Mother said: “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “I would like to be independent.”

  Mother said: “There are millions of girls working in factories and offices who would give their eyes to be in your position.”

  “I realize that, Mother.” Margaret also realized that Mother was arguing with her in an attempt to keep Father out of it. However, it would not work for long.

  Mother surprised her by capitulating almost immediately. “Well, I suppose if you’re determined to do it, your grandfather may be able to get you a place with someone he knows—”

  “I already have a job.”

  That took her by surprise. “In America? How can you?”

  Margaret decided not to tell them about Nancy Lenehan: they might talk to her and try to spoil everything. “It’s all arranged,” she said blandly.

  “What sort of a job?”

  “An assistant in the sales department of a shoe factory.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t be ridiculous.”

  Margaret bit her lip. Why did Mother have to be so scornful? “It’s not ridiculous. I’m rather proud of myself. I got a job, all on my own, without help from you or Father or Grandfather, just on my merits.” Perhaps that was not exactly the way it happened, but Margaret was beginning to feel defensive.

  “Where is this factory?” Mother said.

  Father spoke for the first time. “She can’t work in a factory, and that’s that.”

  Margaret said: “I’ll be working in the sales office, not the factory. And it’s in Boston.”

  “That settles it, then,” Mother said. “You’ll be living in Stamford, not Boston.”

  “No, Mother, I won’t. I’ll be living in Boston.”

  Mother opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, realizing at last that she was confronted with something she could not easily dismiss. She was silent for a moment; then she said: “What are you telling us?”

  “Just that I’m going to leave you and go to Boston, and live in lodgings and go to work.”

  “Oh, this is too stupid.”

  Margaret flared: “Don’t be so dismissive.” Mother flinched at her angry tone, and Margaret immediately regretted it. She said more quietly: “I’m only doing what most girls of my age do.”

  “Girls of your age, perhaps, but not girls of your class.”

  “Why should that make a difference?”

  “Because there’s no point in your working at a silly job for five dollars a week and living in an apartment that costs your father a hundred dollars a month.”

  “I don’t want Father to pay for my apartment.”

  “Then where will you live?”

  “I’ve told you, in lodgings.”

  “In squalor! But what is the point?”

  “I shall save money until I’ve got enough for a ticket home. Then I’ll go back and join the A.T.S.”

  Father spoke again. “You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Margaret was stung. “What don’t I know, Father?”

  Mother, trying to interrupt, said: “No, don’t—”

  Margaret overrode her. “I know I shall have to run errands and make coffee and answer the phone in the office. I know I shall live in a single room with a gas ring, and share the bathroom with other lodgers. I know I shan’t like being poor—but I shall love being free.”

  “You don’t know anything,” he said scornfully. “Free? You? You’ll be like a pet rabbit released in a kennel. I’ll tell you what you don’t know, my girl: you don’t know that you’ve been pampered and spoiled all your life. You’ve never even been to school—”

  The injustice of that brought tears to her eyes and provoked her into a rejoinder. “I wanted to go to school,” she protested. “You wouldn’t let me!”

  He ignored the interruption. “You’ve had your clothes washed and your food prepared. You’ve been chauffeured everywhere you ever wanted to go. You’ve had children brought to the house to play with you. And you’ve never given a thought to how all of it was provided—”

  “But I have!”

  “And now you want to live on your own! You don’t know the price of a loaf of bread, do you?”

  “I’ll soon find out—”

  “You don’t know how to wash your own underwear. You’ve never ridden on a bus. You’ve never slept in a house alone. You don’t know how to set an alarm clock, bait a mousetrap, wash dishes, boil an egg—could you boil an egg? Do you know how?”

  “Whose fault is it if I don’t?” Margaret said tearfully.

  He pressed on remorselessly, his face a mask of contempt and anger. “What use will you be in an office? You can’t make the tea—you don’t know how! You’ve never seen a filing cabinet. You’ve never had to stay in one place from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon. You’ll get bored and wander off. You won’t last a week.”

  He was giving expression to Margaret’s own secret worries, and that was why she was getting so upset. In her heart she was terrified that he might be right: she would be hopeless at living alone; she would get fired from her job. His mercilessly derisive voice, confidently predicting that her worst fears would come true, was destroying her dream like the sea washing away a sand castle. She cried openly, tears streaming down her face.

  She heard Harry say: “This is too much—”

  “Let him go on,” she said. This was one battle Harry could not fight for her: it was between her and Father.

  Red in the face, wagging his finger, speaking more and more loudly, Father raved on. “Boston isn’t like Oxenford village, you know. People don’t help one another there. You’ll fall ill and get poisoned by half-breed doctors. You’ll be robbed by Jew landlords and raped by street niggers. And as for your joining the army ... !”

  “Thousands of girls have joined the A.T.S.,” Margaret said, but her voice was a feeble whisper.

  “Not girls like you,” he said. “Tough girls, perhaps, who are used to getting up early in the morning and scrubbing floors, but not pampered debutantes. And God forbid that you should find yourself in any kind of danger—you’d turn to jelly!”

  She remembered how incapable she had been in the blackout—scared and helpless and panicky—and she burned with shame. He was right—she had turned to jelly. But she would not always be frightened and defenseless. He had done his utmost to make her powerless and dependent, but she was fiercely determined to be her own person, and she kept that flame of hope flickering even as she cringed under his onslaught.

  He pointed his finger at her and his eyes bulged so much they looked as if they would burst. “You won’t last a week in an office, and you wouldn’t last a day in the A.T.S.,” he said malevolently. “You’re just too soft.” He sat back, looking self-satisfied.

  Harry came and sat beside Margaret. Taking out a crisp linen handkerchief, he dabbed her wet cheeks gently.

  Father said: “And as for you, young fellow-me-lad—”

  Harry got up out of his seat in a flash and rounded on Father. Margaret gasped, thinking there was going to be a fight. Harry said: “Don’t dare to speak to me that way. I’m not a girl. I’m a grown man, and if you insult me I’ll punch your fat head.”

  Father subsided into silence.

  Harry turned his back on Father and sat down beside Margaret again.

  Margaret was upset, but in her heart she felt a sense of triumph. She had told him that she was leaving. He had raged and jeered, and he had reduced her to tears, but he had not changed her mind: she was still going to leave.

  Nonetheless, he had succeeded in fostering a doubt. She had already been worried that she might not have the courage to go through with her plans, might be paralyzed with anxiety at the last minute. He had inflamed that doubt with his mockery and derision. She had never done anything courageous in her entire life: could she manage it now? Yes, I will, she thought. I’m not too soft, and I’ll prove it.

/>   He had discouraged her, but he had failed to make her change course. However, he might not have given up yet. She looked over Harry’s shoulder. Father was staring out of the window with a malevolent face. Elizabeth had defied him, but he had banished her, and she might never see her family again.

  What awful revenge was he planning for Margaret?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Diana Lovesey was thinking mournfully that true love did not last long.

  When Mervyn first fell for her, he had delighted in catering to her every desire, the more capricious the better. At a moment’s notice he was ready to drive to Blackpool for a stick of rock candy, take an afternoon off and go to the cinema, or drop everything and fly to Paris. He was happy to visit every shop in Manchester looking for a cashmere scarf in just the right shade of blue-green, leave a concert halfway through because she was bored, or get up at five in the morning and go for breakfast at a workingmen’s café. But this attitude had not lasted long after the wedding. He rarely denied her anything, but he soon ceased to take pleasure in gratifying her whims. Delight turned to tolerance and then impatience and sometimes, toward the end, contempt.

  Now she was wondering whether her relationship with Mark would follow the same pattern.

  All summer he had been her slave, but now, within days of their running away together, they had had a row. On the second night of their elopement they had been so mad at each other that they had slept apart! In the middle of the night, when the storm broke and the plane bucked and tossed like a wild horse, Diana had been so frightened that she almost swallowed her pride and went to Mark’s bunk; but that would have been too humiliating, so she had just lain still, thinking she was going to die. She had hoped he would come to her, but he had been just as proud as she, and that had made her madder still.

  This morning they had hardly spoken. She had woken up just as the plane was coming down at Botwood, and when she got up, Mark had already gone ashore. Now they sat opposite one another in the aisle seats of number 4 compartment, pretending to eat breakfast: Diana toyed with some strawberries and Mark was breaking up a roll without eating it.