Night Over Water (18 page)

He was out of the room in two strides. He hurried down the stairs, but someone got to the phone before him. Crossing the hall, he heard the proprietress say: “October the fourth? Just let me see whether we have a vacancy.
”

Eddie had to give Steve a few more minutes. “You honk on ahead,” he said to Mickey. “I’ll catch up with you.
”

 

 

 

 

A
s the train rolled south through the pine woods of Surrey toward Southampton, Margaret Oxenford’s sister, Elizabeth, made a shocking announcement.

The Oxenford family were in a special carriage reserved for Pan American Clipper passengers. Margaret was standing at the end of the carriage, alone, staring out of the window. Her mood swung wildly between black despair and rising excitement. She was angry and miserable to be abandoning her country in its hour of need, but she could not help feeling thrilled at the prospect of flying to America.

Her sister, Elizabeth, detached herself from the family group and came up to her, looking solemn. After a moment’s hesitation, she said: “I love you, Margaret.”

Margaret was touched. Over the last few years, since they had been old enough to understand the battle of ideas raging throughout the world, they had taken violently opposite points of view, and because of that, they had become estranged. But she had missed being close to her sister, and the estrangement made her sad. It would be wonderful if they could be real pals again. “I love you too,” she said, and she hugged Elizabeth hard.

After a moment Elizabeth said: “I’m not coming to America.”

Margaret gasped with astonishment. “How can you not?”

“I shall simply tell Mother and Father that I’m not going. I’m twenty-one—they can’t force me.”

Margaret was not sure her sister was right about that, but she let it pass for the moment: she had too many other questions. “Where will you go?”

“To Germany.”

“But, Elizabeth,” Margaret said, horrified, “you’ll get killed!”

Elizabeth looked defiant. “It’s not only socialists who are willing to die for a cause, you know.”

“But for Nazism!”

“It’s not just for Fascism,” Elizabeth said, and there was an odd light in her eye. “It’s for all the thoroughbred white people who are in danger of being swamped by niggers and half-breeds. It’s for the human race.”

Margaret was revolted. It was bad enough to be losing her sister—but to lose her to such a wicked cause! However, Margaret did not want to go over the bitter old political argument now: she was more concerned about her sister’s safety. She said: “What will you live on?”

“I’ve got my own money.”

Margaret remembered that they both inherited money from their grandfather at the age of twenty-one. It was not much, but it might be enough to live on.

She thought of something else. “But your luggage is checked through to New York.”

“Those cases are full of old tablecloths. I packed another set of bags and sent them ahead on Monday.”

Margaret was astonished. Elizabeth had arranged everything perfectly and carried out her scheme in total secrecy. Bitterly, Margaret reflected how impetuous and ill thought-out her own escape attempt had been by comparison. While I was brooding and refusing to eat, she thought, Elizabeth was booking passage and sending her luggage on ahead. Of course, Elizabeth was the right side of twenty-one and Margaret the wrong; but that had not counted as much as careful planning and cool execution. Margaret felt ashamed that her sister, who was so stupid and wrong about politics, had behaved so much more intelligently.

Suddenly she realized how she would miss Elizabeth. Although they were no longer great friends, Elizabeth was always around. Mostly they quarreled, and mocked one another’s ideas, but Margaret would miss that, too. And they still supported one another in distress. Elizabeth always suffered bad period pains, and Margaret would tuck her up in bed and bring her a cup of hot chocolate and Picture Post magazine. Elizabeth had been deeply sorry when Ian died, even though she disapproved of him, and she had been a comfort to Margaret. Tearfully, Margaret said: “I shall miss you dreadfully.”

“Don’t make a fuss,” Elizabeth said anxiously. “I don’t want them to know yet.”

Margaret composed herself. “When will you tell them?”

“At the last minute. Can you act normally until then?”

“All right.” She forced a bright smile. “I shall be as horrible as ever to you.”

“Oh, Margaret!” Elizabeth was on the point of tears. She swallowed and said: “Go and talk to them while I calm down.”

Margaret squeezed her sister’s hand, then returned to her seat.

Mother was leafing through
Vogue
magazine and reading occasional paragraphs to Father, oblivious of his complete lack of interest. “ ‘Lace is being worn,’ ” she quoted, adding: “I haven’t noticed, have you?” The fact that she got no reply did not discourage her in the least. “ ‘White is glamour color number one.’ Well, I don’t like it. White makes me look kind of bilious.”

Father was wearing an unbearably smug expression. He was pleased with himself, Margaret knew, for reasserting his parental authority and crushing her rebellion. But he did not know that his elder daughter had planted a time bomb.

Would Elizabeth have the pluck to go through with this? It was one thing to tell Margaret and quite another to tell Father. Elizabeth might lose her nerve at the last minute. Margaret herself had planned a confrontation with him, but had ducked it in the end.

Even if Elizabeth went ahead and told Father, it was not certain that she would escape. She might be twenty-one and have her own money, but he was fearfully strong-willed and quite ruthless about getting his own way. If he could think of some means of stopping Elizabeth he would, Margaret felt sure. He might not mind her joining the Fascist side, in principle, but he would be furious that she was refusing to go along with his plans for the family.

Margaret had been in many such fights with Father. He had been furious when she learned to drive without his permission; and when he found out she had gone to hear a speech by Marie Stopes, the controversial pioneer of contraception, he had been apoplectic. But on those occasions she had succeeded only by going behind his back. She had never won in a direct conflict. He had refused to let her go on a camping holiday, at the age of sixteen, with her cousin Catherine and several of Catherine’s friends, even though the whole thing was supervised by a vicar and his wife: Father had objected because there would be boys as well as girls. Their biggest battle had been over going to school. She had begged and pleaded, screamed and sobbed and sulked, and he had been stonily implacable. “School is wasted on girls,” he had said. “They only grow up and get married.”

But he could not go on bullying and bossing his children forever, could he?

Margaret felt restless. She stood up and walked along the carriage, just for something to do. Most of the other Clipper passengers seemed to share her dual mood, half excited and half depressed. When they all joined the train at Waterloo Station, there had been a good deal of lively conversation and laughter. They had checked their baggage at Waterloo: there had been a fuss about Mother’s steamer trunk, which exceeded the weight limit many times over, but she had blithely ignored everything the Pan American staff said, and eventually the trunk had been accepted. A young man in uniform had taken their tickets and ushered them into their special carriage. Then, as they left London behind, the passengers had become quiet, as if privately saying goodbye to a country they might never see again.

There was a world-famous American film star among the passengers, which partly accounted for the undertone of excitement. Her name was Lulu Bell. Percy was sitting with her now, talking to her as if he had known her all his life. Margaret herself had wanted to speak to her, but she did not have the cheek just to go up and engage her in conversation. Percy was bolder.

In the flesh Lulu Bell looked older than on the screen; Margaret guessed she was in her late thirties, although she still played debutantes and newlyweds. All the same she was pretty. Small and lively, she made Margaret think of a little bird, a sparrow or a wren.

Margaret smiled at her, and Lulu said: “Your kid brother has been keeping me entertained.”

“I hope he’s being polite,” Margaret replied.

“Oh, sure. He’s telling me all about your great-grandmother, Rachel Fishbein.” Lulu’s voice became solemn, as if she were speaking of tragic heroism. “She must have been a
wonderful
woman.”

Margaret was embarrassed. It was wicked of Percy to tell lies to total strangers. What on earth had he said to this poor woman? Feeling flustered, she smiled vaguely—a trick she had learned from Mother—and passed on.

Percy had always been mischievous, but lately he seemed to be getting bolder. He was growing taller, his voice was getting deeper, and his practical jokes were verging on dangerous. He was still afraid of Father, and would only go against parental authority if Margaret backed him up; but she had an idea that the day was coming when Percy would rebel openly. How would Father deal with that? Could he bully a boy as easily as he had bullied his girls? Margaret was not sure it would be quite the same.

At the far end of the carriage was a mysterious figure who seemed vaguely familiar to Margaret. A tall, intense-looking man with burning eyes, he stood out in this well-dressed, well-fed crowd because he was as thin as death and wore a shabby suit of thick, coarse cloth. His hair was cut painfully short, like a prisoner’s. He seemed worried and tense.

She looked at him now and he caught her eye, and suddenly she remembered him. They had never met, but she had seen his photograph in the newspapers. He was Carl Hartmann, the German socialist and scientist. Deciding to be bold like her brother, Margaret sat down opposite him and introduced herself. A longtime opponent of Hitler, Hartmann had become a hero to young people such as Margaret for his bravery. Then he had disappeared about a year ago, and everyone had feared the worst. Margaret assumed he had escaped from Germany. He looked like a man who had been through hell.