by Ken Follett
“We have no choice. We have to go.”
Margaret was mystified. “Why?”
Mother turned from the mirror and looked directly at her. “Otherwise they will put your father in prison.”
Margaret was taken completely by surprise. “How can they do that? It’s not a crime to be a Fascist.”
“They have Emergency Powers. Does it matter? A sympathizer in the Home Office warned us. Father will be arrested if he’s still in Britain at the end of the week.”
Margaret could hardly believe that they wanted to put her father in jail like a thief. She felt foolish: she had not thought about how much difference war would make to everyday life.
“But they won’t let us take any money with us,” Mother said bitterly. “So much for the British sense of fair play.”
Money was the last thing Margaret cared about right now. Her whole life was in the balance. She felt a sudden access of bravery, and she made up her mind to tell her mother the truth. Before she had time to lose her nerve, she took a deep breath and said: “Mother, I don’t want to go with you.”
Mother displayed no surprise. Perhaps she had even expected something like this. In the mild, vague tone she used when trying to avoid an argument, she said: “You have to come, dear.”
“They’re not going to put me in jail. I can live with Aunt Martha, or even cousin Catherine. Won’t you talk to Father?”
Suddenly Mother looked uncharacteristically fierce. “I gave birth to you in pain and suffering, and I’m not going to let you risk your life while I can prevent it.”
For a moment Margaret was taken aback by her mother’s naked emotion. Then she protested: “I ought to have a say in it—it’s my life!”
Mother sighed and reverted to her normal languorous manner. “It makes no difference what you and I think. Your father won’t let you stay behind, whatever we say.”
Mother’s passivity annoyed Margaret, and she resolved to take action. “I shall ask him directly.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Mother said, and now there was a pleading note in her voice. “This is awfully hard for him as it is. He loves England, you know. In any other circumstances he’d be telephoning to the War Office trying to get a job. It’s breaking his heart.”
“What about my heart?”
“It’s not the same for you. You’re young. Your life is in front of you. For him this is the end of all hope.”
“It’s not my fault he’s a Fascist,” Margaret said harshly.
Mother stood up. “I hoped you’d be kinder,” she said quietly, and she went out.
Margaret felt guilty and indignant at the same time. It was so unfair! Her father had been pouring scorn on her opinions ever since she had had any, and now that events had proved him wrong she was being asked to sympathize.
She sighed. Her mother was beautiful, eccentric and vague. She had been born rich and determined. Her eccentricities were the result of a strong will with no education to guide it: she latched on to foolish ideas because she had no way of discriminating between sense and nonsense. The vagueness was a strong woman’s way of coping with masculine dominance: she was not allowed to confront her husband, so the only way she could escape his control was by pretending not to understand him. Margaret loved her mother, and regarded her peculiarities with a fond tolerance; but she was determined not to be like her, despite their physical resemblance. If others refused to educate her she would jolly well teach herself; and she would rather be an old spinster than marry some pig who thought he had the right to boss her around like an under-house parlormaid.
Sometimes she longed for a different kind of relationship with her mother. She wanted to confide in her, gain her sympathy, ask her advice. They could be allies, struggling together for freedom against a world that wanted to treat them as ornaments. But Mother had given up that struggle long ago, and she wanted Margaret to do the same. It was not going to happen. Margaret was going to be herself: she was absolutely set on it. But how?
All day Monday she felt unable to eat. She drank endless cups of tea while the servants went about the business of closing up the house. On Tuesday, when Mother realized that Margaret was not going to pack, she told the new maid, Jenkins, to do it for her. Of course, Jenkins did not know what to pack, and Margaret had to help her; so in the end Mother got her way, as she so often did.
Margaret said to the girl: “It’s bad luck for you that we decided to close up the house the week after you started work here.”
“There’ll be no shortage of work now, m’lady,” Jenkins said. “Our dad says there’s no unemployment in wartime.”
“What will you do—work in a factory?”
“I’m going to join up. It said on the wireless that seventeen thousand women joined the A.T.S. yesterday. There’s queues outside every town hall in the country—I seen a picture in the paper.”
“Lucky you,” Margaret said despondently. “The only thing I’ll be queuing for is a plane to America.”
“You’ve got to do what the marquis wants,” Jenkins said.
“What does your dad say about you joining up?”
“I shan’t tell him—just do it.”
“But what if he takes you back?”
“He can’t do that. I’m eighteen. Once you’ve signed on, that’s it. Provided you’re old enough there’s nothing your parents can do about it.”
Margaret was startled. “Are you sure?”
“ ’Course. Everyone knows.”
“I didn’t,” Margaret said thoughtfully.
Jenkins took Margaret’s case down to the hall. They would be leaving very early on Wednesday morning. Seeing the cases lined up, Margaret realized that she was going to spend the war in Connecticut for sure if she did nothing but sulk. Despite Mother’s plea not to make a fuss, she had to confront her father.
The very thought made her feel shaky. She went back to her room to steel her nerves and consider what she might say. She would have to be calm. Tears would not move him and anger would only provoke his scorn. She should appear sensible, responsible, mature. She should not be argumentative, for that would enrage him, and then he would frighten her so much that she would be unable to go on.
How should she begin? “I think I have a right to say something about my own future.”
No, that was no good. He would say: “I am responsible for you so I must decide.”
Perhaps she should say: “May I talk to you about going to America?”
He would probably say: “There is nothing to discuss.”
Her opening had to be so inoffensive that even he would not be able to rebuff it. She decided she would say: “Can I ask you something?” He would have to say yes to that.
Then what? How could she approach the subject without provoking one of his dreadful rages? She might say: “You were in the army in the last war, weren’t you?” She knew he had seen action in France. Then she would say: “Was Mother involved?” She knew the answer to this, too: Mother had been a volunteer nurse in London, caring for wounded American officers. Finally she would say: “You both served your countries, so I know you’ll understand why I want to do the same.” Now surely that was irresistible.
If only he would concede the principle, she could deal with his other objections, she felt. She could live with relatives until she joined up, which would be a matter of days. She was nineteen: many girls of that age had been working full-time for six years. She was old enough to get married, drive a car and go to jail. There was no reason why she should not be allowed to stay in England.
That made sense. Now all she needed was courage.
Father would be in his study with his business manager. Margaret left her room. On the landing outside her bedroom door she suddenly felt weak with fear. It infuriated him to be opposed. His rages were terrible and his punishments cruel. When she was eleven she had been made to stand in the corner of his study, facing the wall, for an entire day after being rude to a houseguest; he had taken away her teddy b
ear as a punishment for bed-wetting at the age of seven; once, in a fury, he had thrown a cat out of an upstairs window. What would he do now when she told him she wanted to stay in England and fight against the Nazis?
She forced herself to go down the stairs, but as she approached his study her fears grew. She visualized him getting angry, his face reddening and his eyes bulging, and she felt terrified. She tried to calm her racing pulse by asking herself whether there was anything really to be afraid of. He could no longer break her heart by taking away her teddy bear. But she knew deep down that he could still find ways of making her wish she were dead.
As she stood outside the study door, trembling, the housekeeper rustled across the hall in her black silk dress. Mrs. Allen ruled the female staff of the household strictly, but she had always been indulgent toward the children. She was fond of the family and was terribly upset that they were leaving: it was the end of a way of life for her. She gave Margaret a tearful smile.
Looking at her, Margaret was struck by a heart-stopping notion.
An entire plan of escape came full-blown into her head. She would borrow money from Mrs. Allen, leave the house now, catch the four fifty-five train to London, stay overnight at her cousin Catherine’s flat, and join the A.T.S. first thing in the morning. By the time Father caught up with her it would be too late.
The plan was so simple and daring that she could hardly believe it might be possible. But before she could think twice about it she found herself saying: “Oh, Mrs. Allen, would you give me some money? I’ve got to do some last-minute shopping and I don’t want to disturb Father—he’s so busy.”
Mrs. Allen did not hesitate. “Of course, my lady. How much do you need?”
Margaret did not know what the train fare to London was: she had never bought her own ticket. Guessing wildly, she said: “Oh, a pound should be enough.” She was thinking: Am I really doing this? .
Mrs. Allen took two ten-shilling notes from her purse. She would probably have handed over her life savings if asked.
Margaret took the money with a trembling hand. This could be my ticket to freedom, she thought; and frightened as she was, a small flame of joyful hope flickered in her breast.
Mrs. Allen, thinking she was upset about emigrating, squeezed her hand. “This is a sad day, Lady Margaret,” she said. “A sad day for us all.” Shaking her gray head dismally, she disappeared into the back of the house.
Margaret looked around frenziedly. No one was in sight. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird and her breath came in shallow gasps. She knew that if she hesitated she would lose her nerve. She did not dare wait long enough to put on a coat. Clutching the money in her hand, she walked out the front door.
The station was two miles away in the next village. At every step along the road Margaret expected to hear Father’s Rolls-Royce purring up behind her. But how could he know what she had done? It was unlikely that anyone would notice her absence at least until dinner-time ; and if they did, they would assume she had gone shopping as she had told Mrs. Allen. All the same, she was in a constant fever of apprehension.
She got to the station in plenty of time, bought her ticket—she had more than enough money—and sat in the ladies’ waiting room, watching the hands of the big clock on the wall.
The train was late.
Four fifty-five came around, then five o’clock, then five past five. By this time Margaret was so frightened that she felt like giving up and returning home just to escape the tension.
The train came in at fourteen minutes past five, and still Father had not come.
Margaret boarded with her heart in her mouth.
She stood at the window, staring at the ticket barrier, expecting to see him arrive at the last minute to catch her.
At last the train moved.
She could hardly believe that she was getting away.
The train picked up speed. The first faint tremors of elation stirred in her heart. A few seconds later the train was out of the station. Margaret watched the village recede, and her heart filled with triumph. She had done it—she had escaped!
Suddenly she felt weak-kneed. She looked around for a seat, and realized for the first time that the train was full. Every seat was taken, even in this first-class carriage; and there were soldiers sitting on the floor. She remained standing.
Her euphoria did not diminish even though the journey was, by normal standards, something of a nightmare. More people crowded into the carriages at each station. The train was delayed for three hours outside Reading. All the lightbulbs had been removed because of the blackout, so after nightfall the train was in total darkness except for the occasional gleam of the guard’s flashlight as he patrolled, picking his way over passengers sitting and lying on the floor. When Margaret could stand no longer she, too, sat on the floor. This sort of thing did not matter anymore, she told herself. Her dress would get filthy, but tomorrow she too would be in uniform. Everything was different: there was a war on.
Margaret wondered whether Father might have learned she was missing, found out she caught the train, and driven at top speed to London to intercept her at Paddington Station. It was unlikely, but possible, and her heart filled with dread as the train pulled into the station.
However, when at last she got off he was nowhere to be seen, and she felt another thrill of triumph. He was not omnipotent after all! She managed to find a taxi in the cavernous gloom of the station. It took her to Bayswater with only its side lights on. The driver used a flashlight to guide her to the apartment building in which Catherine had a flat.
The building’s windows were all blacked out, but the hall was a blaze of light. The porter had gone off duty—it was now almost midnight—but Margaret knew her way to Catherine’s flat. She went up the stairs and rang the bell.
There was no reply.
Her heart sank.
She rang again, but she knew it was pointless: the flat was small and the bell was loud. Catherine was not there.
It was hardly surprising, she realized. Catherine lived with her parents in Kent, and used the flat as a pied-à-terre. London social life had come to a halt, of course, so Catherine would have no reason to be here. Margaret had not thought of that.
She was not dashed, but she was disappointed. She had been looking forward to sitting down with Catherine, drinking cocoa and sharing with her the details of her great adventure. However, that would have to wait. She considered what she should do next. She had several relatives in London, but if she went to them they would telephone Father. Catherine would have been a willing coconspirator, but she could not trust any of her other relations.
Then she remembered that Aunt Martha did not have a phone.
She was a great-aunt, in fact, a fractious spinster of about seventy. She lived less than a mile away. She would be fast asleep by now, of course, and it would make her furious to be wakened, but that could not be helped. The important thing was that she would have no way of alerting Father to Margaret’s whereabouts.
Margaret went back down the stairs and out into the street—and found herself in total darkness.
The blackout was quite scary. She stood outside the door and looked around, with her eyes wide-open and staring, seeing nothing. It gave her a queer feeling in her tummy, like being dizzy.
She closed her eyes and pictured the familiar street scene as it ought to be. Behind her was Ovington House, where Catherine lived. Normally there would be lights in several windows and a splash of brilliance from the lamp over the door. On the comer to her left was a small Wren church whose portico was always floodlit. The pavement was lined with lampposts, each of which should cast a little circle of light; and the road should be lighted by the headlamps of buses, taxis, and cars.
She opened her eyes again, and saw nothing.
It was unnerving. For a moment she imagined that there was nothing around her: the street had disappeared and she was in limbo, falling through a void. She felt suddenly seasick. Then she pulled hersel
f together and visualized the route to Aunt Martha’s house.
I head east from here, she thought, and go left at the second turning, and Aunt Martha’s place is at the end of that block. It should be easy enough, even in the dark.
She longed for some relief: a lighted taxi, a full moon or a helpful policeman. After a moment her wish was granted: a car came creeping along, its faint side lights like the eyes of a cat in the heavy gloom, and suddenly she could see the line of the curb all the way to the street comer.
She began to walk.
The car passed on, its red rear lights receding into the dark distance. Margaret thought she was still three or four steps from the comer when she stumbled down the curb. She crossed the road and found the opposite pavement without falling over it. That encouraged her and she walked on more confidently.
Suddenly something hard smacked into her face with agonizing violence.
She cried out in pain and sudden fear. For a moment she was in a blind panic and wanted to turn and run. With an effort she calmed herself. Her hand went to her cheek and rubbed where it hurt. What on earth had happened? What was there to hit her at face level in the middle of the pavement? She reached out with both hands. She felt something almost immediately, and jerked her hands back fearfully; then she gritted her teeth and reached out again. She was touching something cold and hard and round, like an oversized pie dish floating in midair. Exploring it further, she felt a round column with a rectangular hole and an outjutting top. When she realized what it was she laughed despite her sore face. She had been attacked by a pillar box.
She felt her way around it, then walked on with both arms stretched out in front of her.
After a while she stumbled down another curb. Regaining her balance, she felt relieved: she had reached Aunt Martha’s street. She turned left.
It occurred to her that Aunt Martha might not hear the doorbell. She lived alone: there was no one else to answer. If that happened, Margaret would have to make her way back to Catherine’s building and sleep in the corridor. She could cope with sleeping on the floor, but she dreaded another walk through the blackout. Perhaps she would simply curl up on Aunt Martha’s doorstep and wait for daylight.