Night Over Water

by Ken Follett

  “How do you know?” Percy said. There was a jealous note in his voice: he was the expert on flight details, not Margaret.

  “Harry told me.”

  “And how would he know?”

  “He dined with the engineer and the navigator.”

  “I’m not scared,” Percy said, in a tone which suggested that he was.

  It had not occurred to Margaret to worry about the storm. It might be uncomfortable, but surely there was no real danger?

  Father drained his glass and asked the steward irritably for more wine. Was he frightened of the storm? He was drinking even more than usual, she had observed. His face was flushed and his pale eyes seemed to stare. Was he nervous? Perhaps he was still upset over Elizabeth.

  Mother said: “Margaret, you should talk more to that quiet Mr. Membury.”

  Margaret was surprised. “Why? He seems to want to be left alone.”

  “I expect he’s just shy.”

  It was not like Mother to take pity on shy people, especially if they were, like Mr. Membury, unmistakably middle class. “Out with it, Mother,” said Margaret. “What do you mean?”

  “I just don’t want you to spend the entire flight talking to Mr. Vandenpost.”

  That was exactly what Margaret was going to do. “Why on earth shouldn’t I?” she said.

  “Well, he’s your age, you know, and you don’t want to give him ideas.”

  “I might rather like to give him ideas. He’s frightfully good-looking.”

  “No, dear,” she said firmly. “There’s something about him that isn’t quite quite.” She meant he was not upper class. Like many foreigners who married into the aristocracy, Mother was even more snobbish than the English.

  So she had not been completely taken in by Harry’s impersonation of a wealthy young American. Her social antennae were infallible. “But you said you knew the Philadelphia Vandenposts,” Margaret said.

  “I do, but now that I think about it I’m sure he’s not from that family.”

  “I may cultivate him just to punish you for being such a snob, Mother.”

  “It’s not snobbery, dear. It’s breeding. Snobbery is vulgar.”

  Margaret gave up. The armor of Mother’s superiority was impenetrable. It was useless to reason with her. But Margaret had no intention of obeying her. Harry was far too interesting.

  Percy said: “I wonder what Mr. Membury is? I like his red waistcoat. He doesn’t look like a regular transatlantic traveler.”

  Mother said: “I expect he’s some kind of functionary.”

  That’s just what he looks like, Margaret thought. Mother had the sharpest eye for that sort of thing.

  Father said: “He probably works for the airline.” “More like a civil servant, I should say,” Mother said.

  The stewards brought the main course. Mother refused the filet mignon. “I never eat cooked food,” she said to Nicky. “Just bring me some celery and caviar.”

  From the next table Margaret heard Baron Gabon say: “We must have a land of our own—there’s no other solution!”

  Carl Hartmann replied: “But you’ve admitted that it will have to be a militarized state—”

  “For defense against hostile neighbors!”

  “And you concede that it will have to discriminate against Arabs in favor of Jews—but militarism and racism combined make Fascism, which is what you’re supposed to be fighting against!”

  “Hush, not so loud,” Gabon said, and they lowered their voices.

  In normal circumstances Margaret would have been interested in the argument: she had discussed it with Ian. Socialists were divided about Palestine. Some said it was an opportunity to create an ideal state; others that it belonged to the people who lived there and could not be “given” to the Jews any more than Ireland, or Hong Kong, or Texas. The fact that so many socialists were Jewish only complicated the issue.

  However, now she just wished Gabon and Hartmann would calm down so that Father would not hear.

  Unfortunately, it was not to be. They were arguing about something close to their hearts. Hartmann raised his voice again and said: “I don’t want to live in a racist state!”

  Father said loudly: “I didn’t know we were traveling with a pack of Jews.”

  “Oy vey,” said Percy.

  Margaret looked at her father in dismay. There had been a time when his political philosophy had made a kind of sense. When millions of able-bodied men were unemployed and starving, it had seemed courageous to say that both capitalism and socialism had failed and that democracy did the ordinary man no good. There had been something appealing about the idea of an all-powerful State directing industry under the leadership of a benevolent dictator. But those high ideals and bold policies had now degenerated into this mindless bigotry. She had thought of Father when she found a copy of Hamlet in the library at home and read the line: “O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!”

  She did not think the two men had heard Father’s crass remark, for he had his back to them, and they were absorbed in the debate. To get Father off the subject, she said brightly: “What time should we all go to bed?”

  Percy said: “I’d like to go early.” That was unusual, but of course he was looking forward to the novelty of sleeping on a plane.

  Mother said: “We’ll go at the usual time.”

  “But in what time zone?” Percy said. “Shall I go at ten thirty British Summer Time, or ten thirty Newfoundland Daylight Saving Time?”

  “America is racist!” Baron Gabon exclaimed. “So is France—England—the Soviet Union—all racist states!”

  Father said: “For God’s sake!”

  Margaret said: “Half past nine would suit me fine.”

  Percy noticed the rhyme. “I’ll be more dead than alive by ten oh five,” he countered.

  It was a game they had played as children. Mother joined in. “You won’t see me again after quarter to ten.”

  “Show me your tattoo at a quarter to.”

  “I’ll be the last at twenty past.”

  “Your turn, Father,” said Percy.

  There was a moment of silence. Father had played the game with them, in the old days, before he became bitter and disappointed. For an instant his face softened, and Margaret thought he would join in.

  Then Carl Hartmann said: “So why set up yet another racist state?”

  That did it. Father turned around, red-faced and spluttering. Before anybody could do anything to stop him he burst out: “You Jewboys had better keep your voices down.”

  Hartmann and Gabon stared at him in astonishment.

  Margaret felt her face flush bright red. Father had spoken loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the room had gone completely quiet. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She was mortified that people should look at her and know she was the daughter of the coarse, drunken fool sitting opposite her. She caught Nicky’s eye, and saw by his face that he felt sorry for her, and that made her feel worse.

  Baron Gabon turned pale. For a moment it seemed that he would say something in return, but then he changed his mind and looked away. Hartmann gave a twisted grin, and the thought flashed through Margaret’s mind that to him, coming from Nazi Germany, this sort of thing probably seemed mild.

  Father had not finished. “This is a first-class compartment,” he added.

  Margaret was watching Baron Gabon. In an attempt to ignore Father, he picked up his spoon, but his hand was shaking and he spilled soup on his dove gray waistcoat. He gave up and put down the spoon.

  This visible sign of his distress touched Margaret’s heart. She felt fiercely angry with her father. She turned to him and for once she had the courage to tell him what she thought. She said furiously: “You have just grossly insulted two of the most distinguished men in Europe!”

  He said: “Two of the most distinguished Jews in Europe.”

  Percy said: “Remember Granny Fishbein.”

  Father rounded on him. Wagging a finger, he
said: “You’re to stop that nonsense—do you hear me?”

  “I need to go to the toilet,” Percy said, getting up. “I feel sick.” He left the room.

  Margaret realized that both Percy and she had stood up to Father, and he had not been able to do anything about it. That had to be some kind of milestone.

  Father lowered his voice and spoke to Margaret. “Remember that these are the people who have driven us out of our home!” he hissed. Then he raised his voice again. “If they want to travel with us they ought to learn manners.”

  “That’s enough!” said a new voice.

  Margaret looked across the room. The speaker was Mervyn Lovesey, the man who had got on at Foynes. He was standing up. The stewards, Nicky and Davy, stood frozen still, looking scared. Lovesey came across the dining room and leaned on the Oxenfords’ table, looking dangerous. He was a tall, authoritative man in his forties with thick graying hair, black eyebrows and chiseled features. He wore an expensive suit but spoke with a Lancashire accent. “I’ll thank you to keep those views to yourself,” he said in a quietly threatening tone.

  Father said: “None of your damn business—”

  “But it is,” said Lovesey.

  Margaret saw Nicky leave hastily, and guessed he was going to summon help from the flight deck.

  Lovesey went on. “You wouldn’t know anything about this, but Professor Hartmann is the leading physicist in the world.”

  “I don’t care what he is—”

  “No, you wouldn’t. But I do. And I find your opinions as offensive as a bad smell.”

  “I shall say what I please,” Father said, and he made to get up.

  Lovesey held him down with a strong hand on his shoulder. “We’re at war with people like you.”

  Father said weakly: “Clear off, will you?”

  “I’ll clear off if you’ll shut up.”

  “I shall call the captain—”

  “No need,” said a new voice, and Captain Baker appeared, looking calmly authoritative in his uniform cap. “I’m here. Mr. Lovesey, may I ask you to return to your seat? I’d be much obliged to you.”

  “Aye, I’ll sit down,” said Lovesey. “But I’ll not listen in silence while the most eminent scientist in Europe is told to keep his voice down and called a Jewboy by this drunken oaf.”

  “Please, Mr. Lovesey.”

  Lovesey returned to his seat.

  The captain turned to Father. “Lord Oxenford, perhaps you were misheard. I’m sure you would not call another passenger the word mentioned by Mr. Lovesey.”

  Margaret prayed that Father would accept this way out, but to her dismay he became more belligerent. “I called him a Jewboy because that’s what he is!” he blustered.

  “Father, stop it!” she cried.

  The captain said to Father: “I must ask you not to use such terms while you’re on board my aircraft.”

  Father was scornful. “Is he ashamed of being a Jewboy?”

  Margaret could see that Captain Baker was getting angry. “This is an American airplane, sir, and we have American standards of behavior. I insist that you stop insulting other passengers, and I warn you that I am empowered to have you arrested and confined to prison by the local police at our next port of call. You should be aware that in such cases, rare though they are, the airline always presses charges.”

  Father was shaken by the threat of imprisonment. For a moment he was silenced. Margaret felt deeply humiliated. Although she had tried to stop her father, and protested against his behavior, she felt ashamed. His oafishness reflected on her: she was his daughter. She buried her face in her hands. She could not take any more.

  She heard Father say: “I shall return to my compartment.” She looked up. He was getting to his feet. He turned to Mother. “My dear?”

  Mother stood up, Father holding her chair. Margaret felt that all eyes were on her.

  Harry suddenly appeared out of nowhere. He rested his hands lightly on the back of Margaret’s chair. “Lady Margaret,” he said with a little bow. She stood up, and he drew back her chair. She felt deeply grateful for this gesture of support.

  Mother walked away from the table, her face expressionless, her head held high. Father followed her.

  Harry gave Margaret his arm. It was only a little thing, but it meant a great deal to her. Although she was blushing furiously, she felt able to walk out of the room with dignity.

  A buzz of conversation broke out behind her as she passed into the compartment.

  Harry handed her to her seat.

  “That was so gracious of you,” she said with feeling. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I could hear the row from in here,” he said quietly. “I knew you’d be feeling bad.”

  “I’ve never been so humiliated,” she said abjectly.

  But Father had not yet finished. “They’ll be sorry one day, the damn fools!” he said. Mother sat in her corner and stared blankly at him. “They’re going to lose this war, you mark my words.”

  Margaret said: “No more, Father, please.” Fortunately only Harry was present to hear the tirade continue: Mr. Membury had disappeared.

  Father ignored her. “The German army will sweep across England like a tidal wave!” he said. “And then what do you think will happen? Hitler will install a Fascist government, of course.” Suddenly there was an odd light in his eye. My God, he looks crazy, Margaret thought; my father is going insane. He lowered his voice, and his face took on a crafty expression. “An English Fascist government, of course. And he will need an English Fascist to lead it!”

  “Oh, my God,” said Margaret. She saw what he was thinking and it made her despair.

  Father thought Hitler was going to make him dictator of Britain.

  He thought Britain would be conquered, and Hitler would call him back from exile to be the leader of a puppet government.

  “And when there’s a Fascist prime minister in London—then they’ll dance to a different tune!” Father said triumphantly, as if he had won some argument.

  Harry was staring at Father in astonishment. “Do you imagine ... do you expect Hitler to ask you ... ?”

  “Who knows?” Father said. “It would have to be someone who bore no taint of the defeated administration. If called upon ... my duty to my country ... fresh start, no recriminations ...”

  Harry looked too shocked to say anything.

  Margaret was in despair. She had to get away from Father. She shuddered when she recalled the ignominious upshot of her last attempt to run away; but she should not let one failure discourage her. She had to try again.

  It would be different this time. She would learn by Elizabeth’s example. She would think carefully and plan ahead. She would make sure she had money, friends and a place to sleep. This time she would make it work.

  Percy emerged from the men’s room, having missed most of the drama. However, he appeared to have been in a drama of his own: his face was flushed and he looked excited. “Guess what!” he said to the compartment in general. “I just saw Mr. Membury in the washroom—he had his jacket undone and he was tucking his shirt into his trousers—and he’s got a shoulder holster under his jacket—and there’s a gun in it!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Clipper was approaching the point of no return.

  Eddie Deakin, distracted, nervy, unrested, went back on duty at ten p.m., British time. By this hour the sun had raced ahead, leaving the aircraft in darkness. The weather had changed, too. Rain lashed the windows, cloud obscured the stars, and inconstant winds buffeted the mighty plane disrespectfully, shaking up the passengers.

  The weather was generally worse at low altitudes, but despite this, Captain Baker was flying at close to sea level. He was “hunting the wind,” searching for the altitude at which the westerly head wind was least strong.

  Eddie was worried because he knew the plane was low on fuel. He sat down at his station and began to calculate the distance the plane could travel on what remained in th
e tanks. Because the weather was a little worse than forecast, the engines must have burned more fuel than anticipated. If there was not sufficient left to carry the plane to Newfoundland, they would have to turn back before reaching the point of no return.

  And then what would happen to Carol-Ann?

  Tom Luther was nothing if not a careful planner, and he must have considered the possibility that the Clipper would be delayed. He had to have some way of contacting his cronies to confirm or alter the time of the rendezvous.

  But if the plane turned back, Carol-Ann would remain in the hands of the kidnappers for at least another twenty-four hours.

  Eddie had sat in the forward compartment, fidgeting restlessly and looking out of the window at nothing at all, for most of his off-duty shift. He had not even tried to sleep, knowing it would be hopeless. Images of Carol-Ann had tormented him constantly: Carol-Ann in tears, or tied up, or bruised; Carol-Ann frightened, pleading, hysterical, desperate. Every five minutes he wanted to put his fist through the fuselage, and he had fought constantly against the impulse to run up the stairs and ask his replacement, Mickey Finn, about the fuel consumption.

  It was because he was so distracted that he had allowed himself to needle Tom Luther in the dining room. His behavior had been very dumb. A piece of real bad luck had put them at the same table. Afterward, the navigator, Jack Ashford, had lectured Eddie, and he realized how stupid he had been. Now Jack knew something was going on between Eddie and Luther. Eddie had refused to enlighten Jack further, and Jack had accepted that—for now. Eddie had mentally vowed to be more careful. If Captain Baker should even suspect that his engineer was being blackmailed, he would abort the flight, and then Eddie would be powerless to help Carol-Ann. Now he had that to worry about as well.