Redbrick suburban houses marched past the carriage windows like ranks of soldiers. Margaret was watching Father. He said nothing, but his face was taut as a balloon with suppressed rage. Mother put a hand on his knee and said: “Please don’t make a scene, dear.” He did not reply.
The train pulled into the station.
Elizabeth was sitting by the window. She caught Margaret’s eye. Margaret and Percy got up and let her out, then sat down again.
Father stood up.
The other passengers sensed the tension and looked at the little tableau: Elizabeth and Father facing one another in the aisle as the train came to a halt.
It struck Margaret once again that Elizabeth had chosen her moment well. It would be difficult for Father to use force in these circumstances : if he tried it he might even be restrained by other passengers. Nevertheless she felt sick with fear.
Father’s face was flushed and his eyes bulged. He was breathing hard through his nose. Elizabeth was shaking, but her mouth was set firm.
Father said: “If you get off this train now, I never want to see you again.”
“Don’t say that!” Margaret cried, but she was too late; it had been said, and he would never take it back.
Mother began to cry.
Elizabeth just said: “Goodbye.”
Margaret stood up and threw her arms around Elizabeth. “Good luck!” she whispered.
“You, too,” Elizabeth said, hugging her back.
Elizabeth kissed Percy’s cheek, then leaned awkwardly across the table and kissed Mother’s face, which was wet with tears. Finally she looked at Father again and said in a trembling voice: “Will you shake hands?”
His face was a mask of hate. He said: “My daughter is dead.”
Mother gave a cry of distress.
The carriage was very quiet, as if everyone knew that a family drama was reaching its tragic conclusion.
Elizabeth turned and walked away.
Margaret wished she could pick her father up and shake him until his teeth rattled. His needless obstinacy made her livid. Why the hell couldn’t he just give in for once? Elizabeth was an adult: she wasn’t obliged to obey her parents for the rest of her life! Father had no right to banish her. In his rage he had split the family, pointlessly and vindictively. At that moment Margaret hated him. As he stood there, looking furious and belligerent, she wanted to tell him that he was mean and unjust and stupid; but as always with Father, she bit her lip and said nothing.
Elizabeth walked past the carriage window, carrying her red suitcase. She looked at them all, smiled tearfully and gave a small, hesitant wave with her free hand. Mother began to sob quietly. Percy and Margaret waved back. Father looked away. Then Elizabeth passed out of sight.
Father sat down and Margaret followed suit.
A whistle blew and the train moved off.
They saw Elizabeth again, waiting in line at the exit. She glanced up as their carriage went by. This time there was no smile or wave: she just looked sad and grim.
The train picked up speed, and she was lost from view.
“Family life is a wonderful thing,” Percy said; and although he was being sarcastic, there was no humor in his voice, just bitterness.
Margaret wondered whether she would ever see her sister again.
Mother
was
dabbing at her eyes with a little linen handkerchief, but she was unable to stop crying. It was rare for her to lose her composure. Margaret could not remember ever seeing her cry before. Percy looked shaken. Margaret was depressed by Elizabeth’s foolish attachment to such an evil cause; but also she could not help feeling a sense of exultation. Elizabeth had done it: she had defied Father and got away with it! She had stood up to him, defeated him and escaped from him.
If Elizabeth could do it, so could she.
She smelled the sea. The train entered the docks. It ran along the waterfront, moving slowly past sheds, cranes and ocean liners. Despite her grief at parting with her sister, Margaret began to feel the thrill of anticipation.
The train stopped behind a building marked IMPERIAL HOUSE. It was an ultramodern structure that looked a bit like a ship: its comers were rounded, and the upper story had a wide veranda like a deck, with a white rail all around.
With the other passengers, the Oxenfords retrieved their overnight bags and got off the train. While their checked baggage was being transferred from the train to the plane, they all went into Imperial House to complete the departure formalities.
Margaret felt dazed. The world around her was changing too rapidly. She had left her home, her country was at war, she had lost her sister, and she was about to fly to America. She wished she could stop the clock for a while and try to take it all in.
Father explained that Elizabeth would not be joining them, and a Pan American official said: “That’s all right—there’s someone waiting here hoping to buy an unused ticket. I’ll take care of it.”
Margaret noticed Professor Hartmann, standing in a corner, smoking a cigarette, looking around him with nervous, wary glances. He looked jumpy and impatient. People like my sister have made him like this, Margaret thought; Fascists have persecuted him and turned him into a nervous wreck. I don’t blame him for being in a hurry to get out of Europe.
They could not see the plane from the waiting room, so Percy went off to find a better vantage point. He came back full of information. “Takeoff will be on schedule at two o’clock,” he said. Margaret felt a shiver of apprehension. Percy went on: “It should take us an hour and a half to get to our first stop, which is Foynes. Ireland is on summer time, like Britain, so we should arrive there at half past three. We wait there an hour while they refuel and finalize the flight plan. So we take off again at half past four.”
Margaret noticed that there were new faces here, people who had not been on the train. Some passengers must have come directly to Southampton this morning, or perhaps stayed overnight at a local hotel. As she thought this, a strikingly beautiful woman arrived in a taxi. She was a blonde in her thirties, and she wore a stunning dress, cream silk with red dots. She was accompanied by a rather ordinary, smiling man in a cashmere blazer. Everyone stared at them: they looked so happy and attractive.
A few minutes later the plane was ready for boarding.
They went out through the front doors of Imperial House directly onto the quay. The Clipper was moored there, rising and falling gently on the water, the sun gleaming off its silver sides.
It was
huge.
Margaret had never seen a plane even half this size. It was as high as a house and as long as two tennis courts. A big American flag was painted on its whalelike snout. The wings were high, level with the very top of the fuselage. Four enormous engines were built into the wings, and the propellers looked about fifteen feet across.
How could such a thing
fly?
“Is it very light?” she wondered aloud.
Percy heard her. “Forty-one tons,” he said promptly.
It would be like taking to the air in a house.
They came to the edge of the quay. A gangplank led down to a floating dock. Mother trod gingerly, hanging on tight to the rail: she looked almost doddery, as if she had aged twenty years. Father had both their bags. Mother never carried anything—it was one of her foibles.
From the floating dock, a shorter gangplank took them onto what looked like a stubby secondary wing, half submerged in the water. “Hydrostabilizer,” Percy said knowledgeably. “Also known as a sea-wing. Prevents the plane from tipping sideways in the water.” The surface of the sea-wing was slightly curved, and Margaret felt as if she might slip, but she did not. Now she was in the shadow of the huge wing above her head. She would have liked to reach out and touch one of the vast propeller blades, but she would not have been able to reach it.
There was a doorway in the fuselage just under the word AMERICAN in PAN AMERICAN AIRWAYS SYSTEM. Margaret ducked her head and stepped through the door.
There were three steps down to the floor of the plane.
Margaret found herself in a room about twelve feet square with a luxurious terra-cotta carpet, beige walls and blue chairs with a gay pattern of stars on the upholstery. There were dome lights in the ceiling and large square windows with venetian blinds. The walls and ceiling were straight, instead of curving with the fuselage: it was more like entering a house than boarding a plane.
Two doorways led from this room. Some passengers were directed toward the rear of the plane. Looking that way, Margaret could see that there was a series of lounges, all luxuriously carpeted and decorated in soft tans and greens. But the Oxenfords were seated forward. A small, rather plump steward in a white jacket introduced himself as Nicky and showed them into the next compartment.
This was a little smaller than the other room, and was decorated in a different color scheme: turquoise carpet, pale green walls and beige upholstery. To Margaret’s right were two large three-seater divans, facing one another, with a small table between them under the window. To her left, on the other side of the aisle, was another pair of divans, these a little smaller, seating two.
Nicky directed them to the larger seats on the right. Father and Mother sat by the window, and Margaret and Percy sat next to the aisle, leaving two empty seats between them and four empty seats on the other side of the aisle. Margaret wondered who would be sitting with them. The beautiful woman in the dotted dress would be interesting. So would Lulu Bell, especially if she wanted to talk about Grandma Fishbein ! Best of all would be Carl Hartmann.
She could feel the plane moving up and down with the slight rise and fall of the water. The movement was not much: just enough to remind her that she was at sea. The plane was like a magic carpet, she decided. It was impossible to grasp how mere engines could make it fly: much easier to believe that it would be borne through the air by the power of an ancient enchantment.
Percy stood up. “I’m going to look around,” he said.
“Stay here,” Father said. “You’ll get in everyone’s way if you start running around.”
Percy sat down promptly. Father had not lost all his authority.
Mother powdered her nose. She had stopped crying. She was feeling better, Margaret decided.
She heard an American voice say: “I’d really rather sit facing forward.” She looked up. Nicky the steward was showing a man to a seat on the other side of the compartment. Margaret could not tell who it was—he had his back to her. He had blond hair and wore a blue suit.
The steward said: “That’s fine, Mr. Vandenpost—take the opposite seat.”
The man turned around. Margaret looked at him with curiosity, and their eyes met.
She was astonished to recognize him.
He was not American and his name was not Mr. Vandenpost.
His blue eyes flashed her a warning but he was too late.
“Good grief!” she blurted out. “It’s Harry Marks!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
M
oments such as this brought out the best in Harry Marks.
Jumping bail, traveling on a stolen passport, using a false name, and pretending to be American, he had the incredibly bad luck to run into a girl who knew he was a thief, had heard him speak in different accents, and loudly called him by his real name.
For an instant he was possessed by blind panic.
A horrid vision of all he was running from appeared before his eyes: a trial, prison and then the wretched life of a squaddie in the British army.
Then he remembered that he was lucky, and he smiled.
The girl looked totally bewildered. He waited for her name to come back to him.
Margaret. Lady Margaret Oxenford.
She stared at him in amazement, too surprised to say anything, while he waited for inspiration.
“Harry Vandenpost is the name,” he said. “But my memory is better than yours, I’ll bet. You’re Margaret Oxenford, aren’t you? How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said dazedly. She was more confused than he. She would let him take charge of the situation.
He put out his hand as if to shake, and she extended her own; and in that moment inspiration came to him. Instead of shaking her hand, at the last moment he bent over it with an old-fashioned bow; and when his head was close to hers, he said in a low voice: “Pretend you never saw me in a police station and I’ll do the same for you.”
He stood upright and looked into her eyes. They were an unusual shade of dark green, he noticed, quite beautiful.
For a moment she remained flustered. Then her face cleared, and she grinned broadly. She had caught on, and she was pleased and intrigued by the little conspiracy he was proposing. “Of course, how silly of me, Harry Vandenpost,” she said.
Harry relaxed gratefully. Luckiest man in the world, he thought.
With a mischievous little frown, Margaret added: “By the way—where did we meet?”
Harry fielded that one easily. “Was it at Pippa Matchingham’s ball?” “No—I didn’t go.”
Harry realized he knew very little about Margaret. Did she live in London right through the social season or hide away in the countryside? Did she hunt, shoot, support charities, campaign for women’s rights, paint watercolors or carry out agricultural experiments on her father’s farm? He decided to name one of the big events of the season. “I’m sure we met at Ascot, then.”
“Yes, of course we did,” she said.
He allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He had turned her into a coconspirator already.
She went on: “But I don’t think you’ve met my people. Mother, may I present Mr: Vandenpost, from....”
“Pennsylvania,” Harry said rashly. He regretted it immediately. Where the hell was Pennsylvania? He had no idea.