Davy came into the main lounge. Margaret realized the plane had been flying smoothly for the past five or ten minutes. Davy said: “Look out of the port windows, everyone. You’ll see something in a few seconds.”
Margaret looked out. Harry unfastened his seat belt and came closer to look over her shoulder. The plane tilted to port. After a moment Margaret saw that they were flying low over a big passenger liner, all lit up like Piccadilly Circus. Someone said: “They must have put the lights on for us: they normally sail without lights, since war was declared—they’re afraid of submarines.” Margaret was very conscious of Harry’s closeness to her, and she did not mind in the least. The crew of the Clipper must have talked by radio with the crew of the ship, for the ship’s passengers had all come out on deck, and stood there looking up at the plane and waving. They were so close that Margaret could see their clothes: the men wore white dinner jackets and the women long gowns. The ship was moving fast, its pointed bows knifing through the huge waves effortlessly, and the plane passed it quite slowly. It was a special moment: Margaret felt enchanted. She glanced at Harry and they smiled at one another, sharing the magic. He rested his right hand on her waist, on the side shielded by his body where no one could see it. His touch was featherlight, but she felt it like a burn. It made her hot and confused, but she did not want him to take his hand away. After a while the ship receded, and its lights were dimmed, then extinguished altogether. The Clipper passengers returned to their seats and Harry moved back.
More people drifted off to bed, and now only the cardplayers were left in the main lounge with Margaret and Harry. Margaret was bashful and did not know what to do with herself. She felt so awkward that she said: “It’s getting late. We’d better go to bed.” Why did I say that? she thought; I don’t
want
to go to bed!
Harry looked disappointed. “I guess I’ll make a move in a minute.”
Margaret stood up. “Thank you so much for your offer of help,” she said.
“Not at all,” he said.
Why are we being so formal? Margaret thought. I don’t want to say good night like this! “Sleep well,” she said.
“You too.”
She turned away, then turned back. “You do mean it, about helping me, don’t you? You won’t let me down.”
His face softened and he gave her a look that was almost loving. “I won’t let you down, Margaret. I promise.”
Suddenly she felt terribly fond of him. On impulse, without thinking about it, she bent down and kissed him. It was a fleeting brush of her lips on his, but she felt desire like an electric shock when they touched. She straightened up immediately, startled by what she had done and the way she felt. For an instant they stared into one another’s eyes. Then she stepped into the next compartment.
She felt weak-kneed. Looking around, she saw that Mr. Membury had taken the top bunk on the port side, leaving the lower one free for Harry. Percy had also taken a top bunk. She got into the one below Percy’s and fastened the curtain.
I kissed him, she thought; and it was nice.
She slid under the covers and turned off the little light. It was just like being in a tent. She felt quite cozy. She could see out of the window, but there was nothing to look at: just clouds and rain. All the same it was exciting. It reminded her of times when she and Elizabeth had been allowed to pitch a tent in the grounds and sleep out, on warm summer nights when they were little girls. She had always felt she would never go to sleep, it was so exciting; but the next thing she knew it would be light, and Cook would be tapping on the canvas and handing in a tray of tea and toast.
She wondered where Elizabeth was now.
Just as she was thinking that, there was a soft tap on her curtain. At first she thought she had imagined it because she was thinking of Cook. Then it came again, a sound like a fingernail, tap, tap, tap. She hesitated, then lifted herself, leaning on her elbow, and pulled the sheet up around her throat.
Tap, tap, tap.
She opened the curtain a fraction and saw Harry.
“What is it?” she hissed, although she thought she knew.
“I want to kiss you again,” he whispered.
She was both pleased and horrified. “Don’t be silly!”
“Please.”
“Go away!”
“No one will see.”
It was an outrageous request, but she was sorely tempted. She remembered the electric tingle of the first kiss and wanted another. Almost involuntarily, she opened the curtain a little more. He put his head through and gave her a pleading look. It was irresistible. She kissed his mouth. He smelled of toothpaste. She intended a quick kiss like the last one, but he had other ideas. He nibbled her lower lip. She found it exciting. She instinctively opened her mouth a fraction, and she felt his tongue brush her lips dryly. Ian had never done that. It was a weird sensation, but nice. Feeling depraved, she put out her own tongue to meet his. He began to breathe heavily. Suddenly Percy moved in the bunk over her head, reminding her of where she was. She felt panicked: how could she do this? She was publicly kissing a man she hardly knew! If Father should see, there would be hell to pay! She broke away, panting. Harry pushed his head in farther, wanting to kiss her again, but she pushed him away.
“Let me in,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she hissed. “Please.”
This was impossible. She was not even tempted: she was scared. “No, no, no,” she said.
He looked crestfallen.
She softened. “You’re the nicest man I’ve met for a long time, perhaps ever, but you’re not that nice,” she said. “Go to bed.”
He realized she meant it. He gave a rueful half smile. He seemed about to speak, but Margaret closed the curtain before he could.
She listened intently and thought she heard a soft footfall as he went away.
She turned off the light and lay back, breathing hard. Oh my God, she thought, that was dreamy. She smiled in the dark, reliving the kiss. She had really wanted to go farther. She caressed herself gently as she thought about it.
Her mind went back to her first lover, Monica, a cousin who had come to stay the summer Margaret was thirteen. Monica was sixteen, blond and pretty, and seemed to know everything, and Margaret adored her from the beginning.
She lived in France, and perhaps because of that, or perhaps just because her parents were more easygoing than Margaret’s, Monica naturally walked around naked in the bedrooms and bathroom of the children’s wing. Margaret had never seen a grown-up naked, and she had been fascinated by Monica’s big breasts and the bush of honey-colored hair between her legs: she herself had only a small bust and a little downy hair, at that age.
But Monica had seduced Elizabeth first—ugly, bossy Elizabeth, who had spots on her chin! Margaret had heard them murmuring and kissing in the night, and she had been by turns mystified, angry, jealous and finally envious. She saw that Monica became very fond of Elizabeth. She felt hurt and excluded by the little glances that went between them and the apparently accidental touch of hands as they walked in the woods or sat at tea.
Then, one day, when Elizabeth went to London with Mother for some reason, Margaret came upon Monica in the bath. She was lying in the hot water with her eyes closed, touching herself between the legs. She heard Margaret, and blinked, but she did not stop, and Margaret watched, scared but fascinated, while Monica masturbated to a climax.
That night Monica came to Margaret’s bed instead of Elizabeth’s; but Elizabeth threw a tantrum and threatened to tell all, so in the end they shared her, like wife and mistress in a jealous triangle. Margaret felt guilty and deceitful all summer, but the intense affection and the new-found physical delight was too wonderful to give up, and it ended only when Monica went back to France in September.
After Monica, going to bed with Ian had been a rude shock. He had been awkward and clumsy. She realized that a young man such as him knew next to nothing about women’s bodies, so naturally he could not give her pleasure as Monica had. She soon got over the initial disappointment, however; and Ian loved her so desperately that his passion made up for his inexperience.
Thinking of Ian made her want to cry, as always. She wished with all her heart that she had made love to him more willingly and oftener. She had been very resistant at first, although she longed for it as badly as he did; and he had pleaded with her for months before she finally gave in. After the first time, although she wanted to do it again, she had made difficulties. She had been unwilling to make love in her bedroom in case someone should find the door locked and wonder why; she had been frightened of doing it in the open air, even though she knew lots of hiding places in the woods around their home; and she had been uncomfortable about using his friends’ flats for fear she would get a bad reputation. Behind it all had been the terror of what Father would do if ever he found out.
Tom apart by conflicting desire and anxiety, she had always made love furtively, hurriedly and guiltily; and they had managed it only three times before he went to Spain. Of course, she had blithely imagined that they had all the time in the world ahead of them. Then he had been killed, and with the news came the dreadful realization that she would never touch his body again; and she had cried so hard that she thought her heart would burst. She had thought they would spend the rest of their lives learning how to make one another happy; but she never saw him again.
She wished she had given herself to him freely right from the start, and made love recklessly at every opportunity. Her fears seemed so trivial now that he was buried on a dusty hillside in Catalonia.
Suddenly it occurred to her that she might be making the same mistake again.
She wanted Harry Marks. Her body ached for him. He was the only man who had made her feel this way since Ian. But she had turned him down. Why? Because she was afraid. Because she was on a plane, and the bunks were small, and someone might hear, and her father was close by, and she was terrified of being caught.
Was she being foolishly fainthearted again?
What if the plane should crash? she wondered. They were on a pioneering transatlantic flight. Right now they were halfway between Europe and America, hundreds of miles from land in any direction: if something should go wrong they would all die in minutes. And her last thought would be regret that she had never made love to Harry Marks.
The plane was not going to crash, but even so this might be her last chance. She had no idea what was going to happen when they got to America. She planned to join the armed forces as soon as she possibly could, and Harry had spoken about becoming a pilot in the Canadian air force. He might die fighting, like Ian. What did her reputation matter, who could worry about parental anger, when life could be so short? She almost wished she had let Harry in.
Would he try again? She thought not. She had given him a very firm no. Any boy who ignored that kind of rejection would have to be a complete pest. Harry had been persistent, flatteringly so, but he was not mulish. He would not ask her again tonight.
What a fool I am, she thought. He might be here now: all I had to say was yes. She hugged herself, imagining that Harry was hugging her; and in her mind she put out a tentative hand and stroked his naked hip. There would be curly blond hair on his thighs, she thought.
She decided to get up and go to the ladies’ room. Perhaps Harry would get up at the same time, by lucky chance; or he might call the steward for a drink, or something. She put her arms into her robe, unfastened her curtains and sat up. Harry’s bunk was tightly curtained. She slid her feet into her slippers and stood up.
Almost everyone had gone to bed now. She peeped into the galley: it was empty. Of course, the stewards needed sleep, too. They were probably dozing in compartment number 1 with the off-duty crew. Going in the opposite direction, she passed through the lounge and saw the diehards, all men, still playing poker. There was a whiskey bottle on the table, and they were helping themselves. She continued toward the back, weaving from side to side as the plane lurched. The floor rose toward the tail, and there were steps between the compartments. Two or three people sat up reading, with the curtains drawn back, but most bunks were closed and silent.
The ladies’ powder room was empty. Margaret sat in front of the mirror and looked at herself. It struck her as odd that a man should find this woman desirable. Her face was rather ordinary, her skin very pale, her eyes an odd shade of green. Her hair was her only good feature, she sometimes thought: it was long and straight, and the color was a glowing bronze. Men often noticed her hair.
What would Harry have thought of her body, if she had let him in? He might be revolted by big breasts: they might make him think of motherhood or cows’ udders or something. She had heard that men liked small, neat breasts, the same shape as the little glasses in which champagne was served at parties. You couldn’t get one of mine into a champagne glass, she thought ruefully.
She would have liked to be petite, like the models in Vogue magazine, but instead she looked like a Spanish dancer. Whenever she put on a ballgown she had to wear a corset underneath it otherwise her bust wobbled uncontrollably. But Ian had loved her body. He said model girls looked like dolls. “You’re a real woman,” he had said one afternoon, in a snatched moment in the old nursery wing, kissing her neck and stroking both her breasts at the same time with his hands under her cashmere sweater. She had liked her breasts then.
The plane entered a bad patch of turbulence, and she had to hold on to the edge of the dressing table to avoid being thrown off the stool. Before I die, she thought morbidly, I’d like to have my breasts stroked again.
When the plane steadied, she went back to her compartment. All the bunks were still tightly buttoned up. She stood there for a moment, willing Harry to open his curtain, but he did not. She looked along the aisle, up and down the length of the plane. No one stirred.