Night Over Water Page 4

  Aunt Martha’s small house was at the far end of a long block. Margaret walked slowly. The city was dark but not silent. She could hear the occasional car in the distance. Dogs barked as she passed their doors and a pair of cats howled, oblivious of her. Once she heard the tinkling music of a late party. A little farther on she picked up the muffled shouts of a domestic row behind the blackout curtains. She found herself longing to be inside a house with lamps and a fireplace and a teapot.

  The block seemed longer than Margaret remembered. However, she could not possibly have gone wrong: she had turned left at the second cross street. Nevertheless, the suspicion that she was lost grew relentlessly. Her sense of time failed her: had she been walking along this block for five minutes, twenty minutes, two hours or all night? Suddenly she was not even sure whether there were any houses nearby. She could be in the middle of Hyde Park, having wandered through the entrance by blind luck. She began to feel that there were creatures all around her in the darkness, watching her with catlike night vision, waiting for her to stumble into them so they could grab her. A scream started low in her throat and she pushed it back.

  She made herself think. Where could she have gone wrong? She knew there was a cross street when she stumbled down a curb. But, she now recalled, as well as the main cross streets there were little alleys and mews. She might have turned down one of those. By now she could have walked a mile or more in the wrong direction.

  She tried to recall the heady feeling of excitement and triumph she had felt on the train, but it had gone, and now she just felt alone and afraid.

  She decided to stop and stand quite still. No harm could come to her like that.

  She stayed still for a long time: after a while she could not tell how long it was. Now she was afraid to move: fear had paralyzed her. She thought she would stand upright until she fainted with exhaustion, or until morning.

  Then a car appeared.

  Its dim side lights gave very little illumination, but by comparison with the previous pitch-blackness it seemed like daylight. She saw that she was, indeed, standing in the middle of the road, and she scurried to the pavement to get out of the way of the car. She was in a square that seemed vaguely familiar. The car passed her and turned a corner, and she hurried after it, hoping to see a landmark that would tell her where she was. Reaching the corner, she saw the car at the far end of a short, narrow street of small shops, one of which was a milliner’s patronized by Mother; and she realized she was just a few yards from Marble Arch.

  She could have wept with relief.

  At the next corner she waited for another car to light up the way ahead; then she walked on into Mayfair.

  A few minutes later she stood outside Claridge’s Hotel. The building was blacked out, of course, but she was able to locate the door, and she wondered whether to go in.

  She did not think she had enough money to pay for a room, but her recollection was that people did not pay their hotel bill until they left. She could take a room for two nights, go out tomorrow as if she expected to return later, join the A.T.S., then phone the hotel and tell them to send the bill to Father’s lawyer.

  She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  Like most public buildings that were open at night, the hotel had rigged up a double door, like an airlock, so that people could go in and out without the interior lights showing on the outside. Margaret let the outer door close behind her, then went through the second door and into the grateful light of the hotel foyer. She felt a tremendous surge of relief. This was normality: the nightmare was over.

  A young night porter was dozing at the desk. Margaret coughed, and he woke up, startled and confused. Margaret said: “I need a room.”

  “At this time of night?” the man blurted.

  “I got caught in the blackout,” Margaret explained. “Now I can’t get home.”

  The man began to gather his wits. “No luggage?”

  “No,” Margaret said guiltily; then she was struck by a thought, and added: “Of course not—I didn’t plan to get stranded.”

  He looked at her rather strangely. Surely, Margaret thought, he could not refuse her. He swallowed, rubbed his face and pretended to consult a book. What was the matter with the man? Making up his mind, he closed the book and said: “We’re full.”

  “Oh, come on, you must have something—”

  “You’ve had a fight with your old man, haven’t you?” he said with a wink.

  Margaret could hardly believe this was happening. “I can’t get home,” she repeated, as the man had obviously failed to understand her the first time.

  “I can’t help that,” he said. With a sudden access of wit he added: “Blame Hitler.”

  He was rather young. “Where is your supervisor?” she said.

  He looked offended. “I’m in charge, until six o’clock.”

  Margaret looked around. “I’ll just have to sit in the lounge until morning,” she said wearily.

  “You can’t do that!” the porter said, looking scared. “A young girl alone, with no luggage, spending the night in the lounge? It’s more than my job’s worth.”

  “I’m not a young girl,” she said angrily. “I’m Lady Margaret Oxenford.” She hated to use her title but she was desperate.

  However, it did no good. The porter gave her a hard, insolent look, and said: “Oh, yeah?”

  Margaret was about to shout at him when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the door, and realized she had a black eye. On top of that her hands were filthy and her dress was torn. She recalled that she had bumped into a pillar box and sat on the floor of a train. No wonder the porter would not give her a room. She said desperately: “But you can’t turn me out into the blackout!”

  “I can’t do anything else!” the porter said.

  Margaret wondered how he would react if she simply sat down and refused to move. That was what she felt like doing: she was bone tired and weak with strain. But she had been through so much that she had no energy left for a confrontation. Besides, it was late and they were alone: there was no telling what the man might do if she gave him an excuse to lay hands on her.

  Wearily, she turned her back on him and went out, bitterly disappointed, into the night.

  Even as she walked away from the hotel, she wished she had put up more of a fight. Why was it that her intentions were always so much more fierce than her actions? Now that she had given in, she was angry enough to defy the porter. She was almost ready to turn back. But she kept on walking: it seemed easier.

  She had nowhere to go. She would not be able to find Catherine’s building again; she had never succeeded in finding Aunt Martha’s house; she could not trust any other relatives and she was too dirty to get a hotel room.

  She would just have to wander around until it got light. The weather was fine: there was no rain and the night air was only slightly chilly. If she kept moving she would not even feel cold. She could see where she was going now: there were plenty of traffic lights in the West End, and a car passed every minute or two. She could hear music and noise from the nightclubs, and now and again she would see people of her own class: the women in gorgeous gowns and the men wearing white tie and tails, arriving home in their chauffeur-driven cars after a late party. In one street, rather curiously, she saw three other solitary women: one standing in a doorway, one leaning on a lamppost and one sitting in a car. They were all smoking and apparently waiting for people. She wondered if they were what Mother called Fallen Women.

  She began to feel tired. She was still wearing the light indoor shoes she had had on when she made her escape from home. On impulse she sat down on a doorstep, took off her shoes and rubbed her aching feet.

  Looking up, she realized that she could make out the vague shape of the buildings on the other side of the street. Was it getting light at last? Perhaps she would find a workmen’s cafe that opened early. She could order breakfast and wait there until the recruiting offices opened. She had eaten nex
t to nothing for two days, and the thought of bacon and eggs made her mouth water.

  Suddenly there was a white face hovering in the air in front of her. She let out a little cry of fright. The face came closer, and she saw a youngish man in evening dress. He said: “Hello, beautiful.”

  She scrambled to her feet quickly. She hated drunks—they were so undignified. “Please go away,” she said. She tried to sound firm, but there was a tremor in her voice.

  He staggered closer. “Give us a kiss, then.”

  “Certainly not!” she said, horrified. She took a step back, stumbled and dropped her shoes. Somehow the loss of her shoes made her feel helplessly vulnerable. She turned around and bent down to grope for them. He chuckled fruitily; then to her horror she felt his hand between her thighs, fumbling with painful clumsiness. She straightened up instantly, without finding her shoes, and stepped away from him. Turning to face him, she shouted: “Get away from me!”

  He laughed again and said: “That’s right. Go on. I like a bit of resistance.” With surprising agility he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. His alcoholic breath blew over her face in a nauseating fog, and suddenly he was kissing her mouth.

  It was unspeakably disgusting, and she felt quite sick, but his embrace was so strong that she could hardly breathe, let alone protest. She squirmed ineffectually while he slobbered over her. Then he took one hand from her shoulder to grasp her breast. He squeezed brutally hard and she gasped with pain. But because he had let go of her shoulder she was mercifully able to half turn away from him and start to scream.

  She screamed loud and long.

  She could vaguely hear him saying, in a worried voice: “All right, all right, don’t take on so. I didn’t mean any harm.” But she was too scared to be reasoned with and she just carried on screaming. Faces materialized out of the darkness: a passerby in workman’s clothes, a Fallen Woman with cigarette and handbag, and a head at a window in the house behind them. The drunk vanished into the night, and Margaret stopped screaming and began to cry. Then there was the sound of running boots, the narrow beam of a masked flashlight, and a policeman’s helmet.

  The policeman shone his light on Margaret’s face.

  The woman muttered: “She ain’t one of us, Steve.”

  The policeman called Steve said: “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Margaret Oxenford.”

  The man in work clothes said: “A toff took her for a tart—that’s what happened.” Satisfied, he went off.

  The policeman said: “Would that be Lady Margaret Oxenford?”

  Margaret sniffed miserably and nodded.

  The woman said: “I told you she weren’t one of us.” With that, she drew on her cigarette, dropped the end, trod on it and disappeared.

  The policeman said: “You come with me, my lady. You’ll be all right now.

  Margaret wiped her face with her sleeve. The policeman offered her his arm. She took it. He shone his flashlight on the pavement in front of her and they began to walk.

  After a moment Margaret shuddered and said: “That frightful man.”

  The policeman was briskly unsympathetic. “Can’t really blame him,” he said cheerfully. “This is the most notorious street in London. It’s a fair assumption that a girl alone here at this hour is a Lady of the Night.”

  Margaret supposed he was right, although it seemed rather unfair.

  The familiar blue lamp of a police station appeared in the morning twilight. The policeman said: “You have a nice cup of tea and you’ll feel better.”

  They went inside. There was a counter ahead of them with two policemen behind it, one middle-aged and stocky and the other young and thin. On each side of the hall was a plain wooden bench up against the wall. There was only one other person in the hall: a pale woman with her hair in a scarf and house slippers on her feet, sitting on one of the benches, waiting with tired patience.

  Margaret’s rescuer directed her to the opposite bench, saying: “Sit yourself down there for a minute.” Margaret did as she was told. The policeman went up to the desk and spoke to the older man. “Sarge, that’s Lady Margaret Oxenford. Had a run-in with a drunk in Bolting Lane.”

  “I suppose he thought she was on the game.”

  Margaret was struck by the variety of euphemisms for prostitution. People seemed to have a horror of calling it what it was, and had to refer to it obliquely. She herself had known about it only in the vaguest possible way; indeed she had not really believed it went on, until tonight. But there had been nothing vague about the intentions of the young man in evening dress.

  The sergeant looked over at Margaret in an interested way, then said something in a low voice that she could not hear. Steve nodded and disappeared into the back of the building.

  Margaret realized she had left her shoes on that doorstep. Now there were holes in the feet of her stockings. She began to worry: she could hardly turn up at the recruiting station in this state. Perhaps she could go back for her shoes in daylight. But they might no longer be there. And she badly needed a wash and a clean dress, too. It would be heartbreaking to be turned down for the A.T.S. after all this. But where could she go to tidy herself? By morning even Aunt Martha’s house would not be safe: Father might turn up there, searching for her. Surely, she thought with anguish, her whole plan was not going to fall apart because of a pair of shoes?

  Her policeman came back with tea in a thick earthenware mug. It was weak and had too much sugar in it, but Margaret sipped it gratefully. It restored her resolve. She could overcome her problems. She would leave as soon as she had finished her tea. She would go to a poor district and find a shop selling cheap clothes: she still had a few shillings. She would buy a dress, a pair of sandals and a set of clean underwear. She would go to a public bathhouse and wash and change. Then she would be ready for the army.

  While she was elaborating this plan, there was a noise outside the door and a group of young men burst in. They were well dressed, some in evening clothes and others in lounge suits. After a moment Margaret realized they were dragging with them an unwilling companion. One of the men started to shout at the sergeant behind the counter.

  The sergeant interrupted him. “All right, all right, quiet down!” he said in a commanding voice. “You’re not on the rugby field now, you know—this is a police station.” The noise muted somewhat, but not enough for the sergeant. “If you don’t behave yourselves I’ll clap the lot of you in the bleedin’ cells,” he shouted. “Now bloody well shut up!”

  They became quiet and released their unwilling prisoner, who stood there looking sulky. The sergeant pointed at one of the men, a dark-haired fellow of about Margaret’s age. “Right—you. Tell me what all the fuss is about.”

  The young man pointed at the prisoner. “This blighter took my sister to a restaurant, then sneaked off without paying!” he said indignantly. He spoke with an upper-class accent, and Margaret realized his face was vaguely familiar. She hoped he would not recognize her: it would be too humiliating for people to know that she had had to be rescued by. a policeman after running away from home.

  A younger man in a striped suit added: “His name’s Harry Marks and he ought to be locked up.”

  Margaret looked with interest at Harry Marks. He was a strikingly handsome man of twenty-two or twenty-three, with blond hair and regular features. Although he was rather rumpled, he wore his double-breasted dinner jacket with easy elegance. He looked around contemptuously and said: “These fellows are drunk.”

  The young man in the striped suit burst out: “We may be drunk but he’s a cad—and a thief. Look what we found in his pocket.” He threw something down on the counter. “These cuff links were stolen earlier in the evening from Sir Simon Monkford.”

  “All right,” said the sergeant. “So you’re accusing him of obtaining a pecuniary advantage by deception—that’s not paying his restaurant bill—and of stealing. Anything else?”

  The boy in the striped suit laughed scornf
ully and said: “Isn’t that enough for you?”

  The sergeant pointed his pencil at the boy. “You remember where you bloody well are, son. You may have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth but this is a police station and if you don’t speak politely you’ll spend the rest of the night in a bleedin’ cell.”

  The boy looked foolish and said no more.

  The sergeant turned his attention back to the first speaker. “Now can you supply all the details of both accusations? I need the name and address of the restaurant, your sister’s name and address, plus the name and address of the party that owns the cuff links.”

  “Yes, I can give you all that. The restaurant—”

  “Good. You stay here.” He pointed at the accused man. “You sit down.” He waved his hand at the crowd of young men. “The rest of you can go home.”

  They all looked rather nonplussed. Their great adventure had ended in anticlimax. For a moment none of them moved.

  The sergeant said: “Go on, bugger off, the lot of you!”

  Margaret had never heard so much swearing in one day.

  The young men moved off, muttering. The boy in the striped suit said: “You bring a thief to justice and you get treated as if you were a criminal yourself!” But he was passing through the door before he finished the sentence.

  The sergeant began to question the dark-haired boy, making notes. Harry Marks stood beside him for a moment, then turned away impatiently. He spotted Margaret, threw her a sunny grin and sat down next to her. He said: “All right, girl? What you doing here, then, this time o’ night?”

  Margaret was nonplussed. He was quite transformed. His haughty manner and refined speech had gone, and he spoke with the same accent as the sergeant. For a moment she was too surprised to reply.

  Harry threw an appraising glance at the doorway, as if he might be thinking of making a dash for it; then he looked back at the desk and saw the younger policeman, who had not yet said a word, staring at him watchfully. He seemed to give up the idea of escape. He turned back to Margaret. “Who give you that black eye, your old man?”