Night Over Water (4 page)

Even after he joined the International Brigade and went to Spain to fight for the elected socialist government against the Fascist rebels, he continued to light up her life. She was proud of him because he had the courage of his convictions, and was ready to risk death for the cause he believed in. Sometimes she would get a letter from him. Once he sent a poem. Then came the note that said he was dead, blown to bits by a direct hit from a shell; and Margaret felt that her life had come to an end.

“A bad influence,” she echoed bitterly. “Yes. He taught me to question dogma, to disbelieve lies, to hate ignorance and to despise hypocrisy. As a result, I’m hardly fit for civilized society.”

Father, Mother and Elizabeth all started talking at once, then stopped because none of them could be heard; and Percy spoke into the sudden silence. “Talking of Jews,” he said, “I came across a curious picture in the cellar, in one of those old suitcases from Stamford.” Stamford, Connecticut, was where Mother’s family lived. Percy took from his shirt pocket a creased and faded sepia photograph. “I did have a great-grandmother called Ruth Glencarry, didn’t I?”

Mother said: “Yes—she was my mother’s mother. Why, dear, what have you found?”

Percy gave the photograph to Father and the others crowded around to look at it. It showed a street scene in an American city, probably New York, about seventy years ago. In the foreground was a Jewish man of about thirty with a black beard, dressed in rough workingman’s clothes and a hat. He stood by a handcart bearing a grinding wheel. The cart was clearly lettered with the words REUBEN FISHBEIN—GRINDER. Beside the man stood a girl, about ten years old, in a shabby cotton dress and heavy boots.

Father said: “What is this, Percy? Who are these wretched people?”

“Turn it over,” said Percy.

Father turned the picture over. On the back was written: RUTHIE GLENCARRY, NÉE FISHBEIN, AGED 10.

Margaret looked at Father. He was utterly horrified.

Percy said: “Interesting that Mother’s grandfather should marry the daughter of an itinerant Jewish knife grinder, but they say America’s like that.”

“This is impossible!” Father said, but his voice was shaky, and Margaret guessed that he thought it was all too possible.

Percy went on blithely: “Anyway, Jewishness descends through the female, so as my mother’s grandmother was Jewish, that makes me a Jew.”

Father had gone quite pale. Mother looked mystified, a slight frown creasing her brow.

Percy said: “I do hope the Germans don’t win this war. I shan’t be allowed to go to the cinema and Mother will have to sew yellow stars on all her ballgowns.”

This was sounding too good to be true. Margaret peered intently at the words written on the back of the picture, and the truth dawned. “Percy!” she said delightedly. “That’s
your
handwriting!”

“No, it’s not!” said Percy.

But everyone could see that it was. Margaret laughed gleefully. Percy had found this old picture of a little Jewish girl somewhere and had faked the inscription on the back to fool Father. Father had fallen for it, too, and no wonder: it must be the ultimate nightmare of every racist to find that he has mixed ancestry. Serve him right.

Father said, “Bah!” and threw the picture down on a table. Mother said, “Percy, really,” in an aggrieved voice. They might have said more, but at that moment the door opened and Bates, the bad-tempered butler, said: “Luncheon is served, your ladyship.”

They left the morning room and crossed the hall to the small dining room. There would be overdone roast beef, as always on Sundays. Mother would have a salad: she never ate cooked food, believing that the heat destroyed the goodness.

Father said grace and they sat down. Bates offered Mother the smoked salmon. Smoked, pickled or otherwise preserved foods were all right, according to her theory.

“Of course, there’s only one thing to be done,” Mother said as she helped herself from the proffered plate. She spoke in the offhand tone of one who merely draws attention to the obvious. “We must all go and live in America until this silly war is over.”

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Margaret, horrified, burst out: “No!”

Mother said: “Now I think we’ve had quite enough squabbling for one day. Please let us have lunch in peace and harmony.”

“No!” Margaret said again. She was almost speechless with outrage. “You—you can’t do this. It’s—it’s ...” She wanted to rail and storm at them, to accuse them of treason and cowardice, to shout her contempt and defiance out loud; but the words would not come, and all she could say was: “It’s not fair!”

Even that was too much. Father said: “If you can’t hold your tongue you’d better leave us.”

Margaret put her napkin to her mouth to choke down a sob, pushed her chair back and stood up, and then fled the room.

 

They had been planning this for months, of course.

Percy came to Margaret’s room after lunch and told her the details. The house was to be closed up, the furniture covered with dust sheets and the servants dismissed. The estate would be left in the hands of Father’s business manager, who would collect the rents. The money would pile up in the bank: it could not be sent to America because of wartime exchange control rules. The horses would be sold, the blankets moth-balled, the silver locked away.

Elizabeth, Margaret and Percy were to pack one suitcase each: the rest of their belongings would be forwarded by a removal company. Father had booked tickets for all of them on the Pan American Clipper, and they were to leave on Wednesday.

Percy was wild with excitement. He had flown once or twice before, but the Clipper was different. The plane was huge, and very luxurious: the newspapers had been full of it when the service was inaugurated just a few weeks ago. The flight to New York took twenty-nine hours, and everyone went to bed in the night over the Atlantic Ocean.

It was disgustingly appropriate, Margaret thought, that they should depart in cosseted luxury when they were leaving their countrymen to deprivation, hardship and war.

Percy left to pack his case and Margaret lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, bitterly disappointed, boiling with rage, crying with frustration, powerless to do anything about her fate.

She stayed in her room until bedtime.

On Monday morning, while she was still in bed, Mother came to her room. Margaret sat up and gave her a hostile stare. Mother sat at the dressing table and looked at Margaret in the mirror. “Please don’t make trouble with your father over this,” she said.

Margaret realized that her mother was nervous. In other circumstances this might have caused Margaret to soften her tone; but she was too upset to sympathize. “It’s so cowardly!” she burst out.

Mother paled. “We’re not being cowardly.”

“But to run away from your country when a war begins!”

“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.