Night Over Water - Ken Follett [116]
Mother murmured: “Boys are so good at technical things.”
She irritated Margaret when she pretended to be dumb. She believed it was not feminine to understand technicalities. “Men don’t like girls to be too clever, dear,” she had said to Margaret, more than once. Margaret no longer argued with her but she did not believe it. Only stupid men felt that way, in her opinion. Clever men liked clever girls.
She became conscious of slightly raised voices at the next table. Baron Gabon and Carl Hartmann were arguing, while their dinner companions looked on in bemused silence. Margaret realized that Gabon and Hartmann had been deep in discussion every time she noticed them. Perhaps it was not surprising: if you were talking to one of the greatest brains in the world, you wouldn’t make small talk. She heard the word “Palestine.” They must be discussing Zionism. She shot a nervous glance at Father. He too had heard, and was looking bad-tempered. Before he could say anything, Margaret said: “We’re going to fly through a storm. It could get bumpy.”
“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