Night Over Water - Ken Follett [132]
It was not the reaction Margaret had hoped for, but she plowed on regardless. “I’m most dreadfully sorry about what happened, and my brother feels the same way. I admire Professor Hartmann so much. I told him earlier.”
Hartmann had looked up from his book, and now he nodded agreement. But Gabon was still angry. “It’s too easy for people like you to be sorry,” he said. Margaret stared at the floor and wished she had not come. “Germany is full of polite wealthy people who are ‘most dreadfully sorry’ for what is happening there,” Gabon went on. “But what do they do? What do you do?”
Margaret felt her face flush crimson. She did not know what to do or say.
“Hush, Philippe,” Hartmann said softly. “Can’t you see that they’re young?” He looked at Margaret. “I accept your apology, and thank you.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “have I made everything worse?”
“Not at all,” Hartmann said. “You have made it a little better, and I’m grateful to you. My friend the baron is terribly upset, but he will see it my way eventually, I think.”
“We’d better go,” Margaret said wretchedly.
Hartmann nodded.
She turned away.
Percy said: “I’m terribly sorry.” He followed her out.
They staggered back to their compartment. Davy was making up the bunks. Harry had disappeared, presumably to the men’s room. Margaret decided to get ready for bed. She picked up her overnight case and made her way to the ladies’ room to change. Mother was just coming out, looking stunning in her chestnut-colored dressing gown. “Good night, dear,” she said. Margaret passed her without speaking.
In the crowded ladies’ room she changed quickly into her cotton nightdress and toweling bathrobe. Her nightclothes seemed dowdy among the brightly colored silks and cashmeres of the other women, but she hardly cared. Apologizing had brought her no relief, in the end, because Baron Gabon’s remarks had rung true. It was too easy to say sorry and do nothing about the problem.
When she returned to her compartment, Father and Mother were in bed behind closed curtains, and a muffled snore came from Father’s bunk. Her own bed was not ready, so she had to sit in the lounge.
She knew very well that there was only one way out of her predicament. She had to leave her parents and live on her own. She was now more determined than ever to do so; but she was no nearer to solving the practical problems of money, work and accommodation.
Mrs. Lenehan, the attractive woman who had joined the plane at Foynes, came and sat beside her, wearing a bright blue robe over a black negligee. “I came to ask for a brandy, but the stewards seem so busy,” she said. She did not seem very disappointed. She waved a hand to indicate all the passengers. “This is like a pajama party, or a midnight feast in the dormitory—everyone wandering around in dishabille. Don’t you agree?”
Margaret had never been to a pajama party or slept in a dormitory, so she just said: “It’s very strange. It makes us all seem like one family.”
Mrs. Lenehan fastened her seat belt: she was in a mood to chat. “It’s not possible to be formal when you’re in your nightclothes, I guess. Even Frankie Gordino looked cute in his red p.j.s, didn’t he?”
At first Margaret was not sure who she meant; then she remembered that Percy had overheard an angry exchange between the captain and an F.B.I., agent. “Is that the prisoner?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you afraid of him?”
“I guess not. He won’t do me any harm.”
“But people are saying he’s a murderer, and worse than that.”
“There will always be crime in the slums. Take Gordino away and somebody else will do the killing. I’d leave him there. Gambling and prostitution have been going on since God was a boy, and if there has to be crime it might as well be organized.”
This was a rather shocking speech. Perhaps something about the atmosphere of the plane led people to be unusually candid. Margaret also guessed that Mrs. Lenehan would not have talked like this in mixed company: women were always more down-to-earth when there were no men around. Whatever the reason,