Night Over Water - Ken Follett [153]
A rather frightened voice replied: “Okay, sir, take your time.”
Mervyn rolled off the bed, stood up and pulled the bedclothes over Nancy. She smiled gratefully at him, then turned away, pretending to be asleep so that she would not have to look at the steward.
She heard Mervyn open the door and the steward come in. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. The smell of fresh coffee wafted into Nancy’s nostrils. “It’s nine thirty in the morning British time, four thirty in the middle of the night in New York, and six o’clock in Newfoundland.”
Mervyn said: “Did you say it’s nine thirty in Britain but six o’clock in Newfoundland? They’re three and a half hours behind British time?”
“Yes, sir. Newfoundland Standard Time is three and a half hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.”
“I didn’t know anyone took half hours. It must make life complicated for the people who write the airline timetables. How long until we splash down?”
“We’ll be coming down in thirty minutes, just one hour later than scheduled. The delay is because of the storm.” The steward padded out and the door closed.
Nancy turned over. Mervyn pulled up the venetian blinds. It was daylight. She watched him pour coffee, and the previous night came back to her in a series of vivid images: Mervyn holding her hand in the storm, the two of them falling on the floor, his hand on her breast, her clinging to him while the plane lurched and swayed, the way he had stroked her to sleep. Holy Jesus, she thought, I like this man a lot.
“How do you take it?” he said.
“Black, no sugar.”
“Same as me.” He handed her a cup.
She sipped it gratefully. She suddenly felt curious to know a hundred different things about Mervyn. Did he play tennis, go to the opera, enjoy shopping? Did he read much? How did he tie his tie? Did he polish his own shoes? As she watched him drinking his coffee, she found she could confidently guess a great deal. He probably did play tennis, but he did not read many novels and he definitely would not enjoy shopping. He would be a good poker player and a bad dancer.
“What are you thinking?” he said. “You’re eyeing me as if you’re wondering whether I’m a good risk for life insurance.”
She laughed. “What sort of music do you like?”
“I’m tone deaf,” he said. “When I was a lad, before the war, ragtime was all the rage in the dance halls. I liked the rhythm, although I was never much of a dancer. What about you?”
“Oh, I danced—had to. Every Saturday morning I went to dancing school in a white frilly dress and white gloves, to learn social dancing with twelve-year-old boys in suits. My mother thought it would give me the entree into the uppermost layer of Boston society. It didn’t, of course; but fortunately I didn’t care. I was more interested in Pa’s factory—much to Ma’s despair. Did you fight in the Great War?”
“Aye.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was at Ypres.” He pronounced it “Wipers.” “And I swore I’d never stand by and see another generation of young men sent to die that way. But I didn’t expect Hitler.”
She looked at him compassionately. He glanced up. They held each other’s eyes, and she knew he was also thinking of how they had kissed and petted in the night. Suddenly she felt embarrassed all over again. She looked away, toward the window, and saw land. It reminded her that when they reached Botwood she was hoping for a phone call that would change her life, one way or the other. “We’re almost there!” she said. She sprang out of bed. “I must get dressed.”
“Let me go first,” he said. “It looks better for you.”
“Okay.” She was not sure she had a reputation left to protect, but she did not want to say that. She watched him pick up his suit on its hanger, and the paper bag containing the clean clothes he had bought along with his nightshirt in Foynes: a white shirt, black wool socks and gray cotton underwear. He hesitated at the door, and she guessed he was wondering if he would ever kiss her again. She went to him and lifted her face. “Thank you for holding me in your arms all