Night Over Water - Ken Follett [6]
At home they were astonished to find a barefoot parlormaid watering flowers in the hall. Father did not recognize her. “Who are you?” he said abruptly.
Mother said in her soft American voice: “Her name is Jenkins. She started this week.”
The girl dropped a curtsy.
Father said: “And where the devil are her shoes?”
An expression of suspicion crossed the girl’s face and she shot an accusing look at Percy. “Please, your lordship, it was young Lord Isley.” Percy’s title was the Earl of Isley. “He told me parlormaids must go barefoot on Sunday out of respect.”
Mother sighed and Father gave an exasperated grunt. Margaret could not help giggling. This was Percy’s favorite trick: telling new servants of imaginary house rules. He could say ridiculous things with a dead straight face, and the family had such a reputation for eccentricity that people would believe anything of them.
Percy often made Margaret laugh, but now she was sorry for the poor parlormaid, standing barefoot in the hall and feeling foolish.
“Go and put your shoes on,” Mother said.
Margaret added: “And never believe Lord Isley.”
They took off their hats and went into the morning room. Margaret pulled Percy’s hair and hissed: “That was a mean thing to do.” Percy just grinned: he was incorrigible. He had once told the vicar that Father had died of a heart attack in the night, and the whole village went into mourning before they found out it was not true.
Father turned on the wireless, and it was then that they heard the news: Britain had declared war on Germany.
Margaret felt a kind of savage glee rising in her breast, like the excitement of driving too fast or climbing to the top of a tall tree. There was no longer any point in agonizing over it: there would be tragedy and bereavement, pain and grief, but now these things could not be avoided. The die was cast and the only thing to do was fight. The thought made her heart beat faster. Everything would be different. Social conventions would be abandoned, women would join in the struggle, class barriers would break down, everyone would work together. She could taste the air of freedom already. And they would be at war with the Fascists, the very people who had killed poor Ian and thousands more fine young men. Margaret did not believe she was a vindictive person, but when she thought about fighting the Nazis she felt vengeful. The feeling was unfamiliar, frightening and thrilling.
Father was furious. He was already portly and red-faced, and when he got mad he always looked as if he might burst. “Damn Chamberlain!” he said. “Damn and blast the wretched man!”
“Algernon, please,” Mother said, reproving him for his intemperate language.
Father had been one of the founders of the British Union of Fascists. He had been a different person then: not just younger, but slimmer, more handsome and less irritable. He had charmed people and won their loyalty. He had written a controversial book called Mongrel Men: The Threat of Racial Pollution, about how civilization had gone downhill since white people started to interbreed with Jews, Asians, Orientals and even Negroes. He had corresponded with Adolf Hitler, who he thought was the greatest statesman since Napoleon. There had been big house parties here every weekend, with politicians, foreign statesmen sometimes, and—on one unforgettable occasion—the king. The discussions went on far into the night, the butler bringing up more brandy from the cellar while the footmen yawned in the hall. All through the Depression, Father had waited for the country to call him to its rescue in its hour of need, and ask him to be prime minister in a government of national reconstruction. But the call never came. The weekend parties got fewer and smaller; the more distinguished guests found ways to dissociate themselves publicly from the British Union of Fascists; and Father became a bitter, disappointed man. His charm went with his confidence. His good looks were ruined by resentment, boredom