practically color-blind, but Mother had probably bought it for him. Mother had red hair and sea green eyes and pale, creamy skin, and she looked radiant in colors like orange and green. But Father had black hair going gray and a flushed complexion, and on him the tie looked like a warning against something dangerous.
Elizabeth resembled Father, with dark hair and irregular features. Margaret had Mother’s coloring: she would have liked a scarf in the silk of Father’s tie. Percy was changing so rapidly that no one could tell whom he would eventually take after.
They walked down the long drive to the little village outside the gates. Father owned most of the houses and all the farmland for miles around. He had done nothing to earn such wealth: a series of marriages in the early nineteenth century had united the three most important landowning families in the county, and the resulting huge estate had been handed down intact from generation to generation.
They walked along the village street and across the green to the gray stone church. They entered in procession: Father and Mother first; Margaret behind with Elizabeth; and Percy bringing up the rear. The villagers in the congregation touched their forelocks as the Oxenfords made their way down the aisle to the family pew. The wealthier farmers, all of whom rented their land from Father, inclined their heads in polite bows; and the middle classes, Dr. Rowan and Colonel Smythe and Sir Alfred, nodded respectfully. This ludicrous feudal ritual made Margaret cringe with embarrassment every time it happened. All men were supposed to be equal before God, weren’t they? She wanted to shout out: “My father is no better than any of you, and a lot worse than most!” One of these days perhaps she would have the courage. If she made a scene in church she might never have to go back. But she was too scared of what Father would do.
Just as they were entering their pew, with all eyes on them, Percy said in a loud stage whisper: “Nice tie, Father.” Margaret suppressed a laugh and was seized by a fit of the giggles. She and Percy sat down quickly and hid their faces, pretending to pray, until the fit passed. After that Margaret felt better.
The vicar preached a sermon about the Prodigal Son. Margaret thought the silly old duffer might have chosen a topic more relevant to what was on everyone’s mind: the likelihood of war. The Prime Minister had sent Hitler an ultimatum, which the Fuhrer had ignored, and a declaration of war was expected at any moment.
Margaret dreaded war. A boy she loved had died in the Spanish Civil War. It was just over a year ago, but she still cried sometimes at night. To her, war meant that thousands more girls would know the grief she had suffered. The thought was almost unbearable.
And yet another part of her wanted war. For years she had felt strongly about Britain’s cowardice during the Spanish war. Her country had stood by and watched while the elected socialist government was overthrown by a gang of bullies armed by Hitler and Mussolini. Hundreds of idealistic young men from all over Europe had gone to Spain to fight for democracy. But they lacked weapons, and the democratic governments of the world had refused to supply them; so the young men had lost their lives, and people such as Margaret had felt angry and helpless and ashamed. If Britain would now take a stand against the Fascists she could begin to feel proud of her country again.
There was another reason why her heart leaped at the prospect of war. It would surely mean the end of the narrow, suffocating life she lived with her parents. She was bored, cramped and frustrated by their unvarying rituals and their pointless social life. She longed to escape and have a life of her own, but it seemed impossible: she was underage, she had no money, and there was no kind of work that she was fit for. But, she thought eagerly, surely everything would be different in wartime.
She had read with fascination how in the last war women had put on trousers and gone to work in factories. Nowadays there were female branches of the army, navy and air force. Margaret dreamed of volunteering for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the women’s army. One of the few practical skills she possessed was that she could drive. Father’s chauffeur, Digby, had taught her on the Rolls; and Ian, the boy who died, had let her ride his motorcycle. She could even handle a motor-boat, for Father kept a small yacht at Nice. The A.T.S. needed ambulance drivers and dispatch riders. She saw herself in uniform, wearing a helmet, astride a motorcycle, carrying urgent reports from one battlefield to another at top speed, with a photograph of Ian in the breast pocket of her khaki shirt. She felt sure she could be brave, given the chance.
War was actually declared during the service, they found out later. There was even an air-raid warning at twenty-eight minutes past eleven, in the middle of the sermon, but it did not reach their village, and anyway it was a false alarm. So the Oxenford family walked home from church unaware that they were at war with Germany.
Percy wanted to take a gun and go after rabbits. They could all shoot: it was a family pastime, almost an obsession. But of course Father turned down Percy’s request, for it was not done to shoot on Sundays. Percy was disappointed, but he would obey. Although he was full of devilment, he was not yet man enough to defy Father openly.
Margaret loved her brother’s impishness. He was the only ray of sunshine in the gloom of her life. She often wished that she could mock Father as Percy did, and laugh behind his back, but she got too cross to joke about it.
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
