All day Monday she felt unable to eat. She drank endless cups of tea while the servants went about the business of closing up the house. On Tuesday, when Mother realized that Margaret was not going to pack, she told the new maid, Jenkins, to do it for her. Of course, Jenkins did not know what to pack, and Margaret had to help her; so in the end Mother got her way, as she so often did.
Margaret said to the girl: “It’s bad luck for you that we decided to close up the house the week after you started work here.”
“There’ll be no shortage of work now, m’lady,” Jenkins said. “Our dad says there’s no unemployment in wartime.”
“What will you do—work in a factory?”
“I’m going to join up. It said on the wireless that seventeen thousand women joined the A.T.S. yesterday. There’s queues outside every town hall in the country—I seen a picture in the paper.”
“Lucky you,” Margaret said despondently. “The only thing I’ll be queuing for is a plane to America.”
“You’ve got to do what the marquis wants,” Jenkins said.
“What does your dad say about you joining up?”
“I shan’t tell him—just do it.”
“But what if he takes you back?”
“He can’t do that. I’m eighteen. Once you’ve signed on, that’s it. Provided you’re old enough there’s nothing your parents can do about it.”
Margaret was startled. “Are you sure?”
“ ’Course. Everyone knows.”
“I didn’t,” Margaret said thoughtfully.
Jenkins took Margaret’s case down to the hall. They would be leaving very early on Wednesday morning. Seeing the cases lined up, Margaret realized that she was going to spend the war in Connecticut for sure if she did nothing but sulk. Despite Mother’s plea not to make a fuss, she had to confront her father.
The very thought made her feel shaky. She went back to her room to steel her nerves and consider what she might say. She would have to be calm. Tears would not move him and anger would only provoke his scorn. She should appear sensible, responsible, mature. She should not be argumentative, for that would enrage him, and then he would frighten her so much that she would be unable to go on.
How should she begin? “I think I have a right to say something about my own future.”
No, that was no good. He would say: “I am responsible for you so I must decide.”
Perhaps she should say: “May I talk to you about going to America?”
He would probably say: “There is nothing to discuss.”
Her opening had to be so inoffensive that even he would not be able to rebuff it. She decided she would say: “Can I ask you something?” He would have to say yes to that.
Then what? How could she approach the subject without provoking one of his dreadful rages? She might say: “You were in the army in the last war, weren’t you?” She knew he had seen action in France. Then she would say: “Was Mother involved?” She knew the answer to this, too: Mother had been a volunteer nurse in London, caring for wounded American officers. Finally she would say: “You both served your countries, so I know you’ll understand why I want to do the same.” Now surely that was irresistible.
If only he would concede the principle, she could deal with his other objections, she felt. She could live with relatives until she joined up, which would be a matter of days. She was nineteen: many girls of that age had been working full-time for six years. She was old enough to get married, drive a car and go to jail. There was no reason why she should not be allowed to stay in England.
That made sense. Now all she needed was courage.
Father would be in his study with his business manager. Margaret left her room. On the landing outside her bedroom door she suddenly felt weak with fear. It infuriated him to be opposed. His rages were terrible and his punishments cruel. When she was eleven she had been made to stand in the corner of his study, facing the wall, for an entire day after being rude to a houseguest; he had taken away her teddy bear as a punishment for bed-wetting at the age of seven; once, in a fury, he had thrown a cat out of an upstairs window. What would he do now when she told him she wanted to stay in England and fight against the Nazis?
She forced herself to go down the stairs, but as she approached his study her fears grew. She visualized him getting angry, his face reddening and his eyes bulging, and she felt terrified. She tried to calm her racing pulse by asking herself whether there was anything really to be afraid of. He could no longer break her heart by taking away her teddy bear. But she knew deep down that he could still find ways of making her wish she were dead.
As she stood outside the study door, trembling, the housekeeper rustled across the hall in her black silk dress. Mrs. Allen ruled the female staff of the household strictly, but she had always been indulgent toward the children. She was fond of the family and was terribly upset that they were leaving: it was the end of a way of life for her. She gave Margaret a tearful smile.
Looking at her, Margaret was struck by a heart-stopping notion.
An entire plan of escape came full-blown into her head. She would borrow money from Mrs. Allen, leave the house now, catch the four fifty-five train to London, stay overnight at her cousin Catherine’s flat, and join the A.T.S. first thing in the morning. By the time Father caught up with her it would be too late.
The plan was so simple and daring that she could hardly believe it might be possible. But before she could think twice about it she found herself saying: “Oh, Mrs. Allen, would you give me some money? I’ve got to do some last-minute shopping and I don’t want to disturb Father—he’s so busy.”
Mrs. Allen did not hesitate. “Of course, my lady. How much do you need?”
Margaret did not know what the train fare to London was: she had never bought her own ticket. Guessing wildly, she said: “Oh, a pound should be enough.” She was thinking: Am I really doing this? .
Mrs. Allen took two ten-shilling notes from her purse. She would probably have handed over her life savings if asked.
Margaret took the money with a trembling hand. This could be my ticket to freedom, she thought; and frightened as she was, a small flame of joyful hope flickered in her breast.
Mrs. Allen, thinking she was upset about emigrating, squeezed her hand. “This is a sad day, Lady Margaret,” she said. “A sad day for us all.” Shaking her gray head dismally, she disappeared into the back of the house.
Margaret looked around frenziedly. No one was in sight. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird and her breath came in shallow gasps. She knew that if she hesitated she would lose her nerve. She did not dare wait long enough to put on a coat. Clutching the money in her hand, she walked out the front door.
The station was two miles away in the next village. At every step along the road Margaret expected to hear Father’s Rolls-Royce purring up behind her. But how could he know what she had done? It was unlikely that anyone would notice her absence at least until dinner-time ; and if they did, they would assume she had gone shopping as she had told Mrs. Allen. All the same, she was in a constant fever of apprehension.
She got to the station in plenty of time, bought her ticket—she had more than enough money—and sat in the ladies’ waiting room, watching the hands of the big clock on the wall.
The train was late.
Four fifty-five came around, then five o’clock, then five past five. By this time Margaret was so frightened that she felt like giving up and returning home just to escape the tension.
The train came in at fourteen minutes past five, and still Father had not come.
Margaret boarded with her heart in her mouth.
She stood at the window, staring at the ticket barrier, expecting to see him arrive at the last minute to catch her.
At last the train moved.
She could hardly believe that she was getting away.
The train picked up speed. The first faint tremors of elation stirred in her heart. A few seconds later the train was out of the station. Margaret watched the village recede, and her heart filled with triumph. She had done it—she had escaped!
Suddenly she felt weak-kneed. She looked around for a seat, and realized for the first time that the train was full. Every seat was taken, even in this first-class carriage; and there were soldiers sitting on the floor. She remained standing.
Her euphoria did not diminish even though the journey was, by normal standards, something of a nightmare.
