CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Margaret Oxenford was angry and ashamed. She felt sure the other passengers were staring at her and thinking about the dreadful scene in the dining room, and assuming that she shared her father’s horrible attitudes. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye.
Harry Marks had rescued the shreds of her dignity. It had been clever of him, and so gracious, to step in and hold her chair like that, then offer her his arm as she walked out: a small gesture, almost silly, but for her it had made a world of difference.
Still, it was only a vestige of her self-respect that she had retained, and she boiled with resentment toward Father for putting her in such a shameful position.
There was a cold silence in the compartment for two hours after dinner. When the weather started to get rough, Mother and Father retired to change into their nightclothes. Then Percy surprised Margaret by saying: “Let’s apologize.”
Her first thought was that this would involve further embarrassment and humiliation. “I don’t think I’ve got the courage,” she said.
“We’ll just go up to Baron Gabon and Professor Hartmann, and say we’re sorry Father was so rude.”
The idea of somehow mitigating her father’s offense was very tempting. It would make her feel a lot better. “Father would be furious, of course,” she said.
“He doesn’t have to know. But I don’t care if he is angry. I think he’s going round the bend. I’m not even afraid of him anymore.”
Margaret wondered whether that was true. As a small boy, Percy had often said he was not afraid when in fact he was terrified. But he was not a small boy anymore.
She was actually a little worried by the thought that Percy might no longer be under Father’s control. Only Father could restrain Percy. With no rein on his mischief, what might he do?
“Come on,” Percy said. “Let’s do it now. They’re in number three compartment—I checked.”
Still Margaret hesitated. She cringed at the thought of walking up to the men Father had insulted. It could cause them more pain. They might prefer to forget the whole thing as quickly as possible. But they might also be wondering how many other passengers secretly agreed with Father. Surely it was more important to make a stand against racial prejudice?
Margaret decided to do it. She had often been fainthearted and she had usually regretted it. She stood up, steadying herself by holding on to the arm of her seat, for the plane was bucking every few moments. “All right,” she said. “Let’s apologize.”
She was trembling a little with apprehension, but her shakiness was masked by the unsteadiness of the plane. She led the way through the main lounge into number 3 compartment.
Gabon and Hartmann were on the port side, facing each other. Hartmann was absorbed in reading, his long, thin body in a curve, his close-cropped head bent, his arched nose pointing at a page of mathematical calculations. Gabon was doing nothing, apparently bored, and he saw them first. When Margaret stopped beside him and held on to the back of his seat for support, he stiffened and looked hostile.
Margaret said quickly: “We’ve come to apologize.”
“I’m surprised you are so bold,” Gabon said. He spoke English perfectly, with only the trace of a French accent.
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
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, Margaret was fascinated. “Wouldn’t it be better for crime to be
“Certainly not. Organized, it’s contained. The gangs each have their own territory and they stay there. They don’t rub people out on Fifth Avenue and they don’t demand protection money from the Harvard Club. So why bother them?”
Margaret could not let this pass. “What about the poor people who waste their money gambling? What about
