Mayfair.
A few minutes later she stood outside Claridge’s Hotel. The building was blacked out, of course, but she was able to locate the door, and she wondered whether to go in.
She did not think she had enough money to pay for a room, but her recollection was that people did not pay their hotel bill until they left. She could take a room for two nights, go out tomorrow as if she expected to return later, join the A.T.S., then phone the hotel and tell them to send the bill to Father’s lawyer.
She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Like most public buildings that were open at night, the hotel had rigged up a double door, like an airlock, so that people could go in and out without the interior lights showing on the outside. Margaret let the outer door close behind her, then went through the second door and into the grateful light of the hotel foyer. She felt a tremendous surge of relief. This was normality: the nightmare was over.
A young night porter was dozing at the desk. Margaret coughed, and he woke up, startled and confused. Margaret said: “I need a room.”
“At this time of night?” the man blurted.
“I got caught in the blackout,” Margaret explained. “Now I can’t get home.”
The man began to gather his wits. “No luggage?”
“No,” Margaret said guiltily; then she was struck by a thought, and added: “Of course not—I didn’t
He looked at her rather strangely. Surely, Margaret thought, he could not refuse her. He swallowed, rubbed his face and pretended to consult a book. What was the matter with the man? Making up his mind, he closed the book and said: “We’re full.”
“Oh, come on, you must have something—”
“You’ve had a fight with your old man, haven’t you?” he said with a wink.
Margaret could hardly believe this was happening. “I can’t get home,” she repeated, as the man had obviously failed to understand her the first time.
“I can’t help that,” he said. With a sudden access of wit he added: “Blame Hitler.”
He was rather young. “Where is your supervisor?” she said.
He looked offended. “I’m in charge, until six o’clock.”
Margaret looked around. “I’ll just have to sit in the lounge until morning,” she said wearily.
“You can’t do that!” the porter said, looking scared. “A young girl alone, with no luggage, spending the night in the lounge? It’s more than my job’s worth.”
“I’m not a
However, it did no good. The porter gave her a hard, insolent look, and said: “Oh, yeah?”
Margaret was about to shout at him when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the door, and realized she had a black eye. On top of that her hands were filthy and her dress was torn. She recalled that she had bumped into a pillar box and sat on the floor of a train. No wonder the porter would not give her a room. She said desperately: “But you can’t turn me out into the blackout!”
“I can’t do anything else!” the porter said.
Margaret wondered how he would react if she simply sat down and refused to move. That was what she felt like doing: she was bone tired and weak with strain. But she had been through so much that she had no energy left for a confrontation. Besides, it was late and they were alone: there was no telling what the man might do if she gave him an excuse to lay hands on her.
Wearily, she turned her back on him and went out, bitterly disappointed, into the night.
Even as she walked away from the hotel, she wished she had put up more of a fight. Why was it that her intentions were always so much more fierce than her actions? Now that she had given in, she was angry enough to defy the porter. She was almost ready to turn back. But she kept on walking: it seemed easier.
She had nowhere to go. She would not be able to find Catherine’s building again; she had never succeeded in finding Aunt Martha’s house; she could not trust any other relatives and she was too dirty to get a hotel room.
She would just have to wander around until it got light. The weather was fine: there was no rain and the night air was only slightly chilly. If she kept moving she would not even feel cold. She could see where she was going now: there were plenty of traffic lights in the West End, and a car passed every minute or two. She could hear music and noise from the nightclubs, and now and again she would see people of her own class: the women in gorgeous gowns and the men wearing white tie and tails, arriving home in their chauffeur-driven cars after a late party. In one street, rather curiously, she saw three other solitary women: one standing in a doorway, one leaning on a lamppost and one sitting in a car. They were all smoking and apparently waiting for people. She wondered if they were what Mother called Fallen Women.
She began to feel tired. She was still wearing the light indoor shoes she had had on when she made her escape from home. On impulse she sat down on a doorstep, took off her shoes and rubbed her aching feet.
Looking up, she realized that she could make out the vague shape of the buildings on the other side of the street. Was it getting light at last? Perhaps she would find a workmen’s cafe that opened early. She could order breakfast and wait there until the recruiting offices opened. She had eaten next to nothing for two days, and the thought of bacon and eggs made her mouth water.
Suddenly there was a white face hovering in the air in front of her. She let out a little cry of fright. The face came closer, and she saw a youngish man in evening dress. He said: “Hello, beautiful.”
She scrambled to her feet quickly. She hated drunks—they were so undignified. “Please go away,” she said. She tried to sound firm, but there was a tremor in her voice.
He staggered closer. “Give us a kiss, then.”
“Certainly not!” she said, horrified. She took a step back, stumbled and dropped her shoes. Somehow the loss of her shoes made her feel helplessly vulnerable. She turned around and bent down to grope for them. He chuckled fruitily; then to her horror she felt his hand between her thighs, fumbling with painful clumsiness. She straightened up instantly, without finding her shoes, and stepped away from him. Turning to face him, she shouted: “Get away from me!”
He laughed again and said: “That’s right. Go on. I like a bit of resistance.” With surprising agility he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. His alcoholic breath blew over her face in a nauseating fog, and suddenly he was kissing her mouth.
It was unspeakably disgusting, and she felt quite sick, but his embrace was so strong that she could hardly breathe, let alone protest. She squirmed ineffectually while he slobbered over her. Then he took one hand from her shoulder to grasp her breast. He squeezed brutally hard and she gasped with pain. But because he had let go of her shoulder she was mercifully able to half turn away from him and start to scream.
She screamed loud and long.
She could vaguely hear him saying, in a worried voice: “All right, all right, don’t take on so. I didn’t mean any harm.” But she was too scared to be reasoned with and she just carried on screaming. Faces materialized out of the darkness: a passerby in workman’s clothes, a Fallen Woman with cigarette and handbag, and a head at a window in the house behind them. The drunk vanished into the night, and Margaret stopped screaming and began to cry. Then there was the sound of running boots, the narrow beam of a masked flashlight, and a policeman’s helmet.
The policeman shone his light on Margaret’s face.
The woman muttered: “She ain’t one of us, Steve.”
The policeman called Steve said: “What’s your name, girl?”
“Margaret Oxenford.”
The man in work clothes said: “A toff took her for a tart—that’s what happened.” Satisfied, he went off.
The policeman said: “Would that be Lady Margaret Oxenford?”
Margaret sniffed miserably and nodded.
The woman said: “I told you she weren’t one of us.” With that, she drew on her cigarette, dropped the end, trod on it and disappeared.
The policeman said: “You come with me, my lady. You’ll be all right now.
Margaret wiped her face with her sleeve. The policeman offered her his arm. She took it. He shone his flashlight on the pavement in front of her and they began to walk.
