Ken Follett - Night Over Water

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.

After a moment Margaret shuddered and said: “That frightful man.”

The policeman was briskly unsympathetic. “Can’t really blame him,” he said cheerfully. “This is the most notorious street in London. It’s a fair assumption that a girl alone here at this hour is a Lady of the Night.”

Margaret supposed he was right, although it seemed rather unfair.

The familiar blue lamp of a police station appeared in the morning twilight. The policeman said: “You have a nice cup of tea and you’ll feel better.”

They went inside. There was a counter ahead of them with two policemen behind it, one middle-aged and stocky and the other young and thin. On each side of the hall was a plain wooden bench up against the wall. There was only one other person in the hall: a pale woman with her hair in a scarf and house slippers on her feet, sitting on one of the benches, waiting with tired patience.

Margaret’s rescuer directed her to the opposite bench, saying: “Sit yourself down there for a minute.” Margaret did as she was told. The policeman went up to the desk and spoke to the older man. “Sarge, that’s Lady Margaret Oxenford. Had a run-in with a drunk in Bolting Lane.”

“I suppose he thought she was on the game.”

Margaret was struck by the variety of euphemisms for prostitution. People seemed to have a horror of calling it what it was, and had to refer to it obliquely. She herself had known about it only in the vaguest possible way; indeed she had not really believed it went on, until tonight. But there had been nothing vague about the intentions of the young man in evening dress.

The sergeant looked over at Margaret in an interested way, then said something in a low voice that she could not hear. Steve nodded and disappeared into the back of the building.

Margaret realized she had left her shoes on that doorstep. Now there were holes in the feet of her stockings. She began to worry: she could hardly turn up at the recruiting station in this state. Perhaps she could go back for her shoes in daylight. But they might no longer be there. And she badly needed a wash and a clean dress, too. It would be heartbreaking to be turned down for the A.T.S. after all this. But where could she go to tidy herself? By morning even Aunt Martha’s house would not be safe: Father might turn up there, searching for her. Surely, she thought with anguish, her whole plan was not going to fall apart because of a pair of shoes?

Her policeman came back with tea in a thick earthenware mug. It was weak and had too much sugar in it, but Margaret sipped it gratefully. It restored her resolve. She could overcome her problems. She would leave as soon as she had finished her tea. She would go to a poor district and find a shop selling cheap clothes: she still had a few shillings. She would buy a dress, a pair of sandals and a set of clean underwear. She would go to a public bathhouse and wash and change. Then she would be ready for the army.

While she was elaborating this plan, there was a noise outside the door and a group of young men burst in. They were well dressed, some in evening clothes and others in lounge suits. After a moment Margaret realized they were dragging with them an unwilling companion. One of the men started to shout at the sergeant behind the counter.

The sergeant interrupted him. “All right, all right, quiet down!” he said in a commanding voice. “You’re not on the rugby field now, you know—this is a police station.” The noise muted somewhat, but not enough for the sergeant. “If you don’t behave yourselves I’ll clap the lot of you in the bleedin’ cells,” he shouted. “Now bloody well shut up!”

They became quiet and released their unwilling prisoner, who stood there looking sulky. The sergeant pointed at one of the men, a dark-haired fellow of about Margaret’s age. “Right—you. Tell me what all the fuss is about.”

The young man pointed at the prisoner. “This blighter took my sister to a restaurant, then sneaked off without paying!” he said indignantly. He spoke with an upper-class accent, and Margaret realized his face was vaguely familiar. She hoped he would not recognize her: it would be too humiliating for people to know that she had had to be rescued by. a policeman after running away from home.