Read Online Night Over Water by Ken Follett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ken Follett
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minor public school in Scotland, an invalid mother living in the south of France and a prospective commission in the Royal Air Force.
Vague lies were common in upper-class society, he had found. They were told by young men who did not want to admit to being desperately poor, or having parents who were hopeless drunks, or coming from families that had disgraced themselves by scandal. No one troubled to pin a fellow down until he showed signs of a serious attachment to a well-bred girl.
In this indefinite way Harry had been going around with Rebecca for three weeks. She had got him invited to a weekend house party in Kent, where he had played cricket and stolen money from the hosts, who had been too embarrassed to report the theft for fear of offending their guests. She had also taken him to several balls, where he had picked pockets and emptied purses. In addition, when calling at her parents’ house he had taken small sums of money, some silver cutlery and three interesting Victorian brooches that her mother had not yet missed.
There was nothing immoral in what he did, in his opinion. The people from whom he stole did not deserve their wealth. Most of them had never done a day’s work in their lives. Those few who had to have some kind of job used their public-school connections to get overpaid sinecures: they were diplomats, chairmen of companies, judges or Conservative MPs. Stealing from them was like killing Nazis: a service to the public, not a crime.
He had been doing this for two years, and he knew it could not go on forever. The world of upper-class English society was large but limited, and eventually someone would find him out. The war had come at a time when he was ready to look for a different way of life.
However, he was not going to join the army as a regular soldier. Bad food, itchy clothes, bullying and military discipline were not for him, and he looked sickly in olive drab. Air force blue matched his eyes, however, and he could easily see himself as a pilot. So he was going to be an officer in the R.A.F He had not yet figured out how, but he would manage it: he was lucky that way.
In the meantime he decided to use Rebecca to get inside one more wealthy home before dropping her.
They began the evening at a reception in the Belgravia home of Sir Simon Monkford, a rich publisher.
Harry spent some time with the Honorable Lydia Moss, the overweight daughter of a Scottish earl. Awkward and lonely, she was just the kind of girl who was most vulnerable to his charm, and he enchanted her for twenty minutes more or less out of habit. Then he talked to Rebecca for a while, to keep her sweet. After that, he judged the time was right to make his move.
He excused himself and left the room. The party was going on in the large double drawing room on the second floor. As he crossed the landing and slipped up the stairs he felt the thrilling rush of adrenaline that always came to him when he was about to do a job. The knowledge that he was going to steal from his hosts, and risk being caught red-handed and shown up as a fraud, filled him with fear and excitement.
He reached the next floor and followed the corridor to the front of the house. The farthest door probably led to the master bedroom suite, he thought. He opened it and saw a large bedroom with flowered curtains and a pink bedspread. He was about to step inside when another door opened and a challenging voice called out: “I say!”
Harry turned around, his tension drawing tighter. He saw a man of about his own age step into the corridor and look curiously at him.
As always, the right words came to him when he needed them. “Ah, is it in there?” he said.
“What?”
“Is that the lav?”
The young man’s face cleared. “Oh, I see. You want the green door at the other end of the corridor.”
“Thanks awfully.”
“Not at all.”
Harry went along the corridor. “Lovely house,” he remarked.
“Isn’t it?” The man descended the staircase
Vague lies were common in upper-class society, he had found. They were told by young men who did not want to admit to being desperately poor, or having parents who were hopeless drunks, or coming from families that had disgraced themselves by scandal. No one troubled to pin a fellow down until he showed signs of a serious attachment to a well-bred girl.
In this indefinite way Harry had been going around with Rebecca for three weeks. She had got him invited to a weekend house party in Kent, where he had played cricket and stolen money from the hosts, who had been too embarrassed to report the theft for fear of offending their guests. She had also taken him to several balls, where he had picked pockets and emptied purses. In addition, when calling at her parents’ house he had taken small sums of money, some silver cutlery and three interesting Victorian brooches that her mother had not yet missed.
There was nothing immoral in what he did, in his opinion. The people from whom he stole did not deserve their wealth. Most of them had never done a day’s work in their lives. Those few who had to have some kind of job used their public-school connections to get overpaid sinecures: they were diplomats, chairmen of companies, judges or Conservative MPs. Stealing from them was like killing Nazis: a service to the public, not a crime.
He had been doing this for two years, and he knew it could not go on forever. The world of upper-class English society was large but limited, and eventually someone would find him out. The war had come at a time when he was ready to look for a different way of life.
However, he was not going to join the army as a regular soldier. Bad food, itchy clothes, bullying and military discipline were not for him, and he looked sickly in olive drab. Air force blue matched his eyes, however, and he could easily see himself as a pilot. So he was going to be an officer in the R.A.F He had not yet figured out how, but he would manage it: he was lucky that way.
In the meantime he decided to use Rebecca to get inside one more wealthy home before dropping her.
They began the evening at a reception in the Belgravia home of Sir Simon Monkford, a rich publisher.
Harry spent some time with the Honorable Lydia Moss, the overweight daughter of a Scottish earl. Awkward and lonely, she was just the kind of girl who was most vulnerable to his charm, and he enchanted her for twenty minutes more or less out of habit. Then he talked to Rebecca for a while, to keep her sweet. After that, he judged the time was right to make his move.
He excused himself and left the room. The party was going on in the large double drawing room on the second floor. As he crossed the landing and slipped up the stairs he felt the thrilling rush of adrenaline that always came to him when he was about to do a job. The knowledge that he was going to steal from his hosts, and risk being caught red-handed and shown up as a fraud, filled him with fear and excitement.
He reached the next floor and followed the corridor to the front of the house. The farthest door probably led to the master bedroom suite, he thought. He opened it and saw a large bedroom with flowered curtains and a pink bedspread. He was about to step inside when another door opened and a challenging voice called out: “I say!”
Harry turned around, his tension drawing tighter. He saw a man of about his own age step into the corridor and look curiously at him.
As always, the right words came to him when he needed them. “Ah, is it in there?” he said.
“What?”
“Is that the lav?”
The young man’s face cleared. “Oh, I see. You want the green door at the other end of the corridor.”
“Thanks awfully.”
“Not at all.”
Harry went along the corridor. “Lovely house,” he remarked.
“Isn’t it?” The man descended the staircase
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