The Ocean Liner

Idlewild

Rachel Morgenstern stood in front of the huge glass window at Idlewild airport. The sinuous lines of the building flowed around her in convolutions of steel and concrete, but she was oblivious to the neo-futurist architecture. She had eyes only for the gleaming silver Pan American DC-7 which had just landed on the far runway. It caught the watery sunlight as it turned to approach the terminal building, its four great propellers blurring.

Rachel felt that she was hardly breathing. Time had ground to a halt. Out on the airfield, the airliner lumbered slowly along the maze of pathways, though airborne it was capable of three hundred and sixty knots. The heavy drone of its engines shook the ground, even through the plate glass and concrete. Spray kicked up from rain puddles on the tarmac, along with stray pages of newspaper, whirled into the air.

At last, the DC-7 stopped in its bay. The propellers feathered and slowed to a standstill. Ground crew in blue-and-tan uniforms pushed the rolling staircase to the single door aft of the wing. It opened. And after a minute, passengers began to emerge.

Rachel let out her breath at last, feeling dizzy. She’d been in the grip of an unreasoning fear that the airliner would crash, catch fire, vanish before it could release its precious cargo. But it was here at last.

She moved closer to the glass, watching the procession of passengers intently. They clutched at their coats and hats as they came out into the windy New York afternoon, many of them pausing to wave joyfully as they caught sight of those who had come to greet them.

The figure in the long English coat was unmistakable. Rachel waved, but the distant woman did not lift her head to search the windows of the terminal for a familiar face, as the others did, partly because she was short-sightedly peering her way down the aluminium stairs, and partly because she was leading a little girl, who clung sleepily to her hand.

Rachel felt an electric current seize her heart. She tried to hold back her tears. Eight years, she thought. Eight years stolen from us, and here we are again.

Dorothea kept her eyes on the ground as she and her child plodded towards the terminal building, but that didn’t stop them from walking through a puddle. Rachel heard herself laugh abruptly. Still blind as a bat. Probably worse, now.

Rachel felt the hot hugeness of her love swelling in her heart.

Rachel waited on the crimson suede banquette, her handbag on her knee, her kid gloves growing damp as she clutched them. She had dressed as smartly as she could today. Working at Niemann Marcus had given her the choice of the best couture clothing.

When she’d started as a store assistant during the war, she’d felt it was only a step up from the switchboard, and hardly the life she would have chosen for herself, were it not for Hitler. The years had taught her to be grateful. She had risen quickly, and now managed one of the most prestigious ladies’ wear lines in Niemann Marcus.

The years had also taught her that clothes made the woman. And her job enabled her to live in a world of women, surrounded by her own sex, her eyes filled each day with refinement and beauty.

The clothes she had chosen today were expensive and stylish. She didn’t want Dorothea to think she had grown dowdy, now that she was past thirty. She hadn’t anticipated that Dorothea would choose to wear the old houndstooth coat which had captured her heart all those years ago. That had been a master stroke.

Finally, she saw them coming through the doors, carrying their suitcases.

Rachel got to her feet, her knees shaky, and hurried to meet them.

Dorothea didn’t see her until the last minute; but Rachel had time to notice that the years of war, hunger and hardship had made the houndstooth coat threadbare, the woman inside it thin and careworn. The child, too, was shabby, a black mourning band for her father around the arm of her jacket, which was too thin, even for this mild autumn day. She was sweet-faced, but looked undernourished, her blonde pigtails lank, her cheeks hollow. American food and a few trips to Niemann Marcus, Rachel thought, would cure all that. She had the means to make their lives beautiful again.

Dorothea looked up with a start as Rachel confronted her. Behind the round lenses, her eyes were still the grey-green of Saxony rain. She’d touched her lips with pink to make herself more attractive. But nothing could make that face more lovely to Rachel.

‘I’ve waited for you,’ Rachel said, her throat dry.

‘And I for you,’ Dorothea replied, almost inaudibly.

‘We don’t have to wait any longer.’ She held out her arms. ‘Welcome.’

The tired child stared up at the two women as they clung to one another. After a while, they drew her into their embrace.