Now she could also make out a few sacks to one side on the right-hand walkway and a few utensils hanging on the wall – one which she guessed might be a boat hook. On the left-hand walkway she could see a couple of baskets – possibly abandoned picnic baskets – but they seemed to be decaying fast and leaned almost drunkenly towards each other.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she told herself. ‘Too depressing!’
But how wonderful it must have been, she mused, when the young people were there. Marianne sighed with envy. She could imagine them punting up the river – the women elegantly dressed with shady hats or parasols, the men wearing straw boaters – with the picnic basket stowed between them. Maybe a salmon mousse in a circular mould, or chopped vegetables in aspic. Maybe a game pie and potato salad, or better yet a still warm chicken wrapped in a cloth, and a . . .
‘Yoo hoo, Marianne! It’s me, Mrs Brannigan!’
Reluctantly Marianne surrendered her vision of gracious living and returned the neighbour’s wave. She walked over to the hedge where Mrs Brannigan held out a paper cone filled with something that promised to be sweet.
‘My husband just spotted you from the landing window,’ she told Marianne. ‘And I’ve just finished making these coconut creams. I hope you like coconut.’
‘I do. Thank you.’ She took them gratefully.
‘The rest are for the Methodists’ Church Bazaar. I always make something for them – it’s such a good cause.’ She watched Marianne taste one and waited for her reaction.
‘Mmm! Quite delicious!’
Satisfied, Mrs Brannigan said, ‘All on your own then?’
Marianne nodded. ‘The twins have been invited to a birthday party and Mrs Matlowe has taken them. Her sister’s persuaded her to stay the night so I’m footloose and fancy free.’ She seized the moment. ‘Does anyone else have permission to use the boat house? I ask because last time I looked I thought I saw a punt in there and now it’s gone.’
Mrs Brannigan frowned. ‘A punt? Oh no. You must have been mistaken. No one is allowed to . . .’
‘I’m wondering if someone is using it without permission. First we see a man in the garden – or the twins do – and then I thought I saw a punt, which has now vanished. Unless I’m seeing things – or going quietly mad!’
Mrs Brannigan’s expression changed. ‘You’re not psychic, are you? Some people are, you know, but often they don’t know it. My aunt lived next door to a psychic. She was quite famous and people paid her to contact their dear departed.’ She shuddered. ‘Can you imagine? A seance. That’s what it was called. I think she called herself a psychic medium.’
‘But surely a punt couldn’t be a ghost. A ghost is the spirit of a person, isn’t it? The punt I saw – or thought I saw – was empty.’
Mrs Brannigan folded her arms across her chest. ‘Whatever it is I want nothing to do with it. It gives me the shivers. More likely a trick of the light. Mind you, people pay to visit haunted houses and nothing bad happens to them, so I daresay they’re not dangerous or anything.’
‘Just the spirits of people who cannot find rest, even after they die. That’s how they’ve been described. It’s rather sad, I suppose.’
At that moment Mr Brannigan called from the kitchen door to say he’d lost a sock and his wife said, ‘Oh! Hark at me, chattering away. I quite forgot. We’re going out tonight to hear a talk about Africa, given by a friend of ours. Poor Lydia – she sings in our choir and her husband’s a missionary or some such.’ She paused for breath.
Marianne said, ‘How very admirable.’
‘Oh it is, isn’t it? But poor Lydia – she cannot bear the climate for more than a week or two so she cannot stay with her husband. Their grown-up daughter takes her place at the mission. They’re a very devout family. Well, enjoy your coconut creams, Marianne. We’ll chat some other time.’
Slowly Marianne made her way back into the house. She returned the boat house key to the drawer in the desk and wondered how to spend her evening. She boiled an egg and cut three slices of bread, and buttered them. It was strange eating alone at the kitchen table. Her thoughts reverted to her conversation about ghosts and spirits and she wondered if the man the children had seen really had been a ghost. Could it have been their father’s ghost, she wondered. Maybe his spirit had returned to the last place where he had seen his children playing . . . Or, as Mrs Brannigan suggested, nothing more than shadows and her fertile imagination.
‘No.’ Neil could never have seen his children playing because they were only babies when he and Leonora left and they would not have been old enough to play in the garden – although they were probably outside in their prams whenever the weather permitted.
She washed up after her frugal meal and then spent twenty minutes playing the piano – a very small medley of tunes she had learned as a child – and searched the bookcase for something to read. Finding Mrs Matlowe’s choice of reading not to her taste, she trimmed a few dead leaves from the roses that Mrs Matlowe had placed in a bowl in the hall.
Finally, in desperation she went up to her room and wrote a letter to her closest friend who had been at school with her.
Imagine me, she wrote, in my somewhat spartan room – a frayed carpet, one upholstered chair, a bed which creaks, a very small fireplace with a coal scuttle to match and a view over a haunted boat house! I’m beginning to feel like someone created by Jane Austen!
She rolled her eyes. Perhaps she was being over-dramatic. Alice would laugh, remembering how prone Marianne had been to exaggerate.
My employer is rather odd and very strait-laced, but her beloved son is dead and she has sole care of his twin girls who I am attempting to educate. They, the twins, are very sweet and the neighbours seem pleasant enough and to top it all this is Henley-on-Thames and in a few weeks it will be time for the regatta – sorry, the Henley Royal Regatta, to give it its new title – and the entire area will be filled with spectators for the various races. All those charming young men in boaters and striped blazers! Surely they cannot all be accompanied by equally charming young women. Maybe I will meet Mr Right!
The daylight was going and Marianne stopped writing, rubbed her tired eyes and glanced out over the lawn. Clouds were rolling up beyond the boat house and for a moment she thought she saw a flickering light within its dilapidated frame.
‘Stop it, Marianne!’ she told herself. ‘It’s probably the light from a boat moving up river, or from a fisherman on the opposite bank.’ Just in case there was no rational explanation, she decided to draw the curtains. If there was an unhappy spirit trying to attract her attention, she wanted none of it. I have quite enough to deal with in the present, she thought, without getting involved with the past.
FOUR
The next day, when the twins had arrived home full of excitement following Ivan’s birthday party, they sat with Marianne on a seat set alongside the river while the latter attempted to explain about different languages. Emmie appeared vaguely interested but Edie seemed to find the lesson boring.
Marianne pointed to a lady and gentlemen who were walking past with a small white dog on a lead. ‘We call that a dog,’ she said. ‘In France they would call it a chien.’
Emmie said dutifully, ‘A dog is a chien.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Say it, Edie.’
Edie swung her legs. ‘Why don’t they just say dog?’
‘Because we’re learning what French people say,’ Emmie told her loftily. ‘Grandmother wants us to learn some French words and . . .’
‘Here comes a boat!’ Edie jumped from the seat and rushed towards the water’s edge to get a better view and Emmie followed. Marianne moved closer to them as they all watched a young man who propelled the slim wooden boat by pushing a long pole against the river bottom. He waved to the twins and, by doing so, made the punt swerve a little so that the woman who accompanied him gave a little shriek and said, ‘Tommy, darling, do watch what you’re doing!’
The twins waved back.
Edie
said hopefully, ‘Are they going to fall in?’
Marianne laughed. ‘I hope not.’
‘What do they call a boat in France, Marianne?’
‘Bateau.’
‘So dog is chien and boat is bateau.’ Emmie gave her sister a smug look.
Edie tossed her head. ‘It’s silly!’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘It is . . . Oh look! The swans are coming over. They want some bread!’
They both looked at Marianne who shook her head.
‘The bread’s all gone,’ she told them. ‘You gave it all to the ducks.’ Seizing the moment she said, ‘Bread is called pain in France.’ She pronounced it correctly, as pan.
Emmie frowned. ‘Like saucepan?’
While Marianne tried to explain, a man approached them and Edie cried out with delight. ‘It’s the lollipop man!’
Marianne turned to find a pleasant-looking man holding out a small white card, which she accepted cautiously.
‘Donald Watson – Private Investigator,’ she read aloud.
‘It’s the lollipop man! We met him when we were out with Hattie.’ Edie beamed at him hopefully.
Emmie, reading her sister’s expression, said, ‘We aren’t in the park now. There aren’t any lollipops here.’
Marianne looked up from the card and said evenly, ‘I assume this meeting is not a coincidence, Mr Watson.’
‘No. I’d very much like to talk to you some time, somewhere convenient. If you would contact me. I’ve written my office number on the back. We would need to be discreet.’
‘Discreet? Oh dear . . .’ The suddenness of his appearance had made her wary. ‘I’ll have to . . . to consider it.’
Edie said, ‘Is your wife coming today? We’ve seen a boat and the man steered the boat with his pole and made the boat go a bit wobbly and the lady said, “Do watch what you’re doing, darling!” and his name was Tommy but we don’t know her name.’
Emmie, not to be outdone, said, ‘We’re learning French words to please Grandmother. Boat is bateau.’
He smiled at Marianne. ‘Your girls are amazing.’
Emmie said, ‘Marianne is not our mother. We told you. She’s our governess . . .’
‘. . . because our mother has run away and our father has died and we don’t even remember them . . .’
‘. . . but we had a nanny once who was ever so old and Grandmother had to get rid of her. We don’t remember her.’
A silence fell between them.
Marianne, disconcerted, said, ‘A potted biography!’
Emmie looked at Donald. ‘We need some bread for the swans.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any.’ To Marianne he said, ‘A nanny?’
‘Apparently.’
‘Do you know her name?’
‘If I ever did know it, I’ve forgotten it. It might come back to me.’
He lowered his voice. ‘It really is rather important that we talk, Miss Lefevre. If you would be kind enough to get in touch.’ He said, ‘Goodbye,’ to the twins and walked quickly away.
Emmie, disappointed, said, ‘He’s not as nice as I thought he was.’
The swans had grown tired of waiting and now swam away and Marianne decided they must bring the French lesson to an end and walk home.
Donald Watson – Private Investigator.
What on earth could he want with her? she wondered.
As soon as they arrived back at the house, Georgina sent the children into the schoolroom with instructions for Marianne that they should sit down quietly and learn a piece of poetry.
‘They are hopelessly overexcited,’ she told the governess. ‘My foolish sister has that effect on them, I’m afraid. She has the same effect on me! I want the twins to calm down completely before they start to eat their lunch.’
‘Certainly. I’ll find a suitable poem – unless you have something particular in mind.’
Georgina frowned. ‘I’ll leave that to you. That’s your job, not mine.’
‘Then perhaps “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock at the . . .”’
‘Yes, I know it. That will do very well. I shall be . . . busy for the next hour or so and am not to be disturbed.’
Hurrying along to her special room, Georgina let herself in and locked the door behind her. Leaning back against the door she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh of relief. She was safe for the moment. She stayed with her back to the door as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
‘That wretched woman!’ she murmured. How was it, she wondered, that Ida always managed to catch her wrong-footed in some way, so that a few hours in her company left her nerves jangling. Here, alone in the darkness, she could find some peace of mind. Here, she could talk to her son without fear of interruption.
‘Neil,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Mother. I’m back.’ Her son had died in a foreign country but Georgina had no doubt that his spirit had returned to Henley-on-Thames where he belonged; where he was welcomed with open arms; where he was still needed.
Opening her eyes, she looked slowly round the room with a sigh of pleasurable relief. Crossing to the altar, she felt in the hidden drawer for the matches and lit the two black candles with a hand that trembled. Watching the small wicks flicker into light, she was comforted, and already she felt some of her anxiety slip away. A faint smile touched her face as she knelt carefully, resting her knees on the hassock that had once belonged to her mother. She knew every detail of the faded embroidery – every stitch that Ellen Matlowe had applied all those years ago.
‘I’m back, Mother,’ she whispered through her clasped hands. ‘I’ve been with Ida and she’s given me a terrible headache, as usual.’
She always waited for a whispered reply, faint as a breeze but audible. It never came but Georgina understood that it was just a matter of time. Ida had never been close to her mother, and Georgina had always known she was the favourite.
She said, ‘I’m home, Herbert,’ and smiled for her dead husband. He had always told her how pretty she looked when she smiled. ‘It’s like the sun bursting through the clouds!’ he had said one day – the day he had proposed marriage and she had accepted.
Now, she bowed her head. If Herbert came to her now he would find her very changed, she thought. She was no longer young and beautiful, happy and serene. Now she was growing old, her life had become fearful and full of agonizing regrets – the days too long, the nights filled with terrible dreams.
‘Dear Lord, hear my prayers.’
Dutifully she began the short series of prayers to which she felt He was entitled. The Lord came first and she spoke to him with cautious reverence. Afterwards she would relax her vigilance and talk to Neil.
Further down river, below Henley Bridge, Donald Watson found what he was looking for – the boatyard. It was an unpretentious enclosure containing about thirteen boats of various shapes and sizes but this would soon change, he knew. From past experience he understood that as the time for the regatta drew near, more boats, mainly punts, would be taken in for a final check before the big day. The event lasted from the first Wednesday in July until the Saturday.
He parked his motor car and took his time, strolling towards the low buildings that were either repair shops, stores or offices. He whistled cheerfully as he made his way across the rough ground – patches of thin grass surrounded by stony ground and stretches of mud baked hard by the sun – not wishing to give the impression that he was ‘nosing around’ or that he had no right to be there. Trespassers were never welcome.
All around him men were working on boats – painting, sawing, polishing, caulking and otherwise intent on their labours. No one gave him more than a curious glance but Donald felt reasonably at ease among them because his earliest memories were of hours spent as a boy in his uncle’s workshop where he worked in his spare time on an almost derelict dinghy. Strangely the work never ended and the boat was never declared seaworthy. His aunt insisted that her husband simply wanted somewhere to hide aw
ay when she started to nag him.
‘Can I help you?’
Donald turned, smiling. It was more a challenge than an offer of assistance but he knew better than to alienate anyone. ‘Good morning! Is the boss around?’
‘Might be, might not.’ The man, thought Donald, might fairly be described as ‘grizzled’.
From somewhere the sound of wood being planed carried on the breeze and with it the unmistakable tang of wood shavings and sawdust.
Donald said, ‘Is it still Leo Croom? It’s a long time since I was last here.’
‘It’s Mr Croom, yes. He’s in the office.’ He pointed a calloused finger. ‘A bit older and a bit crustier, if you get my meaning! Doesn’t like being bothered.’
With that he turned sharply on his heel and walked away.
Donald muttered, ‘Thanks for the warning,’ and made his way to the squat building that served as the boatyard’s office.
Before he could knock on the door it opened and a man in his fifties stepped out, a disgruntled look on his face.
‘Mr Croom! I don’t know if you remember me but . . .’
Leo Croom eyed Donald sourly. ‘I do and I’m busy so make an appointment with my secretary.’
‘I won’t take up much of your time but . . .’
‘I know you won’t because I’m due somewhere in ten minutes and it’ll take me twenty to get there! Excuse me.’
Donald was not at all rebuffed by this rejection but gave a polite nod of understanding. In his opinion secretaries were often a very fruitful source of information so he opened the door of the office and made his presence known.
Miss Batt, turning from the filing cabinet, stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. ‘Donald Watson!’ she said at last. ‘Gracious me!’
The Boat House Page 6
