The Boat House

by Pamela Oldfield

  Marianne jumped at once to Richard’s defence. ‘On the contrary, Mrs Matlowe, I must beg to differ. I believe that from time to time an exciting day is beneficial to young minds.’

  ‘In what way, pray?’

  ‘In a stimulating way. It creates new emotions . . .’ She searched her mind for further benefits. ‘And opens them up to different situations. I do believe it encourages imagination and . . .’

  ‘Hmm. Hardly convincing. Were there any tears or tantrums? I want an honest answer.’

  ‘None that I recall.’ She smiled. ‘May I ask if you enjoyed the theatre?’

  ‘We did a little shopping instead. I don’t care for the theatre and my sister knows it full well.’

  ‘I hope the news from your stay in the hospital . . .’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! We are talking about the twins. I would like a few specifics. I certainly hope you kept them away from anything hectic. When I tried to talk to Emmie she was almost incoherent with excitement and could hardly string a sentence together.’

  ‘Specifics? Let me see . . .’ Marianne tried to recall some quieter moments. ‘We played for some time on the beach with buckets and spades and built a rather splendid sandcastle. The girls tucked up their skirts and paddled . . .’

  ‘Paddled! Tut! Seawater, Marianne, is not as beneficial as the so-called experts would have us believe! I hope they wore sun hats. We don’t want to ruin their complexions.’

  ‘They were not in the water too long and yes, they wore sun hats.’ She had decided not to tell her that a beach photographer had ‘snapped’ the four of them walking on the promenade. The result had been a charming photograph, which Marianne would treasure. They had bought four copies – one each for the girls to discover at a later date, one for Marianne, and one for Richard to send back to his family.

  She went on, ‘They watched a Punch and Judy show . . .’

  ‘Oh dear! I should have warned you. I detest Punch and Judy. They are nasty, violent stories that frighten most children.’

  ‘They found it hilarious, Mrs Matlowe, as did the other children. Please don’t worry yourself on that score.’

  ‘I shan’t worry myself! It is you who is worrying me, with all these unsuitable details! But I blame myself. I should never have agreed to the plan. It was simply that I was distracted by concerns for my health.’

  Marianne fumed inwardly at her employer’s stream of criticism but the truth was she had wondered once or twice if the day was becoming too eventful (she had omitted several events that might be construed as ‘hectic’), but Richard’s enthusiasm and the girls’ joy had persuaded her not to intervene. If their uncle went back to America without them, the twins might never see him again and she wanted the day to be a wonderful memory for them in years to come.

  She said, ‘We had a quiet lunch in a rather elegant restaurant where the girls behaved impeccably and later Mr Preston rowed us on a small boating lake. Very calming. Very good for their digestion.’ She smiled. ‘There is no reason to worry about the girls. I’m sure it did them good to see the outside world and have a little fun.’

  Upstairs in the schoolroom Emmie was struggling to remember the dodgems they had driven. ‘Did the dodgems have wheels?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Edie considered the sandcastle she had drawn and gave a satisfied nod. ‘I’m going to put the Punch and Judy in my picture and the fish and chips and the vinegar bottle!’

  Emmie paid her no attention. ‘If they didn’t have wheels, how did they get around? When Uncle Richard turned the steering wheel they sort of slid around and went crash!’

  ‘They went very fast!’

  ‘Very, very fast!’ Abandoning the half drawn dodgem car Emmie considered a blank area of the page. ‘I’m going to draw Marianne eating the jellied eels out of that little dish . . . and Uncle Richard, in his funny Kiss-Me-Quick hat, tasting a jellied eel and pretending to be sick!’

  Both girls collapsed into loud giggles.

  Edie said, ‘You can draw me holding up the dead crab.’

  ‘No, there won’t be room. You put it in your picture. I’m going to draw Marianne running after her hat when it blew away!’

  Ten minutes later Marianne returned to the schoolroom to find the paint box open on the table and the two tell-tale pictures bursting into glorious technicolour.

  Georgina let herself into Neil’s room and carefully locked the door behind her. She was trembling as she made her way to the altar and lit the candles. Lowering herself carefully to her knees in front of the altar she closed her eyes and placed her hands together.

  ‘Dear Lord, hear my prayer . . . I come to you today in great need of help and guidance. The news from Mr Prendergast was not at all good – in truth it was quite the opposite. It seems I have a serious fault in my heart, which I may have had since I contracted measles as a child.’ She recalled the illness clearly – the whispered voices, the bedroom darkened by permanently closed red curtains, her mother tiptoeing in and out of the room and the anxious wait for the doctor to arrive.

  She paused in mid-prayer and briefly laid a hand on her heart. What was it doing, she wondered uneasily. Was it even now deteriorating? Was the strain of talking about it adding to the problem?

  Resuming the prayer, she said earnestly, ‘I’m told to take things easily to avoid bringing on a heart attack, but I have the twins to look after. How can I neglect them? At the first sign of weakness that young man will be off to the courts to claim that I am not fit enough physically to have the twins in my care.’ She pressed a hand to her heart. ‘I dare not imagine what would become of them if they were snatched away from this God-fearing, ordered existence to live with a wild American family. If the rest of the Prestons are anything like Leonora and Richard it would be nothing short of tragic for Emmie and Edie.’

  She paused again to feel for a pulse in her wrist but found nothing. Was that good or bad? And what about her temperature? Had Mr Prendergast said anything about her temperature? Was that a bad sign also? She really should have paid him more attention.

  ‘So, dear Lord, I need you to watch over me and mine . . . and to be aware of this risk to my health. If you could just keep me safe and well until the twins are old enough to be independent. I ask it for their sakes, not mine. If I feel that you are with me, dear Lord, I can struggle on, but alone . . .’ She gave a long, shuddering sigh. ‘I fear I will not survive long enough without spiritual support.’

  Abruptly she added, ‘Amen,’ and struggled back to her feet. She had the uneasy feeling that being told that she had a defective heart had made her more anxious than she had been when in blissful ignorance of the fact. For that she blamed Ida for whisking her off to the specialist. But Richard Preston must share the blame because his presence had put such a strain on her that she had fainted. They had all been much better off without him and the sooner he left, to return to America, the better it would be for everyone.

  Collecting Neil’s dressing gown she wrapped it round her and climbed on to his bed. Now at last she could relax a little, she told herself thankfully.

  ‘It’s me, dear,’ she began. ‘If you wondered where I was these last few days I was in hospital for tests but it turned out to be nothing. Nothing to worry about, that is. You know me. Strong as a horse, to put it in a rather unladylike way!’ She smiled. ‘Your Aunt Ida insisted that I see someone – you know what a fusspot she is, but it was a wasted day, really.’

  She tried to imagine how it would feel to have a heart attack. Mr Prendergast had said the first one was usually quite mild but mustn’t go unrecorded. Must on no account be ignored.

  ‘Your awful brother-in-law took the children to Margate for the day. A rather vulgar town, in my opinion, full of rowdy Londoners down for the day, stuffing their faces with candyfloss and making too much noise. But he was set on the idea and I don’t want to antagonize him too much. It clashed with my hospital visit so I sent Marianne with them, to keep an eye on them. I know
you and Richard got on well enough but he was only a boy when you knew him in America and no doubt on his best behaviour when visitors were present. I don’t think you would be so keen on him now – a sight too confident and pushy. He has insisted on tracking down that awful nanny. Do you recall Ivy Busby, dear?’

  Gingerly she slid her right hand across her chest to feel her left upper arm. Apparently a heart attack often started with a pain in the upper left arm before it moved into the heart proper. So she would have a little advance warning. It felt perfectly normal at the moment so she was in no immediate danger and that was a relief. She now regretted that she hadn’t listened more carefully to Mr Prendergast but, if she was honest, she had been in a blind panic, desperate to hear nothing bad and determined to get out of the hospital. In retrospect she could see that Mr Prendergast meant well but at the time she had seen him as the enemy. But she would say nothing more to Neil.

  ‘It’s that time of year again, dear,’ she told her son with feigned cheerfulness. ‘A week or two at the most – I’ve lost track of the date – and the regatta will be upon us and the town will be seething with hundreds of visitors.’ Which was tedious and very inconvenient but her son had always found it exciting. The river, too, would be packed with punts and skiffs, not to mention the inevitable houseboats – a very confused and potentially dangerous situation, as always. ‘Cook was saying that there’s even a very extravagant gondola for hire! Whatever will they think of next?’

  She felt her left arm again. How bad would the pain of a minor heart attack be, she wondered? Would she be able to ignore it? How painful would a major heart attack be? Was it as bad as childbirth? She had borne that stoically when Neil was born. ‘You were very brave.’ That’s what the midwife had told her.

  If the pain in her arm was bearable, she decided, she would say nothing to anyone, simply make an excuse and go to her bedroom and lie down. She would alert no one unless it worsened. If it moved to her heart or was intense pain she would have to give in and send for the doctor.

  Wrapped in Neil’s dressing gown and locked away from the rest of the household Georgina felt comfortable and began to relax. She returned to her conversation with him.

  ‘I know you always thought the regatta fascinating but I have always realized there is a darker side to it.’ She shuddered. ‘All that deep water waiting to swallow the unwary – and there’ll be plenty of those! People picnicking in the boats and drinking too much champagne! A disaster waiting to happen!’

  Now that she was no longer dwelling on her heart problem, some of her anxiety began to slip away and she gave a sigh of satisfaction as she recognized that fact. Perhaps this was the time, therefore, to check that all her affairs were in order – and to finally write that letter.

  ‘I’ll start it tomorrow,’ she told her son. ‘That letter I told you about. I will do it. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, as they say. No one will understand the way you do, dear, but I must die with a clear conscience. Then, in the hereafter, when you and I are together again, there will be no unfinished business between us. You approve, don’t you, dear?’ She waited but after a few moments she said drowsily, ‘Thank you, Neil. I knew you would.’

  Later that evening Cook grinned at Lorna over the rim of the day’s last cup of tea – the ten quiet minutes that Cook thought of as ‘winding down at the end of the day’ before setting off home. ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play!’ she said.

  They grinned like two conspirators.

  Lorna said, ‘We got away with it yesterday and no questions asked!’

  ‘Not yet anyhow. Just remember to keep quiet. No blabbing to Hattie or Mr Blunt or anybody.’

  ‘Or the butcher’s boy.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cook glanced at the clock. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t care to try it again. Might not be so lucky another time.’

  ‘So what did you do with your time off?’

  ‘I went round to my aunt’s and did her ironing for her. She can hardly stand, she’s that bad with her rheumatism, poor soul.’ She stirred her tea absent-mindedly. ‘But I’m not ironing towels and tea towels. None of that, I told her. What’s the point? They get creased up the minute you use ’em. They’re washed and that’s enough.’

  Lorna looked dubious at this heresy. ‘But what about tablecloths?’

  ‘I do iron them – because you see them. Mind you I’ve only got one decent one and that’s a devil to iron because my mother embroidered the corners and they seem to shrink up a bit with the stitching. They’re awkward to iron flat . . . What did you do yesterday?’

  ‘I went down to the river with my sister like we do every year, and walked along the towpath to see if they’d started the preparations for the regatta. The King and Queen are going to be there.’

  ‘So I’ve heard – about a thousand times! Everyone’s talking about it. It really will be Royal Henley Regatta!’

  Lorna shook her head. ‘No, because they’re going to call it Henley Royal Regatta – so the blazer badges will be HRR. It said so in the paper.’

  Cook shrugged.

  ‘Anyway they haven’t quite started but they’ve got some wood stacked along the path – ready for building the stands.’

  ‘Let’s hope no one steals it!’

  ‘Course they won’t!’ She smiled. ‘I love it along the river when it’s decorated – flags and bunting everywhere and those coloured Chinese lanterns hanging in the trees and bushes.’ She gave a sly grin. ‘There was one young chap last year, unloading some crates from a boat – ginger hair and freckles – seemed to take a shine to me. Whistled after us and called out, “How do, ladies?”’

  ‘How do you know he wasn’t after your sister?’

  ‘’Cos I’m prettier than her!’ She tossed her head. ‘Oh! Here comes Mr Blunt. He must smell the tea!’

  He tapped on the back door and came in, hat in hand and, without a word, settled himself on a vacant chair.

  Cook poured him a cup of tea and Lorna passed the sugar bowl before he spoke.

  ‘Funniest thing!’ He spooned sugar into the cup thoughtfully. ‘Them roses.’ He jerked his head in their direction. ‘I could swear they’ve been moved.’

  Lorna’s eyes widened. ‘Moved? Where are they now, then?’

  Cook said, ‘What d’you mean, moved?’

  He took a mouthful of tea, swilled it round his mouth and swallowed noisily. ‘Not moved like that. I mean changed.’

  ‘Into what?’ Lorna demanded.

  ‘Not into what! Not into something else! Just . . . swapped round.’

  Baffled, they regarded him carefully.

  Lorna persisted. ‘Swapped with what?’

  Mr Blunt shook his head. ‘You two are as bad as my missus. With each other, of course. They’re different colours.’ He took another long, noisy mouthful and Cook winced.

  Lorna said, ‘They used to be pink and red. You saying they’re like yellow and white now? Or orange?’

  Cook snorted. ‘Orange roses?’

  ‘I’ve seen orange roses, Cook. I have!’

  They waited for his answer. ‘Not exactly,’ he said at last. ‘That is, they’re still the same colours but . . .’

  ‘You said they’d changed! You said they were different colours!’ Lorna was growing exasperated by the story. ‘He did, didn’t he, Cook? He said . . .’

  Cook rolled her eyes. It was time they were off home and she stood up pointedly. ‘Drink up, Mr Blunt,’ she urged. ‘Time we were on our way.’ To Lorna she said, ‘Rinse the cups and dry them. Madam likes us to leave the kitchen shipshape.’ She stood up, removed her apron and reached for her jacket.

  Mr Blunt took the hint, drained the cup and stood up. He reached for his hat. ‘Changed places, I meant,’ he said, in a last attempt. ‘Don’t ask me how.’

  Lorna gave him a bright smile. ‘We won’t!’ Behind his back she tapped her forehead and Cook laughed.

  ‘Then I’ll be off. See you next week.’ As he stepped outsi
de, he put his hat on and then set off round the side of the house.

  Cook raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Poor old boy!’ she said. ‘He gets worse! Let’s hope he doesn’t try that story on Madam! She’d give him short shrift.’ She gave the kitchen a final glance. Satisfied, she asked, ‘Orange roses? Have you really seen orange roses?’

  ‘Sort of orangey pink. Like a peach, you could say.’

  Lorna threw a shawl round her shoulders and they left the kitchen together by the back door.

  Ivy Busby turned drowsily until, realizing she was awake, she smiled triumphantly without opening her eyes. So she had not died in her sleep. That was her biggest worry now – that she would die before Richard took her home to the family. And today was the day that he was coming to take her shopping. He was going to buy her a travelling outfit, which she would wear on the ship. Everyone at Number 24 was green with envy. Her smile broadened as she thought about it. What a change in her fortunes!

  They would travel on Cunard’s RMS Mauretania, which was barely five years old. Under her pillow was a brochure about the ship, which Richard had sent to her, plus the letter he had sent outlining their plans for the journey. Once he had satisfied himself, one way or the other, about poor Leonora’s fate, they would book their passage. If they had discovered that she was dead and had found her body, they might arrange to take her body home to America to be buried with the rest of the family. If she had not been found they would give up and return empty handed. Ivy did not know what to hope for.

  Selfishly she thought mainly about the change in her own situation and the excitements ahead for her. The ship was luxurious and they would have superior cabins and a steward to see to their needs. Possibly, hopefully, they would also have the twins and she, Ivy, would be caring for them – unless Marianne travelled with them. In her heart Ivy hoped this would happen because she knew the extent of her own frailties and secretly doubted that she had the stamina to look after two lively children. She also doubted that Mrs Matlowe would allow Marianne to leave her service. She might well refuse out of malice. Nothing would surprise Ivy where that woman was concerned.