by John Masters
Alice said, ‘No, but … look, there are the boys, below the Stewards’ Enclosure. See?’
Richard put his binoculars to his eyes and stared across the river. The two Grand finalist crews were paddling slowly past. The grassy Berkshire bank was hidden under the feet of thousands of milling spectators brought out by today’s perfect weather, even more enticing after yesterday’s all-day drizzle. The punts were jammed together along the Oxfordshire bank, mostly containing just one languid young woman and one young man, but sometimes crowded with larger parties … A face he recognized sprang into prominence: that school friend of Guy’s, Dick Yeoman, disappointment clear on his face. Of course, his brother had been in the losing Trinity boat just now. Tom was there, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder, smiling, consoling; Laurence Cate, hanging close to Guy, looking up at the older boy, eager hero worship as clear in his face as disappointment in young Yeoman’s … Stella on Guy’s other side … Guy smiling at something, readjusting his sling; then, somehow, in all the crowd, catching sight of him, his uncle, across the river and cheerily waving his free hand.
Richard waved back and said, ‘Some of them are over there.’
‘Signal to them to come across for tea,’ Alice said.
Richard lowered the binoculars, made motions of raising a teacup, beckoned, and raised the binoculars again. The boys and Stella stopped, all staring. Then Guy signalled back, pointing down river back to the start, and making motions of rowing, then of running. Richard said, ‘I think he’s saying that they’re going down to watch the Grand. Yes, they’re waving … all going down.’
‘Even Stella? She doesn’t like missing her tea.’
‘All of them. Naomi and Rachel Cowan have just joined them, heaven knows where from.’
‘They were with friends somewhere … in Leander, I think.’
‘We must keep some tea and sandwiches for all of them,’ Richard said; and ‘Yes, Richard,’ his sister answered; and then, ‘I must go and find Margaret and Fiona.’
The two women, both close to forty years of age, who strolled together off Leander Club lawn seemed to embody the races from which they were sprung. Although, through the centuries, there had been many intermarriages, in these two the genes of Black Celt and Red Celt had run separately true. Margaret Cate (née Rowland), descended through her mother, Rose Rowland (née McCormack), from Cormac, High King of Ireland, was of medium height, with shining thick black hair and deep blue eyes, a high nose and a strong-set big-bosomed body. By her side, an inch or two taller, Fiona Rowland (née McLeod) was long-faced, long-legged, and pale-haired, with a glint of red at the roots. Her still supple body moved with the half-tamed wildness of her clan’s wild island, Skye. It was easy to believe that her eyes, grey as the island’s mists, could see into the unknowable future. Margaret was wife to Christopher Cate, squire of Walstone, in the county of Kent, whose work with his tenants gave him no time to come to Henley. Fiona was wife to Quentin Rowland, Harry and Rose’s third son, a major in the Weald Light Infantry, now stationed at the Curragh, Ireland.
Both women wore long skirts, Margaret’s of blue to match her eyes, and Fiona’s of pale green; and white blouses with frilled cuffs, and straw hats perched on the front of their hair; and they carried parasols, now folded and swinging in their hands, for something of the power was leaving the sun. They crossed over Henley Bridge and walked down the crowded waterfront on the Oxfordshire bank.
Fiona said, ‘It’s not fair that anyone – let alone two brothers – should be born with so much as Roger Cantley and Arthur … titles, money, good looks, and good heavens, what brains! I can not understand why Cantley hasn’t married long since.’
‘He prefers his paintings,’ Margaret said, ‘and, perhaps, his freedom … And I doubt whether they do have much money. Lord Swanwick tries to keep his financial affairs private, but everything can not be hidden from the servants, who gossip in the village – and the villagers tell Christopher. He knows more than he will tell anyone.’
‘Even you?’
Margaret laughed, and the laugh was not quite bitter, nor was it light, and certainly not joyful; let us say it was slightly abrasive. She said, ‘Especially not me. I do not tell Christopher anything of what I do in Ireland, where my duty is. So why should he tell me anything about his village, where his duty is?’
‘But you are husband and wife! Does not that make a difference?’
‘We have not been husband and wife since seven months before Laurence was born.’ She turned suddenly, and looked her sister-in-law straight in the eye – ‘Nor you and Quentin, I think.’
Fiona looked down, avoiding the deep eyes. At length she said, ‘Not as long as that … but yes, you’re right.’
‘I know what I’m fighting for, and I decided long ago that my marriage was nothing compared to it. What have you decided?’ Then, before Fiona could answer, she said, ‘There’s Alice, coming to look for us. Where are the girls? We’re supposed to be in charge of them.’
‘I don’t think anything can happen to them at Henley in broad daylight,’ Fiona answered, privately excluding Stella, Margaret’s daughter, from the remark: Stella Cate was eighteen and gave the impression that something would happen to her if there were any men around, whatever the time, or place, or circumstances. Fiona was sure Stella was still physically untouched, as indeed she should be at her age and class, but for how long would that last? She said, ‘They said they were going down to the start, to meet Tom and the boys there.’
Then Alice Rowland came up, and Margaret said, ‘Here we are, in good order. Arthur asked us to stay for tea, but we knew the Governor would want us with the family. He always has, hasn’t he? Or are they still resting?’
‘Yes,’ Alice said and, turning, walked slowly with them down the street, into the Phyllis Court drive, and at last on to the lawn, to join Richard and Susan.
Johnny Merritt paused to watch the racing scullers pass. The man on the near side was huge: that must be the Italian, Sinigaglia, who seemed to have a good fifty pounds weight advantage over Stuart, the British sculler. Sinigaglia was two lengths back here, about a quarter of a mile after the start. He was having trouble steering … going dangerously close to the piles now … but with that weight and power, and a good action, he’d be a hard man to beat.
The scullers diminished up the gleaming water, and Johnny strolled on towards Temple Island, hands in pockets, humming under his breath. This was the last day of Henley and he was trying to make time move more slowly. Now he almost dreaded the moment he and his father had come three thousand miles to witness – Harvard’s hoped-for triumph in the Grand Challenge Cup; because, after all the yelling and the back-slapping and the throwing of the cox into the river, it would mean … it’s over. For him, not only Henley, but Harvard – over, finished. He was a senior.
He was wearing white shoes, white flannel trousers, a crimson blazer with the Harvard crest on the pocket, and a straw hat with the crimson silk Harvard band. He walked with a slight limp, favouring his left ankle. The towpath was crowded, though less so here than near the finish. Immediately in front of him was a large group which appeared to be all of one family – three youths, three young women, and a man in his late thirties with a sun- and wind-burned face, thick black hair, and a jovial manner, for as he walked he kept turning and talking animatedly to the others. The youth on the man’s right carried his left arm in a sling and Johnny wondered idly whether he was in the same boat as himself; or, to be more precise, out of the same boat. Johnny had badly sprained his left ankle a week ago, and had had to give up his place as No. 3 in the Harvard boat; but by then they were already in England, and his father had readily agreed that they should stay at least through the Regatta. Perhaps the tall boy with the sling was in one of the British college crews, and had suffered a similar misfortune, and was unable to take his place in the boat; but he hardly looked more than seventeen, too young to be at a university.
Close in front of him, one of the three
young women said, ‘What’s the use of rushing so, Naomi? We can’t possibly keep pace with the boats when they do start, so why don’t we just stop here? And sit down?’
The tall girl in the middle snapped, ‘I could keep pace with them, Stella – very nearly – if I could wear trousers, like the men.’ Johnny thought she must be five foot ten or more, and about nineteen, though she gave the impression as she strode along that she was not yet quite fully formed as a woman. Her movements were a little awkward, like a fifteen-year-old’s, and her flesh not rounded, but still angular. She added, ‘Even Mr Lippincott couldn’t keep up with a one-legged man, if he had to wear these skirts … Anyway, we said we’d go down to the start with Guy, so we’ll do it… this year.’
Johnny listened idly. The girl on the right, the one who had spoken first, her head now half turned, was a knockout – a bit younger than the tall one, perhaps, but more womanly, rounded, big-bosomed, walking gracefully, the moving skirt showing rather than hiding the curves of her haunches. She said now, ‘What do you mean, “this year”, Naomi?’
‘This year we’ll let them have their silly Regatta. Next year, we’ll bore holes in the boats.’
‘Naomi!’
‘If they haven’t given women the vote by then.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Why not? I was in the window smashing last year…’
‘You never told me!’
‘You never asked. Nor did Daddy or Mummy. They’d never dream I’d do such a thing… Guy, Uncle Tom, wait a minute! We can’t keep up.’
Then the young men stopped, and they all gathered together, the lovely girl fanning her face with a programme, as Johnny walked past. He glanced at the youth with the sling and, a long moment later, pulled his gaze away with a start, realizing that his passing glance had become a stare: for the boy, about his own height of six feet, but slimmer, had one bright blue eye – his right, and one soft deep brown – his left. He caught Johnny’s stare and held it a moment. His smile was downturned and quizzical, as he turned away. As Johnny passed on, the third youth, the youngest of them, cried, ‘Look, Guy! A sedge warbler!’ and the boy with the sling turned, asking, ‘Where, Laurence?’
‘There, in the reeds, with the creamy eye stripe … Acrocephalus schoenobaenus!’
‘What a mouthful!’
Johnny walked faster, thinking of the British family. Guy something, with one blue eye and one brown; and Laurence, about fifteen, a bird-watcher, or probably he’d call himself an ornithologist; and Uncle Tom, who worked outdoors, with that complexion; and Naomi, the tall girl with the small high breasts – one of these wild suffragettes; and a small young woman who hadn’t opened her mouth and looked Jewish, not one of the family; and the lovely one, Stella. Stella what? Sister of Guy? Or Laurence? Cousin?
It was quiet at the start – a tethered horse, bicycles lying in the buttercups, bees droning in the long grass, a large horse-chestnut tree set back from the river, people sprawled in its shade. He went over and sat down at the edge of the shade, his hands clasped round his knees. This, too, was Henley, but a world removed from the bustle of the Regatta – the town bridge, crowded with watchers, groaning with traffic, klaxons bleating, horses neighing, wheels crunching: at Phyllis Court, marquees and spread awnings, sandwiches and chairs and tea and chatter; everywhere bustle, coaches and crews, shouldered boats, cries, warnings … Here, the Grand crews were slowly turning their boats. The umpire’s launch Enchantress was coming back down the course, its engine thudding, the only intrusive sound here under the chestnut tree, under the pale sky dotted with wool-fleeced clouds. A blackbird chortled near the river’s edge and a pair of ducks winged fast overhead, circling, looking, heading on upstream. He closed his eyes, and hoped that the singing of the blackbird, and the lap of the Thames, would soothe his sense of impending loss.
Five minutes later he opened his eyes a little as the group of young people he had passed on the towpath arrived, and settled on the grass nearby. The older man, Uncle Tom, looked at his wrist watch and said, ‘Five past. Ten minutes to go.’
Stella said, ‘They look ready.’
Guy said, ‘They may not be ready up at the finish. Anyway, they won’t start before the proper time – four-fifteen.’ His straw hat was tilted well forward, hiding his eyes. Its ribbon was pale blue and yellow. Johnny wished he could join them, to talk to the lovely Stella with the bee-stung lips and peaches-and-cream complexion; and because he was curious, to find out what Uncle Tom did for a living, and…
Guy said, ‘Did I hear you say something about window smashing, while we were walking down, Naomi?’
The tall girl said, ‘You did, and we’ll do worse next year, if we don’t get the vote.’
‘But everyone knows women are mentally incompetent. They have tiny brains, to make up for their big behinds, and…
Naomi shook her fist at him, ‘One day we’ll get the vote, and then we’ll know what to do with men like you, Guy. We’ll form women’s unions, and …’
Guy interrupted – ‘Hide behind trees in overwhelming numbers, jump out, and … what? Debag us? Dear, dear!’
‘Don’t be disgusting!’ She was smiling; and caught Johnny’s eye. Was she staring at him? Did they think he was eavesdropping on their family talk? He got up, walked to the bank, cupped his hands and shouted, ‘Good luck, Meyer … wish I were on that oar.’
The Harvard No. 3 acknowledged the call with a grin and a wave. Johnny cried, ‘Let ’em have it, Leverett … row ’em out of the water, Charlie – ’
Then the umpire put his megaphone to his mouth and the coxswains shouted together, ‘Eyes in!’, and Johnny started up the towpath. The family were close in front of him, walking easily. Perhaps he’d get a chance to introduce himself, though the British were usually pretty stuffy.
Naomi Rowland turned to her uncle, and said, ‘Who is this race between? I only come to Henley because Grandpa insists, and Daddy and Uncle Richard want me to see them in their Leander caps and blazers once a year.’
Commander Tom Rowland, RN, answered, ‘The Union Boat Club of Boston, and Harvard University … though I think they call themselves the Harvard Athletic Association Boat Club, or something like that, officially.’
His nephew Guy said in a needling tone, ‘Boston is a city where they threw perfectly good tea into the harbour because they didn’t like King George III, which seems a peculiar way of showing dislike … but what is Harvard?’
The breeze had momentarily died; the sound of their feet was deadened in the trodden earth of the towpath; and the river was silent. Guy’s remark hung loud in the air, the question mark at the end almost visible in the thick summer light.
An American voice from close behind them said tartly, ‘Harvard is the oldest university in America, sir, and the best university in the world, bar none.’
The Rowland party turned. The speaker was the young man whom the boys had seen earlier, limping fast to the start. He was about six feet, powerfully built with dark brown hair and grey eyes, and big hands and feet. His face was red and his mouth, when he had finished speaking, shut firm; but Naomi suspected, from a look in his eye, that he was not as put out as he wished them to think.
Guy said politely, ‘What about Lima, Mr – ’
‘Merritt,’ the other answered. ‘I meant, in the United States.’
‘Ah!’ They all walked on together now. Guy said, ‘But if Harvard is so good, and I’m sure it is, why does one not hear more about it?’
Johnny Merritt said, ‘Because the English newspapers are like the Mechanicsville Gazette … if it doesn’t happen in England, it doesn’t happen. You’re so sure you have the best of everything that you don’t bother to find out what other people are doing. One day, you’ll be in for an unpleasant surprise, my father says, when you find that others have improved their manufactures, their ships, their tools, to beat yours.’
‘Surely not the ships,’ Tom said, smiling. ‘Britannia rules the waves, eh?’
I think the song says “rule”, subjunctive – not “rules”, indicative, sir,’ Johnny Merritt said. ‘And Britannia doesn’t. Who holds the clipper ship record?’
‘Cutty Sark isn’t it?’ Stella Cate said, blushing.
‘No, miss. It’s Flying Cloud designed by Donald McKay of East Boston, Massachusetts.’ He kept his eyes on Stella now, and Naomi thought, ah, it was just as she had suspected; his intrusion was not solely out of pique. Stella’s eyes were wide, her lips parted in excitement and interest, her whole attention focused on the young American. Heavens, she looks gorgeous, Naomi thought – and she really doesn’t know it.
Johnny said, ‘I must apologize. I had no right to butt into your conversation.’
Glancing over her shoulder, Naomi saw that men were mounting bicycles, and the coach on horseback gathering his reins. Tom cried, ‘It’s perfectly all right! We should have known about Harvard, and I’m sure my nephew does know more than he pretends. Never take Guy at his face value, Mr Merritt. I’m Tom Rowland. Allow me to introduce you to my nieces – Miss Naomi Rowland, and Miss Stella Cate … Miss Rachel Cowan – she’s a friend of Naomi’s at Girton – a college for women at Cambridge.’
‘It’s just a little place in the fens,’ Guy said sotto voce, ‘nothing much to look at, but – ’
Johnny shot him a sharp look, then started laughing. ‘You don’t catch me again, Guy.’
The dark girl said, ‘I’m at Girton on a Draper’s Company Scholarship.’ Her accent was quite different from the others’.
Tom finished the introductions: ‘My nephew, Laurence Cate. Guy’s friend from school, Dick Yeoman. The young men have been allowed a weekend exeat from their public schools.’
‘Which in England means private. I know,’ Johnny said.
‘Guy and Dick are at Wellington, and Laurence is at Charterhouse.’
From downstream the bang of the maroon reached them. Laurence cried, ‘They’ve started!’