Octavia

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Beautiful,’ he said, not looking at the view.

  Then down we plunged with that dreadful stomach-stealing, heart-dropping fall. Screaming like a peacock, I clutched Jeremy’s arm.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said, as we swooped upwards again.

  Then suddenly, fate came to our rescue. The wheel stopped to drop off some passengers, leaving us at the top, miles from everyone.

  For a second we gazed at each other.

  ‘What are you so frightened of?’ I said softly. ‘Gareth’s disapproval or hurting Gussie?’

  ‘Both. Gus doesn’t deserve to be hurt, and I feel guilty bringing Gareth down here, laying on a bird for him, then trying to lay on her myself.’

  ‘You’d be insane with rage if I’d got off with Gareth.’

  ‘I know I would.’

  ‘Well then, is it fair to Gussie to marry her when you feel like this?’

  ‘I think I’m more frightened of you than anything else,’ he muttered. ‘Like Carmen Jones on the box tonight, I’d be like that poor sod Don José. Once you got me away from Gussie you’d get bored with me. Then I’d find myself totally hooked on you, and not capable of holding you.’

  ‘Oh darling,’ I said, putting a little sob in my voice, ‘don’t you realize, I’m only playing the field because I’m unhappy? When I find the right guy, I’m quite capable of sticking to him. I was never unfaithful to Tod.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘Not at all. You’ve got to learn to trust me.’

  Jeremy looked up at the sky.

  ‘I could reach up and pick you a bunch of stars,’ he said. ‘I wish we could stay up here forever and never go back to reality.’

  The wheel started moving again.

  ‘We’ve got to talk,’ I whispered. ‘Wait till Gussie’s asleep and then creep up on deck.’

  ‘It’s too risky. Gareth’s got a nose on elastic.’

  ‘He’s drunk so much this evening, he’ll go out like a light.’

  ‘Anyone want a drink?’ said Gareth when we got back to the boat.

  ‘I’m going to hit the hay,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’ve got a bloody awful headache from the sun.’

  ‘I’ve got some painkillers in my suitcase,’ said Gareth. ‘I’ll get them.’

  He went out of the room. Gussie was rootling around in the kitchen. I moved towards Jeremy.

  ‘Have you really got a headache?’ I said.

  He smiled slightly and shook his head: ‘I ache in rather more basic parts of my anatomy.’

  ‘Painkillers won’t cure that,’ I said softly. ‘The only remedy is to come up on deck later.’

  ‘How long shall I leave it?’

  ‘Well I certainly can’t hold out for more than an hour,’ I said, running my tongue over my lips.

  At that moment Gareth returned with the pills.

  ‘I really don’t like taking things,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘You take three,’ said Gareth firmly. ‘That should do the trick.’

  I’d have given anything to have a long scented bath. As it was, I stood barefoot on the rushmatting, soaping my body, and then dried myself with an old towel, the consistency of a brillo pad. I didn’t even dare scent my body with bath oil, in case Gareth thought I was giving him the come on. But luckily when I went back to the cabin, he was already in bed, snoring away like Tommy Brock. I waited half an hour, then very slowly eased myself out of bed, groping for the wall and then the doorway. I had my alibi ready — I was just getting a drink of water — but I didn’t need it. Gareth didn’t stir. I tiptoed out of the cabin and up onto the deck.

  The sullen heat of the torrid afternoon had given way to a blissful cool. Through the overhanging willows, the stars shone like blossom. I lay stretched out on the deck, listening to the soft gurgling of the river, the drowsy piping of birds, and the chatter and rustlings as the animals of night plied their trades. Half an hour passed in blissful expectation, then another half-hour when I knew he’d be here any minute.

  What was that poem that always made us giggle at school?

  He is coming, my dove, my dear:

  He is coming, my life, my fate;

  The red rose cries, ‘He is near, he is near’; And the white rose weeps, ‘He is late.’

  Well it seemed the white rose had got the message all right. Another hour limped by, by which time the deck was harder than a board, and fire was beginning to come out of my nostrils. It was obvious I was going to get no chance to play deck coitus. Anger gave way to misery and exhaustion, and I crept back to bed.

  Chapter Eight

  I was woken by the din of church bells. The cabin was already like an oven, the day far sunnier than my mood. I lay for a few seconds sourly wallowing in the bitterness of rejection. Master Jeremy, it had to be faced, had displayed thighs of clay. It was possible Gussie had had an attack of insomnia or intense amorousness last night, which had prevented him sneaking up on deck to find me, but it seemed unlikely. I had been convinced I could extract him from her as easily as a Kleenex from its box. But I had plainly miscalculated. He must prefer the security of her prop forward arms to my more subtle embraces. They were, after all, engaged, and he more accustomed to behaving like a gentleman than a full-blooded male. All the same, I wasn’t going to give up without a fight; it would give old Torquemada Llewellyn too much satisfaction. I’d just have to find a chisel and prise Jeremy away like a barnacle.

  The boat was also beginning to get on my nerves. My hair hadn’t been washed for two days and was losing its slippery sheen. I was desperate to have a bath, and fed up with not being able to admire myself in a long mirror.

  Gussie was in the kitchen — I’m surprised she didn’t put up a camp bed there — simultaneously washing up breakfast, cooking lunch, eating cold new potatoes and making out wedding lists.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, beaming. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Brilliantly,’ I said. ‘It must be all that fresh air.’

  ‘Don’t the church bells sound lovely?’ she said, ‘I adore country churches — all that soft brick, and sermons about crops, and rosy-cheeked choirboys scuttling in late.’

  ‘Because the vicar’s been pinching them in the vestry. It’d be worth going to church to get cool. It’s like a sauna on board.’

  Gussie looked a bit shocked.

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ I said lightly. ‘Or rather I’ve never had any evidence that He believed in me.’

  ‘I didn’t think about Him that much,’ said Gussie, ‘until I found Jeremy, and then I just felt I ought to be saying thank you for my incredible luck all the time.’ She bent over to empty the sink tidy, displaying a vast stretch of blue-jeaned bottom. Wranglers must sew up their trousers with underground cables to stand that kind of strain.

  ‘I hoped Jeremy’d wake up in time to go to Matins with me,’ she went on, ‘but he’s still out like a light. Mind you, it’s good for him. He’s been working so hard at the office, and I often think the strain of getting married is even worse for men.’

  She glanced at her list again, absentmindedly breaking off a bit of celery and putting it in her mouth.

  ‘Do you think I’ll need a Mac in my trousseau?’

  ‘Well, I’ve always preferred men with cars,’ I said. ‘But I suppose you could wear a black plastic one with nothing underneath for the bedroom. Do you need any help?’ I added, unenthusiastically, taking an orange from the fruit bowl.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘I want you to enjoy yourself.’

  ‘I’ll go and sunbathe then.’

  I took a lilo and my incredibly boring biography of Matthew Arnold out on deck. I had put on a new black bikini, composed only of four black triangles, held together by bootlaces, with not really enough triangle to go round. The sun was already high in the sky and boring down on the boat. Snaky brown tree roots gleamed below the surface of the oily water. Meadowsweet was spread thick as cream on the lush green banks. The birds were still being shouted down by the church bells. It
was far too hot for clothes. I took off my bikini top and lay down. Within twenty minutes sweat was pouring in rivulets down the ridges of the lilo. I was just about to retreat inside for a towel and a drink of water when I heard a wolf whistle. I flicked open my eyes, straight into the highly unacceptable face of capitalism, and quickly flicked them shut again. It was Gareth — already after two days tanned dark brown by the sun — carrying the Sunday papers, a large gin and tonic, and a wireless playing Mozart.

  ‘Morning, lovely,’ he said. ‘You’re overdressed. Why don’t you take off the bottom half as well?’

  I ignored him, feigning sleep.

  The next moment Gussie joined us.

  ‘Oh Tavy,’ she said. ‘Do you think you should? Someone might see you from the bank.’

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ said Gareth. ‘Here’s the News of the World, and shut up. I won’t give you a paper, Octavia, as I know you’re finding that biography of Matthew Arnold quite unput-downable. Bags I borrow it next.’

  I gritted my teeth. For a few minutes they read in silence. I got hotter and hotter, like a chicken on a spit.

  ‘Why do they always write about the emphasis being on the hips this year, when one’s just had a huge breakfast?’ sighed Gussie.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Gareth, showing her The Sunday Times. ‘They’ve given us a good write-up, recommending their readers to buy our shares, which is more than they’re doing for Seaford-Brennen.’

  ‘How many people work at Seaford-Brennen, Tavy?’ said Gussie.

  ‘About a quarter of them,’ said Gareth, taking a huge swig at his gin and tonic.

  Gussie giggled.

  ‘You don’t know anything about them,’ I hissed at him. ‘Why don’t you stick to underpasses, which you seem to know all about?’

  ‘There’s a most interesting thing here about schism in the Catholic church,’ said Gussie, hastily. ‘Do you think priests should marry, Gareth?’

  ‘Only if they love each other.’

  Gussie shrieked with laughter.

  There was only one single bell tolling now, hurrying people to church.

  ‘They always ring out of tune back home in Wales,’ said Gareth. ‘One of the bellringers is a very pretty girl given to wearing mini skirts. All the men bellringers are in love with her, and every time she lets her bell go up, they pull their bells down to have a good look. Christ it’s hot. It must be in the nineties.’

  ‘I’m going to get a drink. Do you want one, Tavy?’ said Gussie.

  ‘I do,’ said Gareth, handing her his glass.

  ‘I hope Jeremy wakes up soon. It’ll be much cooler once we get going,’ said Gussie.

  I turned over on my side, pretending to be asleep. Through the rails I could see the elm trees full of a blue darkness, and a heat haze shimmering above the hay fields. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I heard was Jeremy’s voice saying, ‘What the hell did you give me last night?’

  ‘Mogodon,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Mogodon!’ said Jeremy in horror. ‘Three of them! Christ, you bastard! That’s almost an overdose. No wonder they knocked me out like a sledge hammer.’

  ‘It was for your own good,’ said Gareth. ‘Kept you out of mischief and Miss Brennen’s bed.’

  ‘I wish you’d bloody well stop playing Anti-Cupid,’ snapped Jeremy.

  ‘Hush,’ said Gareth softly, ‘you’ll wake Octavia.’ Jeremy lowered his voice, ‘God she looks fantastic.’

  ‘Like a Ming vase,’ said Gareth. ‘Beautiful, but empty. Why don’t you write one of your famous poems about her? “Oh lovely Octavia, How I’d like to make a slave of ya.”’

  ‘Oh, put a sock in it,’ said Jeremy angrily.

  ‘Have you got a copy of Shakespeare on board?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘Somewhere in the bookcase in the saloon. What do you want to look up?’

  ‘The Taming of the Shrew,’ said Gareth. ‘I thought I might pick up a few tips on how to handle Octavia.’

  Jeremy lost his temper. ‘Will you stop jumping on that poor girl?’

  ‘Why, are you jumping on her already?’

  ‘I am not. Why the hell don’t you go and start the boat?’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ said Gareth. ‘I’ve come here on holiday. It’s the first break I’ve had in months, and I’m enjoying the view far too much. I can’t decide if Octavia’s glorious knockers remind me more of the Himalayas or the Pyramids.’

  ‘Jeremy,’ called Gussie — she obviously didn’t like Jeremy admiring the view either — ‘do come and start the boat.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, reluctantly; then more softly to Gareth, ‘if you don’t get off Octavia’s back, there’ll be trouble.’

  ‘Her back is not the part of her anatomy uppermost in my mind at the moment.’

  I was nearly expiring with heat and rage by now. I was also worried about my tits burning. My hair was ringing with sweat. I shook it out of my eyes and glared at Gareth.

  ‘Do you want me to oil you?’ he said.

  ‘No thank you,’ I hissed.

  ‘Why don’t we have a cease-fire. It is the sabbath after all?’ he said, looking down at me with amused and lascivious pleasure.

  ‘You’re disgusting,’ I said, furiously turning over on my front.

  There was the sound of engines, and the boat started. Even when we were on the move the heat didn’t let up. As we sailed into a long stretch of open river with no shade, Gareth got to his feet and stretched.

  ‘I’m worried you’ll overcook, Octavia.’

  And the next moment he’d dived into the river with a huge splash, sending a tidal wave of filthy oily water all over me. I leapt up, screaming, grabbing my bikini top.

  ‘Will you stop hounding me,’ I howled as he surfaced, laughing, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

  ‘I thought you needed cooling down,’ he said, and, scooping a great handful of water in my direction, soaked me again.

  Gibbering with rage, I rushed into the kitchen.

  ‘That sod’s just drenched me.’

  Gussie giggled. ‘Oh poor Tavy! Here, have a towel.’

  ‘It’s soaked my hair,’ I stormed, ‘I must wash it at once.’

  ‘You can’t really,’ said Gussie, sympathetically. ‘There simply isn’t enough water. I’m sure it’ll dry all right.’

  I caught sight of my face in the mirror. There was a great red mark on my cheek where I’d lain on Matthew Arnold. It looked as though Gareth had socked me one, and doubled my ill temper.

  ‘But normally I wash my hair every day,’ I screamed. ‘It’s crawling off my head. I’ve never been on anything as primitive as this bloody boat.’

  Then I made the most awful scene. None of Gussie’s bromides could soothe me.

  ‘No one goes out of their way deliberately to hurt people,’ she said finally.

  ‘I do,’ said Gareth, coming in dripping river water and seizing the towel from me. ‘I’m like a leopard, I kill for the hell of it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have soaked her,’ said Gussie, reproachfully.

  ‘I’m going back to London,’ I said.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Gareth. ‘There’s a fast train on the hour from Reading. Next time you come down we’ll arrange QE2 facilities.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Jeremy, shouting down the stairs.

  ‘We’ve got a mutiny on our hands, Mr Christian,’ said Gareth. ‘Able sea woman Brennen wants to desert. Shall we keelhaul her or give her 1000 lashes?’

  Gussie — God rot her — started to laugh.

  Jeremy came down the stairs and took in the situation in a swift glance.

  ‘Go and steer,’ he said angrily to Gareth. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble for one morning. I own this boat, and what I say goes.’

  ‘Sorry Captain Bligh, I mistook you for Mr Christian,’ said Gareth, grinning and filling up his glass, he disappeared up the stairs, shouting, ‘Ahoy, Ahoy, my kingdom for a hoy.’

  Jeremy poured me a stiff drink
, and took me into the saloon.

  ‘I’m sorry about Gareth,’ he said, gently, ‘he’s being diabolical. I think he must be going through the change of life.’

  ‘He’s probably irritated I haven’t succumbed yet,’ I said.

  ‘Hell knows no fury like a Welshman scorned.’

  There was a pause. Jeremy put some books back on the shelf.

  ‘Did you wait very long last night?’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Not very,’ I said. ‘I was disappointed, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Gussie was yapping and yapping away about soft furnishings and the next thing I knew it was morning. Bloody sleeping pills. I’m terribly sorry, you must think me such a drip.’

  I laughed, suddenly I felt much happier.

  ‘You couldn’t do much on three Mogodons.’

  ‘If you’re really desperate for a bath,’ he said, ‘we’ll stop at the next lock and see what we can do.’

  ‘Where are we anyway?’ I said.

  ‘About half a mile from Grayston.’

  ‘That’s where Ricky Seaford lives,’ I said in excitement. ‘I’ll give him a ring at the next lock and we can go and swim in his pool.’

  ‘I’ll come ashore with you,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘Behave yourself, Octavia,’ Gareth shouted after us as we got off the boat, ‘or we’ll get The Rape of the Lock Keeper, and Jeremy’ll be forced to write a long poem about it afterwards, in heroic couplets.’

  Scarlet geraniums blazed in pots on the window-ledges; the whitewashed stone of the lock-keeper’s cottage assaulted the eye. The quay scorched my bare feet. Inside the cottage it was dark and at least cooler. Jeremy tactfully stayed outside while I telephoned. The butler answered. Mrs Seaford was not back from church, but Mr Seaford was in, he said. That was a relief.

  Ricky was a long time coming to the telephone. I watched the flypaper hanging from the ceiling, black with desperate, writhing insects, and examined the coronation mugs and framed photographs of children with white bows in their hair on a nearby dresser.

  ‘Hullo Octavia,’ said Ricky’s familiar, plummy, port-soaked voice. It sounded more guarded than usual. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m only a quarter of a mile away,’ I said. ‘Roughing it on a barge.’