The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  Mr. Dodgson paid no attention to the crowd of picnickers. He found a clear spot and folded himself down onto the grass, leaving Touie to deal with the tablecloth, the basket, and the folding camp stool thoughtfully provided by Telling.

  Touie set the basket down and spread out the cloth. She was glad she did not have a very large bustle to cope with, but her small nod to fashion was awkward to sit on. Instead, she stood and watched the boats on the water.

  “How very many people are out on the river today,” Touie remarked, as she observed the scene. “What are they doing?”

  Mr. Dodgson rose to his feet to point out the various types of craft with a gray-gloved hand. “This is the Holywell Mill Stream,” he lectured his guest, “named for a well that was renowned for its healing powers. You saw the reference in the stained-glass window in the Cathedral.”

  Touie nodded. “And what is that little canoe?” She pointed to the small object erratically making its way down the stream toward the southernmost point of the meadow, where the narrow channel met the wider, more turbulent Cherwell.

  “It is not a canoe,” Mr. Dodgson corrected her. “It is a punt. Canoes are propelled by means of paddles. A punt is pushed forward by means of the pole.”

  “I see.” Touie shaded her eyes with one hand. “They seem to be in some difficulty,” she observed.

  Mr. Dodgson frowned. “They should not be so close to the Cherwell,” he said. “Punts are more difficult to control than would be thought.”

  Touie pointed at the long, narrow sculls that could be seen over the grassy island that separated the Holywell Mill Stream from the river proper. “What are those other boats, the long ones?” Touie asked,

  “Those are shells,” Mr. Dodgson explained. “Each college has a team of rowers, who compete against one another for the title of Head of the River.”

  “How exciting!” Touie shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun. “I know about the races against Cambridge, of course, but I didn’t realize how many competitors there were. They quite fill the water!”

  “This is practice,” Mr. Dodgson said. “The channel here is quite narrow, so that only one or two boats can get through at a time. The object of the contest is to bump the lead boat and so gain the advantage. The college that can do that and hold off all comers is named Head of the River for the year.”

  Touie watched the young men as they bent over their oars. Between the heat and the intense physical activity, they had been obliged to lay aside their academic garb. Most were in shirtsleeves, their collars opened and their sleeves rolled up to display well-muscled arms. Tousled fair or dark heads bent and stretched, while the coxswain in the stern acted as guide and shouted directions to the rowers.

  “That is the Christ Church team,” Mr. Dodgson announced with satisfaction. “We have every reason to believe that we will maintain our position as Head of the River.”

  “Oh, my!” Touie watched the progress of the punt. “There are ladies in that boat!”

  There certainly were three women in white shirtwaists, bloomer skirts, and straw hats. Gertrude Bell, Mary Talbot, and Dianna Cahill had taken their punt out, as they had said, but they had gone far beyond their appointed destination.

  The watchers on the banks realized that something was in the offing. Conversation died and all disputation ceased as the drama unfolded before the shocked and amused eyes of the picnickers on Christ Church Meadow.

  The punters were clearly out of their depth. The Holywell Mill Stream, usually a placid channel, was deeper this year by at least six inches thanks to the snows of the previous winter. The pole, which should have been long enough to reach the bottom of the channel, was too short, so that the girl in the stern found herself without anything to push. This left the paddler in the bows with the responsibility of guiding the craft, a task totally beyond her capability given the strength of the current.

  On the other side of the grassy island that separated the Holywell Mill Stream from the main flow of the Cherwell the Christ Church rowers bent their backs, unaware of the tragedy ahead of them. The coxswain, Minnie Chatsworth, spotted the punt, but by then the sweeps of the oars had already caught the little craft in their wake. Collision was inevitable.

  The shell and the punt met at the point where the stream joined the Cherwell. The men roared their disapproval as the girls struggled to keep their little craft afloat.

  “You stupid cow! Get off our river!” Lord Farlow, the lead rower, vigorously plied an oar to shove the offending craft out of the way.

  “Your river! Who gave it to you?” Gertrude was not to be run off. “Mary, pull! Dianna, what are you thinking of? Now is no time to design a bonnet!”

  “I can’t keep it steady!” Dianna howled.

  “The current’s too strong!” Mary struggled with the front paddle.

  “Who the devil are you, and who told you you could punt?” Farlow yelled, as he tried to push the punt out of the way of the shell. The teams from Corpus Christi and Merton shot past them, while the Christ Church men did battle with the punt.

  “We’re from Lady Margaret Hall,” Gertrude proudly proclaimed. “Miss Gertrude Bell, at your service.” She managed a bow from her place at the pole and swept an arm toward her crew. “And this is Miss Dianna Cahill and Miss Mary Talbot.”

  Farlow’s face paled, then reddened. He suddenly thrust his oar at the side of the women’s boat, causing it to rock dangerously.

  This seemed to be the signal for an all-out attack on the punt. Oars were plied vigorously, thumping against the boat, while the three girls clung to the sides.

  Amid the splashing and shouting, the punt tipped over and the three girls went into the river with a soggy splash. A cheer of triumph went up from the Christ Church rowers. The crowd on the shore was more alarmed.

  “Are they all right?”

  “They are swimming!”

  “The water should not be so deep as to be a danger to them,” the shrill voice of Mr. Dodgson seemed to cut through the babble, as he strode through the crowd with Touie right behind him.

  Gertrude and Mary made for the shore, weighted down by the water that filled the heavy serge of their bloomer suits. Hands were extended to get them up, while the rowers pulled their boat to the shore, furious that they had been deprived of their chance to shine by a senseless and humiliating collision with a pack of silly females.

  Farlow strode over to where Gertrude and Mary were being fussed over by two of the motherly visitors, each of whom had sacrificed a shawl to dry off the intrepid female boaters. Minnie Chatsworth and Gregory Martin followed in his wake, ready to intervene if their volatile comrade should attack once again.

  Touie drew nearer to see who had caused the accident. “It is Miss Bell and Miss Talbot,” Touie said, recognizing them. Gertrude waved cheerfully then suddenly realized that someone was missing.

  “Where is Dianna?” Gertrude scanned the water’s surface. “Dianna?”

  “How deep is it?” Touie asked anxiously, as she scanned the murky stream, made murkier by the mud brought up by Gertrude and Mary’s efforts.

  Mr. Dodgson’s voice reflected his concern. “The rivers have been quite high this spring,” he admitted. “And there is a strong current.”

  “She’s there! I see her!” Gregory Martin took off his spectacles and carefully put them into his jacket pocket. He handed the blazer to Minnie Chatsworth before he jumped into the water and made his way to a clump of weeds, where the billowing bloomers were just visible under the surface. “She’s caught in the rushes,” he announced, “Here, Nevil, Minnie, give us a hand.”

  “Let the silly bitch drown!” Farlow muttered, his words drowned in a torrent of helpful advice shouted by the rest of the crew.

  “Her hair is caught in the weeds,” Martin reported, coming up for air. He took in a huge gulp of air and ducked underwater again. With a massive effort, he heaved the girl out of the mud and pulled her over to the bank, where her former attackers grabbed her and dra
gged her out. The assembled dons and students crowded around the prostrate form, giving advice and arguing over it.

  “Give her air!”

  “Who is she?”

  “What can she have been thinking of?”

  “Is she dead?” Gertrude asked, her face drawn and anxious.

  “Let me through! I am a doctor!” Touie was never so glad to hear her husband’s Scottish burr.

  “Arthur!” Touie cried out. “This poor girl is nearly drowned.”

  Dr. Doyle took charge. “Lay her flat on her, um, front,” he ordered. “Touie, you’ll have to help here. Bend her arms, and put her hands under her head. Ladies, if you will screen your friend from the curious, my wife will undo her stays, and we can get her breathing again.”

  Touie came forward with a tablecloth, supposedly for their picnic. Gertrude and Mary held it up, while Touie unbuttoned Dianna’s shirtwaist and pulled at her corset-strings.

  “This won’t do at all,” Dr. Doyle fumed. “Here, Touie, just cut them. She can’t breathe in that thing anyway!”

  “Yes, Arthur.” Touie took the pocketknife that was handed to her and ruthlessly cut open the constricting garment, which flew apart as Dianna’s tortured lungs took in air.

  “What can I do?” Gregory Martin knelt down beside his damsel in distress.

  Dr. Doyle placed Dianna’s hands under her head, in the approved manner. He put his hands on her ribcage and pressed down, counted to ten, then released his pressure, lifted her elbows and dropped them again. “Just keep that up, young man,” he directed.

  Young Martin bent to his task, aware that only a thin layer of linen separated his hands from the flesh of his goddess.

  Dianna gasped suddenly and choked. She spat out mud and weeds and coughed again.

  “She’s alive!” Gertrude announced.

  “Well done, young man!” Dean Liddell had observed the entire episode from his luncheon table. Now he joined the crowd, with Miss Wordsworth and Dr. Talbot close behind him, and advanced to congratulate the heroes of the hour. He patted Dr. Doyle on the shoulder and nodded approvingly at Mr. Martin. “You are Mr. Martin, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mr. Martin fumbled for his spectacles and managed a bow.

  “That was quite brave of you, if a little rash,” Dean Liddel pronounced. He then turned to the rowers. “Who began this outrage?” Dean Liddell asked.

  “They did,” Lord Farlow said, pointing to the dripping girls. “What right had they to take out a punt when we were out?”

  Gertrude stood her ground, green eyes flashing. “We have every right to be out,” she declared. “If Lady Margaret Hall is to be accepted on equal terms with every other college, we must be able to compete in athletics as well as academic subjects.”

  “And are you planning on playing cricket, too?” Farlow demanded, advancing on the slender redhead.

  “Steady on, Nev!” Minnie Chatsworth was at his side, pulling him away before he could strike the girl.

  Miss Wordsworth stepped into the dispute. “Miss Bell,” she said, “I thought you were supposed to confine your activity to the Mill Stream above Magdalen Bridge.”

  “We did, but the current took us,” Gertrude explained.

  “And we got around the boats, but the paddle didn’t work,” Mary added.

  Dianna coughed again. Gregory carefully lifted her up and patted her on the back. She suddenly realized that her corsets were no longer in place, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Touie covered the distraught girl with the tablecloth, while the argument continued over their heads.

  Dean Liddell shook his head sadly. “The actions of these young men are reprehensible and very nearly led to a tragedy. However, in order to prevent a recurrence of this event, I strongly suggest that the young ladies should take their exercise at a time more convenient to the gentlemen.”

  “And where is Miss Laurel?” Miss Wordsworth suddenly noticed the lack of a chaperon.

  “We lost her at Magdalen Bridge,” Gertrude giggled.

  Miss Laurel herself struggled through the crowd, her bonnet awry and her shawl flying behind her. “What were you girls thinking of?” she scolded her wayward charges.

  Miss Wordsworth considered what should be done next, while Gregory helped Dianna to her feet.

  “We haven’t been formally introduced, but I’m Gregory Martin,” he explained.

  “I’m Dianna Cahill,” she said, choking again. “Someone cut my stays!”

  “I’m afraid that was necessary,” Touie said.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Dianna clutched the tablecloth and pulled it tighter under her chin. “You’re the doctor’s wife, aren’t you? The one who’s visiting Mr. Dodgson?”

  “Yes, I am,” Touie admitted. “Arthur, what’s to be done with Miss Cahill?”

  “I strongly suggest that she should be taken back to her college as quickly as possible,” Dr. Doyle said firmly. “She has suffered a severe shock to her nerves, and all of you are quite wet. Is there a cart or carriage available to get Miss Cahill back to her school?”

  “We were going to punt back,” Gertrude said.

  “If you can keep to the Mill Stream, I suggest you do that,” Dean Liddell told her. “As for Miss Cahill …”

  “Miss Cahill is in no condition to walk,” Dr. Doyle decreed. “And under the circumstances, she should not go back onto the river.”

  Touie broke into the discussion. “Arthur, why don’t I accompany Miss Cahill back to Lady Margaret Hall with a bath chair, while these two young ladies do as this lady suggests.”

  Miss Wordsworth looked at Mr. Dodgson for enlightenment. Mr. Dodgson explained, “Miss Wordsworth, may I present my guests, Dr. Doyle and his wife. Dr. Doyle has been most efficacious in reviving your student, Miss Cahill.”

  Miss Wordsworth looked Touie over and decided that she was a sensible young woman who would see that Dianna got back to her college safely.

  While Dianna’s fate was being decided, Gertrude and Mary found their craft floating in the weeds. The pole and the paddle had caught in the rushes beside them.

  “Is the boat all right?” Mary asked anxiously.

  “Not a scratch,” Gertrude said gaily. “Mary, we’ll go the other way, against the current.”

  “Won’t that be difficult?” Mary demurred.

  “Of course, but that’s the fun of it! Come on, we’ll be dry by the time we get back to LMH!” Gertrude wiped the mud off her face and settled back into her boat. Mary joined her with a rueful shrug.

  The crowd began to disperse since the dramatic scene was over. Miss Laurel called out from the Broad Walk. A bath chair had been pushed onto the grass by one of Oxford’s characteristic chairmen, a wizened individual in corduroy trousers and jacket, with a cloth cap tipped over one eye.

  “Arthur, this is an excellent opportunity for me to question the girls at Lady Margaret Hall,” Touie whispered to her husband, as Miss Laurel tenderly assisted Dianna into the bath chair.

  “I do hope I can find out something useful.”

  “I depend on you,” Dr. Doyle said.

  “Then I must do my best,” Touie told him, kissing him quickly on the cheek. She followed the chair along the gravel walk, back toward St. Aldgates and the center of town.

  Dean Liddell turned his attention to the undergraduates, who had formed a shamefaced clump, with Farlow as their spokesman. “I hope this has been a lesson to you,” he scolded them. “There could have been a tragedy here. You are all gated.…”

  A cry of protest went up from the group.

  “Gated, I say,” Dean Liddell’s voice carried over the protest. “Lord Farlow, you were the instigator of this dastardly attack on helpless females?”

  Farlow nodded, speechless.

  “But they had it coming to them,” Chatsworth put in. “They shot out in front of us, just as we were gaining …”

  “Enough!” Dean Liddell frowned at his students. “You will each compose an essay, in your least exe
crable hand, in Latin, on the subject of proper behavior toward female undergraduates.”

  “How were we supposed to know they were bluestockings?” Chatsworth asked innocently.

  “They were wearing bloomers!” Someone from the back of the crowd cracked a joke.

  Dean Liddell turned to Miss Wordsworth. “I must apologize for the rudeness of my students,” he said. “I sincerely hope that the young lady will suffer no ill effects from her experience. And I strongly suggest,” he added, as they made their way back to the luncheon table, “that you tell the young woman with the red hair …”

  “Gertrude Bell. She is very young, Dean, only seventeen, and you know how silly they can be,” Miss Wordsworth said.

  “Nevertheless, she should temper her enthusiasm for athletics with some caution.”

  Miss Wordsworth smiled ruefully. “Caution, I fear, is not Miss Bell’s strong suit.”

  Dean Liddell escorted Miss Wordsworth back to their luncheon table, leaving Mr. Dodgson to deal with the exuberant Dr. Doyle.

  Great Tom boomed out again. It was two o’clock. Undergraduates and scholars, workers and tradesmen, all had to return to their appointed tasks. Christ Church Meadows were empty of all but the few who could spend the afternoon in idle contemplation of nature.

  Chapter 20

  While Dean Liddell had been lecturing the undergraduates, Dr. Doyle had taken the opportunity to explore the basket thrust upon him by his wife before she left on her mission of mercy. Now he munched on a sandwich as he walked along the bank of the Holywell Mill Stream with Mr. Dodgson.

  “And what have you been doing, Dr. Doyle?” Mr. Dodgson asked.

  “I spent a very active morning tracing the activities of the deceased,” Dr. Doyle told his mentor. “Apparently, the late James Ingram was a remarkably ingenious individual. He had fingers in several pies. Thieving was the least of his crimes.”