Debutantes

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘As I was saying, there’s no problem with a boat either, Uncle Lampard, because Mr Plumb and Mr Moth have repaired your old sailing dinghy which we’d all forgotten was in the boathouse on the lake. It’s perfectly shipshape so Mr Plumb says, and he also said he’d teach me how to sail so it won’t really cost you anything. He said we could put the boat on the farmcart and hike it over to Horning where he’ll teach me how to sail properly on the Broads. He says we’d never get enough wind on our lake.’

  ‘True,’ Sir Lampard said, fiddling with the florin which he’d rediscovered on the table. ‘True enough. But what’s this all about, missy? By and large in my experience with girls, which isn’t that much up to snuff, by and large girls don’t usually want learn how to sail, do they?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Uncle. The point is I would like to learn, because when I’m quite grown up I’d like to sail to all sorts of places. Perhaps even round the world.’

  ‘What – like Vasco da Gama, y’mean. That sort of thing, eh?’

  ‘Vasco da Gama didn’t sail round the world, Uncle. He doubled the Cape of Good Hope and sailed to India. Ferdinand Magellan was the first man to sail around the world.’

  ‘Well done,’ Sir Lampard said dubiously, still fingering the florin on the table. ‘Obviously you ain’t spent all that time in me library for nothing, eh? Very well then, if your aunt’s agreed, so be it. So be it. Jolly good.’ With that he picked up the coin and dropped it back in his pocket before disappearing again behind his newspaper.

  * * *

  Portia sailed all summer long. With the household now running more smoothly than it had probably ever run before and Aunt Tattie sufficiently recovered to be left under the joint supervision of Evie and Mildred, Portia was allowed to go off with Mr Plumb – and Mrs Plumb who was now in charge of the laundry at Bannerwick acting as chaperone in the dog cart – across to beyond Horning where the coachman had secured a mooring for the newly restored sailing dinghy which Portia had christened Swallow. As Mrs Plumb sat on the bank knitting with Henry sitting close by and quietly chewing the wool when given the chance, Portia learned how to sail.

  She learned to sail even more quickly than she had learned to swim, with the result that it seemed no time at all before she knew how to put off, set sail, and pack on, when to sail bunt fair and when to haul to, how to pay off the head and how to sail close-hauled, to pinch, luff, luff and lie or touch her, how to shape and hold a course, to yaw, tack and box off, build a chapel, bear in with or off the land, shoot Charley Noble, snug down, wear short and even how to weather the storms that would often and unaccountably blow in across the Broads seemingly from nowhere.

  Of course after the constraints of domestic life at Bannerwick the sensation of sailing was even more wonderful to Portia. The rush of the water past the hull, the slap of the wind in the canvas, the creak of the hull as the dinghy rode the waves, the spray on her face and the sheer exhilaration as catching an unexpected strong breeze Swallow suddenly surged forward with her sail billowed and her rudder hard held to keep on line. When they were running fast the air would be full of Mr Plumb and Portia calling to each other. Give her beans, Miss Portia! Mr Plumb would shout. Keep her rap full and run! and in return Portia would call back as she prepared the next manoeuvre Left handsomely! Give her more rudder, Mr Plumb! Meet her – meet her! Keep her so and steady! Then at other times when the wind had dropped and Swallow would drift on water as calm as marble, Mr Plumb would sit in the bows smoking his pipe while Portia sat astern with nothing to be heard except the gentle slap of water and the faint creak of the hull while above them would glide a silent bittern or ahead they might see a sudden vivid blue splash as a kingfisher struck or catch sight of a cormorant standing on a small island with his dark wings outstretched, like some holy creature summoning his flock to pray.

  Once she was a little more sure of her skills Portia decided to take Henry out with them, reasoning that being a gregarious fellow he would enjoy this a great deal more than sitting with Mrs Plumb and being told off for eating her knitting. After all, once he had worked them out one at a time and with great caution, he had managed the stairs at Bannerwick to the manner born. Much the same thing applied to his first outing in Swallow. When he was properly introduced to the craft at her mooring he pulled away from his lead and leaning himself as hard back as he could told the boat off with his odd-sounding bark, which sounded less like a bark than the noise someone with adenoids might make who was being made to dance on hot coals in a cupboard. Roo-roo-roo! he agonized. Roo-roo-roo-roo-roo! Portia had to ask Mr Plumb to hand Henry to her once she was already on board and both she and Mr Plumb nearly fell in the water from laughing, so comical was the sight of Henry with both front legs stuck out in front of him in rigid protest and his monkey-like tail dropping down behind him like a disconsolate donkey. For the whole of his first outing he sat on his lead underneath his mistress’s seat in the bows. In fact he seemed so miserable that Portia seriously considered leaving him behind until she found that Henry would not be denied her company.

  As soon as he saw her getting dressed preparatory to going out, he got up on the sofa in her bedroom and performed what became known as Henry’s Old Chinaman Dying Act, which consisted of leaning back from a sitting position against a cushion with his head turned tragically to one side while emitting every so often a low-sounding moan. At first Portia was convinced that something was severely wrong with her little dog and and-scooped him straight up in her arms, whereupon the tail which had been tragically straight immediately whipped into a joyful curlicue while at the same time the happy dog sprayed Portia full in the face with the results of an ecstatic snort.

  ‘Very well, Henry Pug,’ Portia had warned him, laughing and wiping her face with her handkerchief. ‘But this time no hiding under my skirts.’

  As if he knew, on his next arrival at the mooring Henry leaped from the grass straight into the boat after Portia before Mr Plumb could safely hand him over and then jumped up onto the seat in the bows where he sat for the entire outing. Two outings later he had the run of the boat and finally and momentously on the very next trip, out of the blue he decided to take his first swim.

  Swallow lay momentarily becalmed, as did the handful of other small boats which were out on the water that fine, sunny September afternoon. Mr Plumb had just relit his pipe and waved to Mrs Plumb who could be seen sitting on her rug on the bank knitting away as usual, while Portia was staring down into the almost still water at a school of small fish she could see swimming quite close to the surface near the hull of the boat. Henry stood beside her on the seat, staring down into the water as well, his tail curled and twitching the way it did when he was pleased or excited and his brow deeply furrowed as he studied the mystery of the transparent and inodorous element beneath his squashed-up nose.

  The next thing Portia knew the dog was in the water.

  ‘Quickly, Mr Plumb! Quickly!’ Portia called, bending down to lift the hem of her skirt in order to start undoing her bootlaces. ‘Henry’s fallen in the water!’

  ‘He didn’t fall in, Miss Portia!’ Mr Plumb called back. ‘He jumped in quite deliberate! I saw him!’

  ‘But he can’t swim, Mr Plumb!’ Portia returned, frantically trying to undo her laces. ‘He’s never been in the water before!’

  ‘So what you think that is he’s doin’, then? All dogs knows how to swim, Miss Portia! ’Tis in their natures!’

  Portia stopped for a moment and looked out to where Henry was, and sure enough he was swimming along perfectly happily, his black-muzzled face held high above the water and his tail stuck out behind him like a rudder.

  ‘Yes,’ Portia agreed reluctantly, although still anxious. ‘Yes, he’s swimming all right, Mr Plumb. The only trouble is he’s swimming away from us! Look!’

  By now the little dog had made twenty-odd yards from the boat and was swimming steadily away from them to nowhere in particular.

  ‘Henry!’ Portia called at the top of her voi
ce. ‘Henry, come back here at once, do you hear me? Henry!’

  Mr Plumb was busily trying to furl the sail so that he could get at the oars and row after the dog, but due to Portia’s increasing panic the boat nearly tipped on its side and in his hurry Mr Plumb dropped one of the oars which at once started to float away.

  ‘Oh, this is terrible, Mr Plumb!’ Portia cried as Henry’s little head bobbed ever further and further away. ‘Supposing he gets tired! He could drown! Or a pike might get him or something!’

  But Mr Plumb was too involved in trying to retrieve the oar which was quickly floating out of his reach to respond. So Portia sat back down and finally managing to pull her boots off was about to tuck her skirt up in her drawers and jump in after her precious pug when a voice hailed her.

  ‘Hello!’ it called. ‘Hello over there!’

  Looking up Portia saw a young man in a rowing boat swinging round and heading in their direction. ‘Are you in difficulty?’ he called. ‘Because if you are, don’t worry! Be with you in a jiffy!’

  ‘No!’ Portia called back quickly, with one arm wrapped around the mast. ‘No, we’re all right, but my little dog jumped in the water and look! He’s over there! He’s swimming away and we can’t get to him!’

  ‘That’s all right!’ the young man called back. ‘I’ll get him for you!’

  Swinging his boat around skilfully on one oar he set about rowing hard and fast towards the dog who seemed determined to reach the blue beyond which lines every summer horizon, but Henry was no match for the strength of his, rescuer who was alongside him in no time at all and pulling him out of the water by the big loose scruff on his neck. He was at once rewarded by a thoroughly good soaking as the ungrateful Henry shook himself dry.

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Portia said, as the young man handed Henry back to her. ‘I really should have had him on his lead, but he’s been so good up until now.’

  ‘It really posed no problem at all, I assure you.’

  The young man smiled and Portia saw how handsome he was, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and suntanned, all in all a very good-looking boy. Nor could she help noticing how athletic he was since he was only wearing a white linen shirt with its sleeves rolled right up over his biceps and an old pair of what looked like cricketing bags done up about the waist with a striped and knotted necktie. ‘I’m Richard Ward,’ he said, leaning over the side of his boat to shake Portia’s hand. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘My name’s Portia Tradescant,’ she replied, finding herself suddenly shy. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Pretty well, thank you. Here – allow me to fetch that for you,’ he said to Mr Plumb, who was still trying to retrieve his errant oar which had now drifted back almost but not quite to within his arm’s reach. ‘There we are.’ Having picked the oar up out of the water Richard Ward handed it back, careful not to catch Portia with it as he did so. ‘I used to lose so many oars when I first started rowing my father had chains put on them so I wouldn’t get marooned,’ he told them both, laughing.

  ‘That’s a fine idea,’ Portia agreed. ‘We should do that, don’t you think, Mr Plumb? This is Mr Plumb by the way, Mr Ward. He’s our coachman and a first-class sailor. He’s been teaching me how to sail.’

  ‘Jolly good, Plumb. What an excellent notion. If only more people had the foresight to teach young ladies to sail then the Broads would be an even lovelier place, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I do, sir,’ Mr Plumb replied, carefully replacing the rescued oar alongside the other one. ‘Though sometimes on days like this ’tis hard to imagine that possible.’

  ‘It’s possible, Plumb, I do assure you,’ Richard replied, looking at Portia and smiling an altogether devastating smile at her once again. ‘Now then, after all that excitement, might I possibly offer you some refreshment? Our house isn’t far away. It’s just over there, up that creek.’ He pointed to an inlet not more than quarter of a mile behind them. ‘My mother and father would be charmed, I am quite sure, Miss er – Tradescant, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Ward,’ Portia replied, with a hand held firmly on the still soaking wet Henry’s back lest he should try to jump up onto her lap. ‘And thank you for your invitation, but I’m afraid I have to get back home. As it is with the wind having dropped so suddenly and then the fright with Henry here we are going to be late.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Tradescant.’ Richard paddled deftly with his oars to make sure his boat stayed alongside Swallow. ‘When might you be coming sailing again?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow as it happens, Mr Ward.’

  ‘Perhaps you would come and have tea with my family and me then? You simply sail directly up Brue Creek there, between those two willows, do you see? And our house is at the head of it. You won’t miss it. It’s called Brueham House.’

  ‘Brueham House,’ Aunt Tattie had mused vaguely. ‘And the Wards you say, Portia. Why, that must be Cuthbert Ward’s boy you met. Yes, Brueham House. Yes, it would have to be.’

  Portia had asked her aunt if she knew the family, but it appeared Aunt Tattie only knew of them rather than actually being acquainted with them which was a disappointment, because Portia had naturally hoped that if the families had called on each other there might be a better chance of a return visit – that is if she was allowed to accept Richard’s invitation to tea in the first place. Aunt Tattie had seen no great harm in it, however, particularly once she had remembered who exactly Sir Cuthbert Ward was.

  ‘He’s a frightfully distinguished sailor, Portia dear, an admiral of some sort. Can’t remember whether he’s a rear or what. Not that it matters. Yes. What I do remember is he’s frightfully distinguished. And brave I do believe. Did something heroic somewhere or other, at some time or other. Not that it matters because as you know I am at heart a pacifist, and not at all taken with warfare. No no, not at all. Not one bit, in fact. But there you are, that is the way of the world. I don’t see why you should not go, as long as you take Mrs Plumb as your chaperone. Which you usually do anyway. It will be nice for you to have a friend, do you know. No, I really don’t see any good reason why you should not go. And don’t forget to take Mrs Whatever. Mrs Plumb. You know you must have a chaperone. As long as you can fit her in the boat.’

  So Portia left Mr Plumb ashore for this trip, since he had expressed himself well content with the prospect of an afternoon’s fishing from the bank, and with Mrs Plumb ensconced for’ard and Henry safely on his lead beside his mistress in the stern sailed skilfully and safely across the Broad to enjoy her first social engagement with a member of the opposite sex.

  So began the first real friendship of Portia’s life outside the household of Bannerwick. Her only youthful companion had been Edward, and he was now gone from her life. Otherwise her friendships had been with relatives like Aunt Tattie or associations with servants such as Evie and the ever dreaming Mildred. On the few occasions when Edward had been home he and she had gone to tea with other families where she had met other girls of her acquaintance. And occasionally they themselves had been allowed nursery parties at Bannerwick, but these were uncomfortable affairs, dominated by the nannies rather than planned for the enjoyment of the children, and no friendships had ever really progressed out of them.

  Besides, as Portia discovered later, most of the parents of the children who had come to Bannerwick parties thought that Aunt Tattie and Uncle Lampard were really too eccentric to be acceptable, and did not exactly encourage their offspring to maintain friendships with the Tradescant young. Nowadays it was common knowledge in the county that Uncle Lampard had strange habits, stranger even than his insistence on sleeping outside on his bedroom balcony most nights of the year, winter and summer, while Aunt Tattie was considered definitely fey to the point of oddness. Worst of all, neither of the Tradescant elders hunted or shot.

  As for the children of Aunt Tattie’s Arts and Crafts friends, much as Portia had tried to like them she had not been successful. In truth Edward was not alone in his conservatism as far
as childhood went, for Portia too longed to play as other children of her own age played, but her aunt was not in favour of this, being of the firm opinion that traditional children’s games and pursuits stunted healthy intellectual growth. Rather than build tree houses and fish from a boat on the lake she considered it a better thing for growing children to study the arts and the humanities. Little wonder then that she had frightened off all Portia and Edward’s contemporaries, and provided a ready reason for Edward to pay no more than the odd passing visit to his old home.

  There was little doubt they would both have been happier children given a more normal upbringing, but in light of what had happened Portia now considered she really had no right to such a thing. Blaming herself for the miseries which had befallen her family she had plunged herself into a programme of reparation, and the denial of a more conventional upbringing she considered to be the proper penance for her misdemeanour.

  But now, mindful that she had paid off her debt in full, she decided that nothing whatsoever was going to spoil her friendship with Dick Ward, particularly after her first visit to Brueham House.

  There were several boats moored at the head of the creek, from the smallest punts through dinghies about the same size as Portia’s to a splendid and handsome thirty-foot yacht called Mandrake, shipshape with her sails furled and bobbing gently on the end of her painter. From the jetty a long lawn ran up to a rambling red brick and white clapboard house surrounded by flower beds which were a riot of colour and backed by a wood of gracious elms and beech trees. As Portia and Mrs Plumb made their way towards the house they could see the family gathered for tea on a terrace underneath a graceful portico which ran the length of the main part of the building. Richard Ward was already on his way down the lawn to greet her, followed by a large sheepdog which kept jumping up at him from behind either to tug at his shirt or apparently to try to push him over. Richard called good-naturedly for him to behave, but to no avail for it seemed the dog was determined to get the better of his young master before he had reached his visitors.