The Boat House

by Pamela Oldfield

  Having checked the windows, Emmie said, ‘No one’s watching!’

  ‘May I?’ Mrs Brannigan held out a plate with three generous cubes of fudge. ‘Orange with walnuts!’ she whispered.

  ‘Of course. How kind of you.’

  Marianne took one and the girls helped themselves and thanked Mrs Brannigan.

  ‘You’re welcome, my dears.’ She turned to Marianne. ‘Such polite children. Beautiful manners.’

  The twins hurried away to sit together on one of the garden seats.

  The neighbour smiled. ‘They always do that. They sit there nibbling away like two little mice, to make it last.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Their grandmother doesn’t like them to eat too many sweets and I do understand but one piece each now and then won’t harm them.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me. It’s delicious.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘To be honest,’ Mrs Brannigan confessed, ‘I thought it a good excuse to get to know you. My husband thought it rather forward of me but there . . .’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘The twins are charming and I’m sure you will enjoy working with them. And we do miss the children who used to come into our sweet shop before we retired, clutching their pennies in hot little hands, wide-eyed with excitement.’ She gave a slight shrug. ‘We never did have any children of our own. It wasn’t God’s will, apparently.’

  ‘A sweet shop!’ Marianne smiled. ‘Isn’t that every child’s dream? I remember wanting to own a sweet shop. My brother wanted to be an engine-driver, of course. Not that he did. He worked for the railway as an inspector – visiting various towns and making checks on the administration. Hardly exciting work but some years ago he was sent out to India as some kind of supervisor.’

  It seemed that her words were falling on deaf ears, however, as her neighbour, a wistful look on her face, continued. ‘We bought in some of the sweets – the barley sugar and the pear drops, the gobstoppers, sugar mice and liquorice strips, but we made toffee apples and coconut ice and . . .’ She tucked back a lock of grey hair and sighed. ‘Now it’s no more than a hobby.’

  Suddenly Marianne saw a chance and took it. ‘The twins insist there is a ghost in the garden – a male ghost that lives in the boat house. I expect they’ve told you about it.’

  Surprised by the change of direction, the older woman frowned. ‘Yes, they do mention it from time to time . . . It’s odd, though, you know, because once I thought I glimpsed someone down there but I wasn’t sure. My husband says I must be psychic! I hope I’m not, I told him. I’d rather think it was a prowler.’

  ‘A prowler? Oh dear!’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about, my dear. People climb up the bank from the river, you see. We do occasionally have a small robbery but not recently. We’ve all got very secure locks on all the doors, as you can imagine. A prowler – that’s what they saw, I expect. A would-be burglar! Flesh and blood. Nothing eerie.’

  ‘Do they ever use the boat house – the Matlowes, I mean? Do they have a boat? I’m thinking that, being Henley and so near the site of the Royal Regatta . . .’

  ‘I’m told by your gardener that in the old days, when Mrs Matlowe’s husband was alive, they had a punt and he used to take part, but they never have since we moved in. And their neighbours on the other side, the Barneses, who’ve been here much longer than we have . . .’

  ‘I haven’t met them.’

  ‘He’s a photographer. Anyway, his wife said that Mrs Matlowe is scared of water so she was never involved. And her son’s no longer around, of course. Such a tragedy. And we don’t really know Mrs Matlowe.’ She leaned forward confidingly. ‘I think she thinks of us as “trade” because of the shop we owned.’ Her tone had changed slightly. ‘Our house here was left to my husband by his parents six years ago and we do rather rattle around in it. Still, you can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, can you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Marianne hesitated, wondering whether she dare ask further questions or whether she had gone far enough already. There would no doubt be other occasions when they would talk, and there were the kitchen staff. Marianne had not questioned them yet.

  Excusing herself from the conversation, she went across to the girls who had finished their fudge and were now awaiting instructions.

  ‘Choose three leaves each,’ Marianne told them, ‘and we’ll take them inside and look them up in a book and then we’ll know the names of the trees.’

  They nodded dutifully but Emmie said, ‘May we go down to the end of the garden? There are some lovely big trees down there – right next to the boat house.’

  Edie added, ‘But only if you come with us in case we see the ghost man.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll come with you.’

  Edie promptly took hold of her hand but Emmie strolled ahead, trying to appear nonchalant. The sun shone, a blackbird foraged among last year’s leaves in search of food, and to Marianne’s discerning eyes there was not the slightest hint of danger.

  While Emmie and Edie searched out their leaves Marianne went carefully up the decaying steps of the boat house and tried to look inside through a panel of glass in the door. The years, however, had greened the glass and she could see very little of the interior. It was just possible to make out the dim outline of what she assumed was an old punt, which rested upon the water, tilted slightly to one side. Or was it shadows and a trick of the light? Perhaps her imagination was working overtime. Beyond it Marianne saw the outer gates. Presumably the gates would have opened to allow the punt access to the river itself.

  ‘Please, Marianne, I’ve found three leaves.’

  ‘So have I!’

  ‘That was quick!’ Marianne stepped back feeling rather guilty. ‘I was looking into the boat house,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘But it’s dark and empty. Your grandmother is right – there’s nothing to see so it’s best that you stay away.’

  ‘Empty?’ Emmie challenged. ‘But there must be a boat because it’s a boat house.’

  ‘Too dark to see anything,’ Marianne lied, feeling even more guilty. ‘And there was no ghost! Now let me see the time . . .’ She consulted the small pendant watch which she wore round her neck. ‘We have half an hour before Hattie comes, so let’s hurry back to the schoolroom.’

  Hattie, a fifteen-year-old girl who lived nearby, came in three afternoons each week to take the twins for a long walk – somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half, depending on which route she chose. Mrs Matlowe had explained that, since Marianne was not a nanny but a governess, she was entitled to an afternoon break. ‘And a whole day is too long for the twins to be studying. It also gives you time to yourself.’

  Marianne was grateful for her employer’s consideration and, as they returned to the house, she put aside any doubts she might have and whispered, ‘Be thankful for small mercies, Marianne!’

  During the afternoon, while the twins were out with Hattie, Marianne was summoned to the study to be told that her probationary period of six weeks had now ended. She stood dutifully silent before the large desk as Mrs Matlowe reminded her of her duties, her revised salary, and her set hours of work.

  ‘I should also be pleased if you could introduce a few French words into the twins’ vocabulary,’ she told Marianne. ‘Nothing too complicated but enough to familiarize them to the idea of other languages.’

  ‘That will be no problem, Mrs Matlowe.’

  ‘Good. So, Marianne, do you understand everything? If not please say so now.’

  Marianne hesitated but then decided that this was her chance to improve the children’s lot. ‘I am a very keen naturalist,’ she said, ‘and I would like to include a nature walk once a week as well as occasional forays into the garden. I do hope that is acceptable.’

  Mrs Matlowe frowned. ‘A nature walk to where, may I ask?’

  ‘To the park, perhaps, or along the river bank.’

  ‘The river bank? I don’t know . . .’ She looked alarmed, Marianne thought. �
��I don’t like the girls to get too close to water, Miss Lefevre. I associate it with danger. I always have. Drowning . . .’ She shuddered. ‘And especially so now, after what happened last month to the Titanic. Fifteen hundred souls lost! Too horrible for words.’

  ‘It was terrible, I agree, but the riverside walk is quite safe. I will always keep my eye on them. And I swim.’

  ‘You do?’ Mrs Matlowe made no attempt to hide her surprise.

  ‘My father was a great swimmer. He insisted that I learn and taught me how to save someone who might be in difficulty. The twins would be quite safe with me, Mrs Matlowe.’ She crossed her fingers.

  ‘We–ell . . . I daresay it would be possible. As long as these are short walks so the children are not tired. The main thrust of their education must be arithmetic and clear handwriting . . . and reading, naturally, and learning poetry by heart. The latter is good for their memories. I still recall a great many poems from my childhood.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And bible study. I set great store by a familiarity with the normal bible stories. They go to Sunday School, as you know, with Hattie. And then there are the prayers they must learn. I expect them to thrive in an atmosphere devoted to the church and its teachings.’

  ‘I understand.’ Marianne glanced down at the large desk behind which her employer was sitting. There was a large leatherbound diary, a bible and a hymn book, an illustrated book of prayers as well as a framed picture of Jesus on the cross.

  Seeing her glance, Mrs Matlowe said, ‘I like to think of this house as a place of reverence and to that end I have been meaning to ask – to insist, in fact – that you should wear less colourful clothes. As you may have observed, I am always in black, and I would prefer you to wear black, brown or dark grey.’

  ‘Oh!’ Marianne tried to hide her surprise.

  Her employer stiffened. ‘This is a God-fearing household. The twins have endured a very sad and tumultuous start to their lives but thankfully that is all in the past. It is my duty to ensure that from now on they lead sober, respectful lives.’ She gave Marianne a thin smile.

  ‘I have very few dark clothes, Mrs Matlowe, but a suit in mid blue . . .’

  ‘Mid blue? Well, that will do for now. I shall give you a small grant to buy something suitable.’ She gathered up a few papers. ‘That is all.’

  Marianne made her escape with mixed feelings. She had secured a permanent post, which was a relief, but it promised to be something of a mixed blessing. The accent on religion dismayed her and she had never felt at her best in sombre clothes, but, since her employer felt so strongly on the subject and would give her some money towards a new outfit, she decided she must make the best of it.

  Feeling somewhat subdued by the interview, Marianne made her way to the kitchen, where she had been told by the cook that she was always welcome to a cup of tea. She found the cook at the back door, arguing with the butcher’s boy over the recent delivery, while Lorna refilled the cruets with salt and pepper.

  The latter looked up enquiringly. ‘So are you staying on? The last one was sent on her way without a reference! Madam took against her. Lord knows why!’

  While she talked she fetched cup and saucer and poured a cup of tea for Marianne. ‘We’ve only got digestives left in the tin,’ she apologized, pushing it across the table. ‘Mr Blunt has eaten the rest. He reckons gardening gives him an appetite.’

  Marianne nibbled obediently while she explained the main details of her interview. ‘So I’m to have some darker clothes!’

  ‘And did she go on about being God-fearing and all that? I feel for the twins. As if they haven’t had enough bad luck with their mother running off like that . . .’

  In the background Cook was saying firmly, ‘So, Billy Brice, you can ride back and tell Mr Bray I want the sausages I ordered and I want them now. How am I supposed to make toad-in-the-hole without sausages? Now get along!’ She turned back and sat down heavily at the table.

  Lorna said, ‘I could go out and catch you a few toads!’

  Marianne smiled but the cook groaned. ‘Is that your only joke, Lorna?’

  ‘No! I know one about Rosemary Lane but it’s a bit rude.’ She winked at Marianne and poured a third cup of tea.

  Marianne finished her biscuit. ‘What exactly did happen to the twins’ parents?’

  Cook leaned forward and so did Lorna. ‘That’s the thing – nobody really knows. It was soon after they were born and we weren’t here then but Mrs Brannigan next door says they were told by someone who was around at the time that the twins’ father – that’s Mrs Matlowe’s son – came home from America with a beautiful bride – Leonora her name was – who was already in the family way and Mrs Matlowe was furious!’

  Lorna nodded eagerly as the cook paused for breath. ‘And they all quarrelled all the time and then the twins were born and soon after the wife ran away. Just disappeared!’

  Cook, robbed of the most exciting part of the story said, ‘You’d better get upstairs, Lorna, and air the beds. You’re not paid to chatter!’

  It was Lorna’s turn to groan but she obeyed reluctantly, departing with a heavy sigh and rolling eyes.

  ‘And didn’t the wife come back?’

  ‘No. Never set foot in the place again. They reckoned she’d gone back to America. Everyone expected her to sue for divorce – or for him to sue for divorce – or something. But then the son and Mrs Matlowe went on quarrelling and suddenly . . .’ She glanced towards the door to the passage and lowered her voice. ‘The police started to suspect foul play and came round to question the son and when he also went off . . .’ She rolled her eyes. ‘No one knew what to make of it.’

  ‘And did they catch him – the son, I mean?’

  ‘No. Everyone round here waited for news but nothing happened. The police gave up eventually.’ She shrugged plump shoulders. ‘It’s what they call an unsolved case.’

  Marianne stared at her, deep in thought, as she considered the ramifications of the story. ‘So . . . what do the children think about their parents? What have they been told?’

  ‘They’ve been told not to ask questions! You ask them – they don’t know anything.’

  ‘How dreadful for them.’

  ‘In a way, yes, but then just as dreadful if they knew the truth – that their mother abandoned them and so did their father.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall and tutted impatiently. ‘Just wait ’til I get my hands on that butcher! It’s not the first time he’s messed me about with the order. If it happens again I shall speak to Madam about him.’

  She heaved herself to her feet and went to the back door, but at that moment the twins appeared with Hattie who cried, ‘Bye, twinnies!’ and held out her hand for her payment. The cook took the money from a jar on the nearest shelf, thanked her and sent her off.

  TWO

  Marianne took the children upstairs where they hurled off coats and gloves and struggled with the buttons on their leggings, each child vying for Marianne’s help.

  ‘It was very windy,’ Emmie told her. ‘We were nearly blown away.’

  ‘Hattie says we mustn’t tell you something,’ said Edie. ‘But we could if you want us to.’

  Emmie said, ‘It’s not something bad but nice. About a nice man who . . .’

  The girls looked at each other, wondering if they dared.

  To encourage them Marianne smiled. ‘Something nice? You can tell me if you want to.’

  Emmie said, ‘He said it wasn’t a secret. Not really and . . .’

  ‘Hattie said we could and so she had one too.’

  Then, as if it had been rehearsed, they said in chorus, ‘The nice man bought us lollipops!’

  Emmie said, ‘Mine was raspberry and Edie’s was . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell her mine!’ Edie snapped. ‘Mine was orange and Hattie’s was lemon!’

  Alarm bells rang in Marianne’s mind even as she smiled. ‘And this nice man – was he Hattie’s friend? Was he Hattie’s young man
?’

  The children giggled at her stupidity. ‘Of course not,’ said Edie. ‘He was old!’

  ‘He had a moustache . . .’

  ‘And he asked us our names and where we lived and he winked at Hattie and made her laugh.’

  Marianne was becoming rather concerned but told herself it was probably harmless. ‘Perhaps he was Hattie’s father,’ she suggested.

  Emmie shook her head. ‘No, because he asked her what her name was.’

  Marianne was trying to decide whether she should make Mrs Matlowe aware of the encounter but that would mean getting Hattie into trouble. But if she said nothing . . . She was well aware that unsavoury men were sometimes to be found in parks and playgrounds, preying on the vulnerable and unwary.

  Edie said, ‘I’m going to draw a picture of the three lollipops.’ And she rushed for her sketchbook and coloured crayons.

  Emmie said, ‘He was waiting for his wife.’

  ‘His wife? Ah!’ Marianne felt much better. ‘So he had a wife. Was she nice?’

  ‘He didn’t say but I expect so. I expect she was old, too.’

  ‘Didn’t you see her?’

  ‘No. She didn’t come. He said she was always late.’ Emmie joined her sister at the table and Marianne decided she would speak to Hattie the next day and discover if there was anything to find out about the lollipop man.

  The following morning Edward Barnes sat over his breakfast of eggs and bacon and toast while his wife Davina sipped a cup of Earl Grey tea and then cut up an apple into careful slices. She had recently discovered that indigestion was becoming a problem and had blamed the fried breakfast. Instead she now had fresh fruit and thin bread and butter and fancied that she felt more comfortable on the inside, as she chose to put it. Anything more graphic would be indelicate, she thought, having been carefully raised by a spinster aunt.

  From their dining room they could see into Georgina Matlowe’s garden where Lorna was hanging out three tea towels, pegging them on to the washing line in her usual unhurried way.

  Davina said, ‘I do think Mrs Matlowe should be told, Ted, about that chap the twins saw snooping around in the garden. Creeping around at night – he was obviously up to no good.’