by Leo McNeir
“But you know the name, Marnie!” Barbara exclaimed joyfully. “The Old Rectory.”
“I’ll leave you to argue that one with the bishop,” Marnie retorted, smiling. “For now I just wanted to make sure we had the right space for it. The house has never had a number. Incidentally, why is this house called Old Temple Steps? Was there a temple of some sort on the site?”
“No. I think the land belonged to the Knights Templars at some time, ages ago.” Barbara waved a hand dismissively. “There was a way down to the river at the back here, I think. History’s not my scene. It used to be called Old Temple Stairs for centuries. I didn’t like that, thought it sounded a bit mundane. So I changed it to Steps – much nicer.”
“You were allowed to change a name that was hundreds of years old, just like that?”
“Frankly, with what we’d paid for this house, I’d have felt justified in calling it Disneyland or Buckingham Palace or the Planet Tharg.” She threw her head back and laughed. “D’you fancy another coffee?”
Marnie looked at her watch. “I think we’re nearly through.”
“Good. Then I’m going to take you to lunch. Don’t argue. I know this gorgeous little bistro round by Saint Katharine’s. The chef owns the place and he’s an absolute sweetie … Italian, or Spanish, whatever. You wouldn’t believe what he can do with a courgette. Oh, what’s that, a plan we’ve missed?” She pointed at the corner of a drawing sticking out from under Marnie’s folder.
“Yes. It’s an idea of Anne’s for the conservatory.”
“Of Anne’s?” Barbara looked doubtful. “I thought she was the office junior. Anyway, didn’t you propose …” She checked her notes. “… planters made to measure along the back wall, filled with white and pink geraniums? You said they’d keep flowering continuously for years.”
“That’s right. But Anne had another idea.”
“Oh.”
“She’s not the office junior. Sure, she runs the office – and very efficiently – but she’s a trainee designer … works with me on every project. She’s doing A levels at the local college and working part-time in the office. She’s got real promise.”
“If you say so, Marnie. So what’s her idea?”
Marnie pulled the paper out. It was an internal elevation produced on the drawing board and looked highly professional.
“She used one of your drawings, Marnie?”
“No, she did this herself. Look, this is what she has in mind. You see the wall here reaches up quite high. It was probably plastered in Victorian times when the conservatory was built.”
“It’s beautiful. One of the reasons I wanted the house.”
“Yes, but it is very lofty.”
“So?”
“Anne thought it would benefit from distracting the eye from how tall it is inside. You see here …” There was a marking like a border running across the elevation.
“What is it? Looks peculiar.”
Marnie shifted the plan to show a more detailed drawing in the corner. “It’s a stencil across the whole wall, roughly twenty-four hundred above floor level –”
“What?”
“About eight feet up the wall.”
“Right.”
“You see how it would look. She’s shown a pattern based on a grapevine, but you could have anything you wanted, if you like the concept.”
“Why a grapevine?”
“The conservatory originally contained vines according to the old drawings.”
Barbara looked puzzled. “I didn’t notice that, and I’m a stickler for detail.”
“Me too, but Anne spotted it when she was going through the plans.”
“It would make the height less obvious, you say?”
“Certainly. And it would be in keeping with the space. I think it’s a great idea, but it’s entirely up to you.”
“And you can buy stencils in that design?”
“No. Anne would make the stencil herself. Don’t worry about it. She’s very good at that sort of thing.”
“Bright girl.” Barbara pored over the plan. “I like this. Let’s go for it.”
“Good. I’ll tell her.”
“Right. And now … let’s do lunch.”
Marnie leaned back against the head rest and closed her eyes as the Virgin Express pulled out of Euston heading north. It had been an entertaining day, and she had achieved all her goals. Barbara’s bistro too had been all she had promised. The owner – who turned out to be Portuguese – had come out of the kitchen to greet her, and treated her like royalty, with a sparkle in his eye.
Marnie smiled inwardly at Barbara’s ironic description of the two of them – ladies what do lunch. She found herself wondering what Barbara did to fill her days. There was certainly no need for her to add to her husband’s income. Marnie could not imagine life without a career. It had been an ever-present feature of her existence, a defining characteristic, the focus of every day. She was no workaholic, but was always glad to return to the office, the drawing board and the computer.
What made Barbara Taverner tick? She was clearly intelligent, not just strikingly good-looking, not a bimbo on the make who’d married her boss. Perhaps not everyone needed the impetus of an interesting job to give meaning to their life. Obviously not. Marnie thought she was lucky in having a job she really enjoyed. This line of thought was interrupted by a loudspeaker announcement – by a man calling himself the train manager – listing their destinations and advising that the buffet car was open for refreshments.
Marnie slid the project folder out of her bag and extracted some bundles of photographs. One pack was her Polaroids of the vicarage – The Old Rectory, my dear! – another was a new set of Polaroids taken that morning of Old Temple Steps as a reminder of the Taverners’ furniture, their general style and taste, which was rich as she had predicted. The third pack was an envelope containing shots of their boat. That had been the surprise of the day.
Over lunch Barbara had suddenly leaned across the table. “Marnie, there’s something else I want to ask you. Our boat, we’ll need a mooring for her at Knightly. Do you have any space down at Glebe Farm? You mentioned you had a waterside frontage and a docking area.”
“That’s right, but we have two boats so we occupy both moorings.”
Barbara bit her lip. “Are there any marinas nearby?”
“A few. I’ll ask around. When did you say you’d be coming up?”
“In a week or two. It has to be before Christmas, as I said.”
Marnie smiled. “Not the sort of winter cruise I imagine you and Charles having.”
“Oh, Charles won’t be travelling with me. Not really his scene. This’ll be a solo run.”
“Solo … in December?”
“Sure. Charles rarely comes on the boat these days, except for an afternoon outing or an evening meal with friends. She’s my pride and joy.”
“I see.”
“I see,” Barbara mimicked. “Oh come on, Marnie. I’d expect you of all people to have a sense of fun. You’re a long time middle-aged, you know!”
“True. It’s just, well …”
“It’s no big deal, Marnie. You can do the locks alone, if you’re properly prepared and get organised. Just takes a little longer, that’s all.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve done that trip solo myself.”
“There you are, then.”
“But that was in summer. It’s a bit different in winter weather when the locks are icy and you’re standing at the tiller for hours on end, wondering if your feet are still there.”
She had patted Marnie’s wrist. “I’ll manage, don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
As if to prove her point, the next photo that slipped out of the envelope showed Barbara in slacks and waistcoat holding a trophy, standing on the roof of a boat. She had explained that she won the all-comers manoeuvring competition at the Little Venice Canalway Cavalcade two years before, the first woman champion.
And that was what was so s
urprising. It was hard to imagine townie shopaholic Barbara Taverner running a narrowboat. Diesel engines, lock machinery, gearbox oil, grease for the stern gland, all these were a million miles away from Knightsbridge and Oxford Street. Surely the risk of breaking a fingernail was too great. Whoa! Marnie reined in her thoughts. She knew she was being sexist. Why shouldn’t Barbara run a boat? She, Marnie, was just as keen as Barbara on nice clothes and a smart appearance – well, almost as keen – and she enjoyed nothing better than that sense of freedom from controlling a boat on the waterways. Even so …
By way of contrast, the pack of Polaroids of the house revealed an entirely different personality. Here all was dense-pile Wilton carpet and parquet flooring, heavy curtains with swags and tie-backs, the furniture an eclectic mixture of Regency cherrywood interspersed with striking modern pieces, Victorian landscapes and contemporary abstracts. Some fine portraits of Barbara in oils, watercolour and acrylic.
One thing was clear to Marnie. There was much more to Barbara Taverner than you would imagine on first acquaintance. She wondered if Barbara’s request about the boat was as impulsive as she made it seem, or whether it had been in her mind all the time.
Barbara had reached over and grabbed Marnie’s hand. “I know, why don’t you do a redesign of the boat’s interior as well? In fact, why stop at the inside? Why not do a new colour scheme all over? A complete revamp.”
“You want me to do your boat?” Marnie was incredulous.
“Why not? It’ll be fun. You’re a designer. You know all about boats … bingo!”
“Well, I suppose I could …”
“Of course you could. We could work on it together, go over your plans while we do lunches!” She chuckled.
That sound echoed in Marnie’s head as the train, now clear of London, sped through the countryside of the Home Counties. Glancing out of the window Marnie caught sight of lock gates and bridges as the railway and canal shared the same route away from the capital. She saw no movement of boats, had no glimpse of people on the towpath. The strip of water seemed to shimmer in a grey mist, and she suppressed a shiver, snuggling into her jacket at the thought of the damp frosty air waiting out there to chill the bones of the unprotected.
The remaining photos of the boat revealed it to be a trad or semi-trad, with a small area at the stern for the steerer, rather than having a “cruiser’ stern like Sally Ann where a group of friends could stand or sit sociably together. Marnie judged it to be a fifty-footer, or thereabouts, in deep blue with brass-rimmed portholes and brass mushroom vents on the roof. All the brasswork gleamed; Barbara knew how to take care of the boat. Marnie was forming the opinion that Barbara could take care of anything.
The boat. Strange. Although they had discussed it over lunch and it had arisen several times in conversation, Marnie could not remember its name ever being mentioned. She spread the photographs out to search for clues. Here was a shot of Barbara at the tiller. Part of the name was visible, but only the first few letters – Perf … Marnie smiled to herself. Perfection? The next views were bows-on or stern shots, and the side-on picture of the award ceremony in Little Venice missed the name, which was painted on the topsides too far back to be in the frame. Just when Marnie was about to give up, she came upon a photo that seemed to be from a different series, perhaps even from a different camera, as if it had been taken by a friend. In the foreground Barbara stood in jeans and T-shirt, holding both arms in the air, a gesture of exultation. She seemed to be standing on a pontoon in a marina, but it was not Templars’ Wharf. Behind her, shining in the sunlight, was the boat, its name emblazoned on the side for all to see: Perfidia.
Perfidia? Marnie made a mental note to ask Barbara the next time they met why she had chosen that name. It was a question she would never have the chance to ask. She would never see Barbara again.
Ralph came through to the sleeping cabin that night, rubbing a towel round the back of his head. Although in his forties, he had few grey hairs, and at six feet tall had to take care not to bump his head against the ceiling in certain places on Thyrsis.
He was musing that the electric power shower installed when he first bought the boat had been his wisest decision. Thyrsis had been sound enough structurally, but the interior had needed a complete refit, and he had tackled the work himself with the help of a friend, a retired cabinet maker. The result had been functional and well-finished, with a modern galley and saloon area, a comfortable sleeping cabin, an up-to-date shower room and a spacious well-equipped study/library at the front end.
Anne teased him that only Ralph could have a narrowboat with a library. As a professor of economics at Oxford University and a Fellow of the prestigious All Saints College, there were not many people who ever teased him. She had teased him about the colour scheme of Thyrsis, too. It was a deep sage green with the name in a muted gold. He had chosen the colours himself and was proud of what he called its elegant restraint. Anne reminded him that the first time Marnie saw his boat she had said it was in the colours of a Harrods carrier bag. The two women in his life, one of them only seventeen, both kept his feet firmly on the ground. They had been through so much together. What cemented his close relationship with Anne was their shared love of Marnie.
Ralph finished rubbing his hair dry and returned to the shower room. He hung the towel over the rail and went back towards the saloon, where he found Marnie deep in concentration at the table, poring over drawings and papers.
He spoke quietly, suspecting that she was unaware of his presence. “The shower’s free, darling.”
Marnie looked up, her expression distant. “Oh, thanks. Is that the time?”
“You’re very engrossed. What are you doing?”
“Anne had an idea about the decor in the kitchen/breakfast room at the vicarage, tying it in with the conservatory. I thought I’d just see how it might all fit together.”
“You’re redesigning it?”
“Yes. Have a look.” She turned the papers so that he could see and pointed at the drawings. “If you continue Anne’s stencil design into the breakfast room, it unifies that whole part of the house.”
“Does it complicate matters?”
“It means we have to rethink the colour scheme so that it blends in with the hall. I just had a thought about how we might achieve that by going one shade lighter on the walls and using shades of blue picked out with yellow.”
“Looks charming.”
“Yes. I wanted to get it down so that I can talk it through with Anne in the morning. Did you say you’ve finished in the shower? Good.”
Marnie packed the papers into their folder, kissed Ralph lightly and skipped along the passageway.
He was sitting up in bed reading the draft of an article he had written for a journal when Marnie emerged from the shower in her bathrobe. She sat on the edge of the bed and began brushing her hair slowly. After a minute or two she patted it carefully at the back and yawned.
“I just wanted to make sure my hair was dry. If I come to bed with it damp, it’ll look all fuzzy in the morning.”
“You’ll look marvellous, as always.”
“You won’t say that if I look like a stunt double for Jimi Hendrix.”
Ralph chuckled.
She stood up and slipped off the bathrobe, returning to perch naked on the bedside, still feeling her hair at the back. Ralph stretched forward and ran his fingertips slowly down her spine. Marnie arched her back with a sigh that turned into a groan like the sound of a cat purring. It was a long back, the skin smooth, warm and silky to touch. In that moment of pure pleasure Ralph realised that he had been mistaken. Installing the power shower on Thyrsis had not been the wisest decision in his life. He could think of a better one.
5
“Walker and Co, good morning.”
“Is that the great designer?”
“Er, this is Anne, Anne Price. Is that Mrs Tav … I mean Barbara?”
“You guessed.”
Anne’s voice relaxed into a smi
le. “I gather you liked the stencil idea.”
“Very much. I didn’t realise you were part of the design team, Anne. It’s an inspired idea.”
“Thank you. And you’d like to talk to Marnie?”
“Don’t run away. Before you pass me over to Marnie I want to talk to you about the plans, your plans.”
“We’re putting them in the post today for you to see how it all fits together. We went over them first thing this morning.”
“I meant your plans for the future.”
“Oh … Simple, really. I’m doing A levels at college in Northampton. If my grades are okay, I hope to go on to study to be a professional designer.”
“What A levels are you doing?”
“I’m doing three: art, design and technology, social studies.”
“And then on to university?”
“Probably art school, if I can get in. I don’t know where yet.”
“Well, best of luck. You deserve it and I’m sure you’ll do marvellously well. I love your stencil idea.”
And so it went on. Barbara phoned every day, not once but several times. Why did Marnie think carpets were right for the dining room? Could her joiner be spared to build a window seat in the drawing room? Would it be convenient for Marnie to meet the Smallbone planner this week? Did Marnie have any experience of Gaggenau appliances? Could they find a local person to make the curtains? And so on, and so on.
It was the same for the boat. Could they find a dry dock where the hull could be blacked while the topsides were being painted? Would Marnie be able to arrange for the engine to be serviced as well, or should that wait till spring? Could Marnie find an engineer to inspect the gas installation? There were all these strict new regulations …
Marnie walked into the office barn, dropped her briefcase on the floor, dumped her coat on the desk, sat down and kicked her shoes off.
“Phew! What a morning. Thank God it’s Friday. Three meetings and no-one offered me coffee. Have you had lunch, Anne?”
“No. I came straight back from college. My last day this term. That’s it until January. I’ve got a mountain of project work to do in the hols. Good-bye, Christmas! Shall we have a sandwich?”