by Annie Murray
‘Don’t, Sal!’ the young man ticked her off. ‘You’ll have us going round and round again. You have to pull when I do!’
Beyond them, in the distance, George saw a white sail approaching.
‘I can’t!’ the girl gurgled. ‘I dunno ’ow to do it!’
As they approached, George saw that she was a fulsome girl in a pink and white candy-striped dress, her hair pulled back into a swinging tail.
‘You take it all so serious, Philip,’ she wheedled. ‘I only ’ave to look at your face and it sets me off again.’ Her voiced turned low and seductive. ‘Don’t be like that, Philip. That’s it – you put your hand on mine. Give us a kiss.’
Her arm round his back, she turned her plump lips up towards him. George watched, feeling foolish. They seemed to have no idea he was there.
‘Oh, you,’ the lad said. Stowing the oars he wrapped his arms round her and a fervent bout of kissing began as they drifted on past. The girl stroked the back of the boy’s neck in such a way that George could almost feel it at the nape of his own. Oh heedless youth! To be twenty, to be out in a rowing boat on a balmy day with a luscious girl. Oh God, oh God . . . !
‘Oi!’ A shout came from the sailing boat which was now almost upon them. It was tacking with the gentle breeze with only a mainsail, trying to avoid the vagaries of the rowing boat.
The lad seized the oars and began to row like mad out of the way. They just avoided a crash and the sailing boat shaved past, steered by a rugged-faced man with almost white hair. Seated on the bow of the boat was a little girl, cross-legged and apparently lashed loosely to the mast. She looked about six years old, her hair in brown bunches. His granddaughter, George thought. Alarmed by the situation, the child twisted round and turned a solemn gaze on the man.
‘Daddy?’
‘It’s all right, Jenny,’ he called to her. ‘You just sit tight.’
The child nodded and turned to face the front again, as if returning to her dreams.
Her sweet self-possession tugged at George’s heart. And her father – older than he was himself, surely? How extraordinary to feel the arms of a little girl like that around your neck; Daddy, Daddy . . . His hormones jangled. His soul howled. The day seemed intent on parading before him all that he lacked. The river was quiet again.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Lunch.’
At the first crackle of the packet of sandwiches, Monty surfaced like a whale from the deep. George bit into a ham sandwich and reflected soberly upon his desires. Just because you decide what you want, does that make it any easier to get it?
A single swan came rasping through the air and launched itself upon the runway of water with a perky adjustment of tail feathers. Registering another presence nearby, its head swivelled and its gaze took in the consumption of grub in the boat. A-ha, you could see it thinking.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ George said, putting his sandwich down.
With the chilly arrogance peculiar to swans, the creature advanced upon the boat. Within seconds, its neck connected with the side, head peering over like a puppet. Monty bayed at it in outrage, skittering about in the bottom of the boat.
‘Steady on, Monty, you’ll have us both in!’ George grabbed one of the oars. Monty was roaring, the swan was hissing, its head drawn back. ‘Get off – go on – git!’ He made clouting motions at the swan, struggling to handle the heavy oar and managing to sock himself on the chin in the process. ‘Clear off!’
The swan lurched into reverse with much affronted hissing and slid away, its neck at a snooty angle.
‘Damn thing,’ George muttered, feeling sweaty and ruffled. ‘Oh give it up, Monty, for pity’s sake.’
‘I say!’ A chandelier voice assailed him from the towpath over the relentless woofing. George became aware only then that something else was barking, a yap like a scraping in the ear. ‘I don’t think one is supposed to hit a swan! After all, they are Her Majesty’s property.’
A blonde, sinuous-looking woman was on the bank in a white blouse and green tartan slacks. The shrill barking, at the end of a thin lead, was coming from something that looked like an off-white feather duster.
George groaned, and not silently. Not another woman hell-bent on telling him what to do . . . He leaned over and tried to grab Monty’s collar. What with the swan and now this yapping domestic implement, he was lathered up and couldn’t seem to stop.
‘Madam.’ George attempted to sound humble, which is hard when shouting. ‘That swan was attacking my dog. We can’t have that, can we?’
The female looked at Monty, who, remarkably, stopped barking. His face sank into an injured expression. George tugged gently on the boat’s painter to bring them closer in to the side. It seemed safe to let go of Monty now.
‘I suppose not,’ she acknowledged. Monty eyed her dog, which was still letting out intermittent noises, whirring on invisible legs towards the boat and then backing off. ‘Only when I saw you waving that oar around I couldn’t help but think . . .’
It happened in a matter of seconds. With the boat pulled close to the bank, Monty detected a chance of escape. As the woman was telling George what she couldn’t help but think, Monty launched his front half towards the bank, leaving his rear section hooked over the edge of the boat, which immediately began to open a distance up between itself and the bank.
‘Monty!’ George shouted, trying to grab him. The boat keeled violently. Monty’s front half then parted company with the bank as well and the muscular rear basset legs scrabbled at the edge of the boat before disappearing with a splosh.
‘Oh my goodness!’ the woman exclaimed.
George, knowing that he would never be able to manage Monty from inside the boat, jumped in after him. The main channel of the river banked away quite steeply just a yard away, but here he was only up to his thighs. Monty was panicking, his short legs scrabbling at the bank and letting out frantic woofs.
‘Come here, you stupid animal!’
Bending over, and in doing so losing his hat into the water, George wrapped his arms round the dog’s soaked torso. Feet straining to free themselves from the sucking sludge below, he lugged Monty onto the bank – whereupon the most almighty commotion broke out when Monty, his pride injured beyond endurance, set about the canine witness to his humiliation.
‘Well, really!’ The woman grabbed her yowling furball and set off along the path with fast, furious steps.
‘Stupid blasted female,’ George erupted. ‘Spoilt the whole damn afternoon! Where’s my hat?’
The hat had fortunately drifted into the stuck branch and was resting serenely on the water. George retrieved it, ploughing through the mud and slime.
‘Damn woman. Ridiculous, wretched bog-brush dog!’ he complained. Turning to the bank to get out, he said, ‘And as for you, Monty . . .’
It was only then that he noticed another pair of feet in white shoes with little heels standing beside Monty. Above the shoes were deliciously plump white-clad thighs, a sugar-pink blouse, a complicated assemblage of dark hair and mascara-laden lashes. From beneath these, huge brown eyes were watching him with what seemed to be lively amusement.
From the face came a voice with soft, country twists to it and underpinned by laughter. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
2.
Saturated from the waist down, the lower portion of his legs covered in stinking slime, George stood holding his dripping hat. Monty, taking in that there was another newcomer to the scene, plodded over to sniff her ankles.
‘Oh!’ she yelped, shuffling to one side as Monty pursued her. ‘Get him away from me, will you?’ She jumped about, giggling. ‘His ears are dripping on my feet!’
Monty decided this was the moment to shake himself thoroughly, spraying river water and slobber. The woman retreated further, squeaking. George felt as if his soul had turned to mud. Just at this moment, when he was in pining need of female attention, such a shapely glory had to turn up when he was mud-befouled and Monty at his most disgus
ting.
‘Monty, come here! So sorry,’ he said, grabbing the collar. He became aware that his legs, with the soaked trousers clinging to them, must look ridiculously puny and squatted down beside Monty to try and disguise the state of himself. The putrid smell from his legs rose to meet him like the death of expectation.
‘It’s all right.’ The guitar-shaped vision edged closer again. ‘It’s just, I’m nervous of dogs, and that one is rather . . .’ Her voice felt like a caress.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘He’s disgraceful. Doesn’t mean you any harm though – do you, old boy?’ His mind was whirring. Friendly, attractive woman. How old must she be? Forty? Maybe not even that. But bound to be married, bound to be. ‘The thing is’ – he felt he owed an explanation for his general dishevelment – ‘he decided to jump out of the boat and ended up in the drink. I had to follow on . . .’
The woman giggled. A dimple appeared to the right of her mouth, making her look even more attractive. George could feel himself tilting inwardly. She was standing at ease now, her hands clasped behind her.
‘You do look as if you’ve been in the wars, the pair of you. Is that your boat? It’s lovely.’ She inclined her head to read the name on the bow. ‘Barchetta. That’s pretty. After the song?’
George looked up at her with a swell of pleasure. ‘Yes! Fancy you knowing that!’
In a strong sweet voice, she sang: ‘Venite all’agile, barchetta mia – Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!’ She finished with a mock curtsey, smiling to show small, even teeth.
George was beginning to beam at her when he saw her face fall into tragic lines.
‘My first husband, Lionel, taught me that song, before the war,’ she said. ‘And then he was in the Italian campaign and it became ours. He said to me, every time I hear it or sing it I’ll think of you. Such a romantic, he was. He was killed in 1944.’
‘Oh dear,’ George commiserated, rearranging his face. In addition to the muddy smell he was conscious of the increasingly tight cling of his underpants, but this was not the moment to fidget. ‘I was there too, as a matter of fact.’
‘Were you?’ This seemed to fill her with delight. ‘Well fancy that. You and my Lionel . . . What’s your name?’
‘George – Baxter.’ His legs were beginning to cramp. He stood up to offer his hand, judging it safe now to let go of the dog’s collar. ‘Sorry – bit damp.’
‘It’s all right.’ A small, plump hand arrived in his and lingered. Those eyes looked keenly into his. George felt a small ignition inside him, like a pilot light coming on. It was the way she looked straight into his eyes like that. Her own were so big and wet-looking, like a lost puppy’s. ‘I’m Sylvia Newsome.’
‘Charming to meet you.’ She was still holding his hand. ‘So your husband was Lionel Newsome?’ he deduced.
‘Oh no!’ She withdrew her hand, without haste. ‘No. I married again after the war.’
‘Of course you did,’ he said, his thoughts spilling out loud. ‘I mean yes. How good – a happy thing.’
Sylvia was gazing at the boat. ‘I know it’s cheeky of me, but – could I have a ride? I often walk down here and think how lovely it would be to be on the water.’
‘Yes, of course – delighted!’ George said.
She looked him up and down. ‘Oh but you’re all wet – and the dog.’
‘Soon dry off!’ George averred breezily. A married woman, he was telling himself. All above board. A nice bit of company and after all, it was she who had asked.
‘Just need to get this chap in.’ He bent over Monty. ‘If you could hold the painter tight, that’s it, that bit of rope. Hold us in close to the bank . . .’
She leaned back, holding on to the rope. ‘Got it, captain!’
‘Don’t dirty yourself . . .’ He stooped to grab Monty.
Dog clasped in his arms, George stepped out recklessly over the side, immediately making the boat rock so that he was fighting for his footing. He swivelled with a light-footed panache that he would later have time to congratulate himself on and lurched forward to deposit Monty towards the bow, ending up sprawled across the middle seat, Monty in a petulant heap in the bow. He heard a giggle from behind him.
‘There –’ He rose, straightening himself out and trying to look as if all this was quite normal. ‘Now – let me help you aboard.’
The soft hand arrived in his and Sylvia Newsome nipped onto Barchetta like a fleshy little goat. As she landed beside him, George caught a pleasant whiff of perfume – something heady, French perhaps? She clung to his hand to keep her balance and for a moment they were joined, hands clasped between their suddenly very close chests. Her chest, he allowed himself to notice fleetingly before having to look away, was all you could dream of: rounded, jutting but not aggressive. She looked up into his eyes and the intensity of her gaze was like having a bright light turned onto him. He felt a shiver of goose pimples. Close up he could see that she had a healthy complexion, though marked by more filaments of age than he had been able to see from a distance.
‘This is going to be such a treat.’ She was still looking into his eyes in a way that made him feel ruffled inside. ‘I’m so grateful, Mr Baxter.’
‘George, please,’ he protested. ‘Now my dear – you sit there, in the stern.’
Only as she sank gracefully on to the back bench, smiling up at him, did she let go of his hand.
George slid the oars into the rowlocks to paddle away from the bank and gently upstream. It was no use starting up the outboard; they would cover the distance far too quickly and it was noisy and lacking in romance. From this position, facing the back of the boat, he could gaze at Sylvia Newsome as much as his already besotted heart desired.
Monty, worn out by all the exertions of the day so far, slumped his head down on his wet paws and emitted the occasional mournful whimper. His fur was herringboned all over with damp clumps.
Sylvia sat with her knees together, the little white court shoes also neatly side by side, hands resting in her lap. George saw that each of her nails was painted coral pink. She looked about her with every sign of thrilled enjoyment as he paddled along. He had donned his damp hat at what he hoped was a devil-may-care angle.
Nature was offering its very finest sunlight bright on the ripples and bringing out the dark sheen of Sylvia Newsome’s hair as they moved in and out of the shade. She really was, George reflected, subtly taking in the curving shape, the pouchy prettiness of her face, a most remarkable bombshell of a woman.
‘This is lovely, Mr . . . George, I mean,’ she said on a sigh, as they progressed between the breeze-ruffled willows. ‘It’s so very kind of you to offer little old me such a treat.’
Again, he felt the intense beam of her look upon him. Today of all days, when he was in any case dressed in his oldest trousers and a frayed shirt, not to mention now stinking like a swamp, he had to meet a woman like this. This delicious, fulsome, womanly woman. An ache of longing had begun in his chest. For a few moments he had to make special efforts to breathe. It crossed his mind to wonder whether he was falling in love or on the point of having a heart attack, and was there a difference?
‘Has your husband never thought of getting a boat?’ he asked, pulling manfully on the oars. After all, rowing was a manly activity, and one that it seemed this husband of hers had not mastered. This fact made him feel rather good, despite his vague concerns about his heart. ‘After all, just a small rowing boat isn’t much trouble when you live so close to the river.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Husband? Oh, you mean my David, the poor darlin’. I should’ve explained. David and I married in 1952. He was actually . . .’ she lowered her voice confidingly ‘. . . divorced. Yes, I know – three children as well. Terrible, really – I remember how upset he was about it all when it happened. Not good for a solicitor, so prominent in the town and everything.’ For a moment there was a rather prim correctness to her tone. ‘He was my boss, you see – I do shorthand and typing.’
George reali
zed then that the name Newsome was familiar to him: James, Son & Newsome, Solicitors. He even had a vague memory of David Newsome, who he had seen about the town – a florid sort of cove with a jaunty moustache.
‘David was a good deal older than me, but it never mattered one bit.’ Once again her eyes became stricken pools of remembrance. ‘We had ten magical years together and then . . .’ A handkerchief appeared from some previously invisible pocket. ‘He passed away very suddenly one afternoon. They said it was his heart, that it must have been very quick and that he wouldn’t have known anything about it. But I wasn’t with him. I was in Petits. I must have been buying buttons just at the moment when . . . I can’t forgive myself for that.’ She looked up at the impassive sky, as if hoping for extenuation from above.
George stopped rowing, oars left sticking out each side. Win had scarcely ever displayed her feelings. The sight of such passionate grief and self-recrimination filled him with a reckless urge to pull Sylvia Newsome into his arms. Just as this urge was taking hold he was discouraged by another lugubrious whiff of the mud plastered on his trouser legs. He was in no fit state to go near her.
‘You poor girl,’ he cried, grasping the oars again, his heart skittering with hope. She wasn’t married – she was a widow. ‘Twice – how terrible for you.’
‘I know.’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve all this. Lionel and I were only married for five years and he was away for three of them. He was a marvellous person. And then David, so generous and lovely to me . . . To tell you the truth, you remind me a little bit of him, George. You seem such a kind sort of man.’
‘Well, er . . .’ George flushed and made vague paddling motions with the oars. The boat was beginning to drift slowly back downstream and into the bank again. He had largely ceased to care what it did.
‘Your wife is a lucky woman,’ Sylvia said, stowing the handkerchief away again.
‘Oh well – I was a lucky man,’ George said, feeling that he sounded faintly unctuous, but trying to maintain the reigning tone of the conversation. ‘But I lost my wife – just a few months ago, in fact.’