There was a pause. Jeremy put some books back on the shelf.
‘Did you wait very long last night?’ he said in an undertone.
‘Not very,’ I said. ‘I was disappointed, that’s all.’
‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Gussie was yapping and yapping away about soft furnishings and the next thing I knew it was morning. Bloody sleeping pills. I’m terribly sorry, you must think me such a drip.’
I laughed, suddenly I felt much happier.
‘You couldn’t do much on three Mogodons.’
‘If you’re really desperate for a bath,’ he said, ‘we’ll stop at the next lock and see what we can do.’
‘Where are we anyway?’ I said.
‘About half a mile from Grayston.’
‘That’s where Ricky Seaford lives,’ I said in excitement. ‘I’ll give him a ring at the next lock and we can go and swim in his pool.’
‘I’ll come ashore with you,’ said Jeremy.
‘Behave yourself, Octavia,’ Gareth shouted after us as we got off the boat, ‘or we’ll get The Rape of the Lock Keeper, and Jeremy’ll be forced to write a long poem about it afterwards, in heroic couplets.’
Scarlet geraniums blazed in pots on the window-ledges; the whitewashed stone of the lock-keeper’s cottage assaulted the eye. The quay scorched my bare feet. Inside the cottage it was dark and at least cooler. Jeremy tactfully stayed outside while I telephoned. The butler answered. Mrs Seaford was not back from church, but Mr Seaford was in, he said. That was a relief.
Ricky was a long time coming to the telephone. I watched the flypaper hanging from the ceiling, black with desperate, writhing insects, and examined the coronation mugs and framed photographs of children with white bows in their hair on a nearby dresser.
‘Hullo Octavia,’ said Ricky’s familiar, plummy, port-soaked voice. It sounded more guarded than usual. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m only a quarter of a mile away,’ I said. ‘Roughing it on a barge.’
‘I can’t imagine you roughing it anywhere.’
‘Can we come and see you this afternoon?’
There was a pause. I could imagine his bull-terrier eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He probably had business friends staying the weekend. It would impress them to invite a sexy bit of crumpet like myself over but would it be worth incurring Joan’s wrath?
Then he said, ‘We’re going out to dinner, but come over and have tea or early drinks or whatever. Who’s on the boat with you?’
‘Oh, a sweet engaged couple, you’ll absolutely adore them, and a ghastly jumped-up Welshman, who’s convinced he’s Charlie Clore. I wanted to show him a real Captain of Industry in the flesh. That’s why I rang you.’
Ricky laughed. I could tell he was flattered.
‘Do put him down if you get the chance,’ I said.
‘Talking of Captains of Industry,’ said Ricky, ‘there’s a great fan of yours staying here this weekend.’
‘Oh, who?’
‘Wait and see. We’ll see you later.’
Things were decidedly looking up. Gareth and Jeremy were already at each other’s throats, and this afternoon I would not only have the pleasure of seeing Ricky take Gareth down a few pegs, but also have an old admirer to spur Jeremy on to greater endeavour. Smiling to myself, I went out into the sunshine. Jeremy was leaning over the back-door gate, gazing moodily at the sweltering horizon. Above a pair of much faded pale blue denim shorts, his back was tanned a gleaming butterscotch gold. Suddenly I thought what ravishing children we’d have. No one could see us from the boat. I put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Stop all-in wrestling with your conscience,’ I said. ‘It’s too hot.’
The next moment I was in his arms.
After a second I pulled away.
‘Didn’t you know it was dangerous to exceed the stated dose?’ I whispered, gazing blatantly at his mouth.
By the time we got back, Gareth had taken the boat through the lock.
‘You have caught the sun,’ said Gussie, gazing at me in admiration. She was obviously pleased I was in a good mood again.
‘What’s worrying me,’ said Gareth, grimly, ‘is whose son she’s caught.’
Chapter Nine
Great fans of overhanging willow trees crashed against the roof as we drew up at Ricky Seaford’s newly painted blue and white boathouse. Hayfields rose pale and silver towards a dark clump of beech trees, surrounding a large russet house, which was flanked by stables, sweeping lawns, and well kept fruit and vegetable gardens.
‘Goodness, how glamorous,’ said Gussie, standing on the shore and tugging a comb through her tangled hair. ‘I hope we don’t look too scruffy.’
I certainly didn’t. I was wearing a pale pink shirt over my black bikini, and the heat had brought a pink glow to the suntan in my cheeks.
‘Ricky Seaford’s a frightfully big noise, isn’t he?’ said Gussie.
‘Well, he makes a lot of noise,’ I said, admiring my reflection in the boathouse window.
‘It’ll be so useful for Gareth to meet him,’ said Gussie.
‘Oh he’s right out of Gareth’s league.’
‘Never mind,’ said Gareth equably. ‘I may pick up a few tips.’
We walked up the slope, past hedges dense and creamy with elder flowers and hogweed. Under huge flat-bottomed trees, sleek horses switched their tails deep in the buttercups. We came to a stile. Jeremy went over first, and helped Gussie and then me. For a second I let myself rest in his arms.
We let ourselves in through a wrought iron gate, walking across unblemished green lawns, past huge herbaceous borders luxuriating in the heat.
‘These are Joan’s pride and joy,’ I said. ‘She’s very good in flower bed.’
‘Is she nice?’ said Gussie.
‘Well, let’s say I prefer Ricky. She’s a perfectly bloody mother-in-law to poor Xander.’
At that moment, several assorted gun dogs and terriers poured, barking, out of the French windows, followed at a leisurely pace by Ricky Seaford. He was a tall man, who had grown much better looking in middle age, when his hair had turned from a muddy brown to a uniform silver grey. This suited his rather florid complexion which had been heightened, year by year, by repeated exposure to equal quantities of golf-course air and good whisky. Beneath the bull-terrier eyes the nose was straight, the mouth firm. A dark blue shirt, worn outside his trousers, concealed a middle-aged spread. The general effect was pro-consular and impressive.
‘Hullo, chaps,’ he said in his booming voice, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Joan’s down at the pool.’ He was always more friendly to me when she was out of earshot.
‘This is Gussie Forbes and Jeremy West,’ I said.
‘Nice to see you,’ said Ricky, giving them the big on-off smile that gave him such a reputation for having charm in the City. ‘You’ve certainly picked the right weather.’
Suddenly he saw Gareth who had lingered behind to talk to the dogs. For a minute Ricky looked incredulous, then his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘Why Gareth,’ he bellowed. ‘You do pop up in the most unexpected places. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Cruising down the river on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Gareth. ‘I must say it’s a nice place you’ve got here, Ricky.’
‘Well, well, well, I didn’t realize you were going to see it so soon.’
Ricky now seemed terribly pleased with everything. ‘Fancy you meeting up with this lot. Now I expect you’d like a drink. Come down to the pool. Joan’s been so looking forward to meeting you.’
‘You know each other?’ said Gussie, looking delighted. ‘What a coincidence; you never said so, Gareth.’
‘No one asked me,’ he said.
‘Is this all of you?’ said Ricky. ‘I thought you mentioned some tiresome little parvenu who needed putting in his place, Octavia?’