Octavia

give old Torquemada Llewellyn too much satisfaction. I’d just have to find a chisel and prise Jeremy away like a barnacle.

The boat was also beginning to get on my nerves. My hair hadn’t been washed for two days and was losing its slippery sheen. I was desperate to have a bath, and fed up with not being able to admire myself in a long mirror.

Gussie was in the kitchen — I’m surprised she didn’t put up a camp bed there — simultaneously washing up breakfast, cooking lunch, eating cold new potatoes and making out wedding lists.

‘Hullo,’ she said, beaming. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Brilliantly,’ I said. ‘It must be all that fresh air.’

‘Don’t the church bells sound lovely?’ she said, ‘I adore country churches — all that soft brick, and sermons about crops, and rosy-cheeked choirboys scuttling in late.’

‘Because the vicar’s been pinching them in the vestry. It’d be worth going to church to get cool. It’s like a sauna on board.’

Gussie looked a bit shocked.

‘I don’t believe in God,’ I said lightly. ‘Or rather I’ve never had any evidence that He believed in me.’

‘I didn’t think about Him that much,’ said Gussie, ‘until I found Jeremy, and then I just felt I ought to be saying thank you for my incredible luck all the time.’ She bent over to empty the sink tidy, displaying a vast stretch of blue-jeaned bottom. Wranglers must sew up their trousers with underground cables to stand that kind of strain.

‘I hoped Jeremy’d wake up in time to go to Matins with me,’ she went on, ‘but he’s still out like a light. Mind you, it’s good for him. He’s been working so hard at the office, and I often think the strain of getting married is even worse for men.’

She glanced at her list again, absentmindedly breaking off a bit of celery and putting it in her mouth.

‘Do you think I’ll need a Mac in my trousseau?’

‘Well, I’ve always preferred men with cars,’ I said. ‘But I suppose you could wear a black plastic one with nothing underneath for the bedroom. Do you need any help?’ I added, unenthusiastically, taking an orange from the fruit bowl.

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘I want you to enjoy yourself.’

‘I’ll go and sunbathe then.’

I took a lilo and my incredibly boring biography of Matthew Arnold out on deck. I had put on a new black bikini, composed only of four black triangles, held together by bootlaces, with not really enough triangle to go round. The sun was already high in the sky and boring down on the boat. Snaky brown tree roots gleamed below the surface of the oily water. Meadowsweet was spread thick as cream on the lush green banks. The birds were still being shouted down by the church bells. It was far too hot for clothes. I took off my bikini top and lay down. Within twenty minutes sweat was pouring in rivulets down the ridges of the lilo. I was just about to retreat inside for a towel and a drink of water when I heard a wolf whistle. I flicked open my eyes, straight into the highly unacceptable face of capitalism, and quickly flicked them shut again. It was Gareth — already after two days tanned dark brown by the sun — carrying the Sunday papers, a large gin and tonic, and a wireless playing Mozart.

‘Morning, lovely,’ he said. ‘You’re overdressed. Why don’t you take off the bottom half as well?’

I ignored him, feigning sleep.

The next moment Gussie joined us.

‘Oh Tavy,’ she said. ‘Do you think you should? Someone might see you from the bank.’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ said Gareth. ‘Here’s the News of the World, and shut up. I won’t give you a paper, Octavia, as I know you’re finding that biography of Matthew Arnold quite unput-downable. Bags I borrow it next.’

I gritted my teeth. For a few minutes they read in silence. I got hotter and hotter, like a chicken on a spit.

‘Why do they always write about the emphasis being on the hips this year, when one’s just had a huge breakfast?’ sighed Gussie.

‘That’s nice,’ said Gareth, showing her The Sunday Times. ‘They’ve given us a good write-up, recommending their readers to buy our shares, which is more than they’re doing for Seaford- Brennen.’

‘How many people work at Seaford-Brennen, Tavy?’ said Gussie.

‘About a quarter of them,’ said Gareth, taking a huge swig at his gin and tonic.

Gussie giggled.

‘You don’t know anything about them,’ I hissed at him. ‘Why don’t you stick to underpasses, which you seem to know all about?’

‘There’s a most interesting thing here about schism in the Catholic church,’ said Gussie, hastily. ‘Do you think priests should marry, Gareth?’

‘Only if they love each other.’

Gussie shrieked with laughter.

There was only one single bell tolling now, hurrying people to church.

‘They always ring out of tune back home in Wales,’ said Gareth. ‘One of the bellringers is a very pretty girl given to wearing mini skirts. All the men bellringers are in love with her, and every time she lets her bell go up, they pull their bells down to have a good look. Christ it’s hot. It must be in the nineties.’

‘I’m going to get a drink. Do you want one, Tavy?’ said Gussie.

‘I do,’ said Gareth, handing her his glass.

‘I hope Jeremy wakes up soon. It’ll be much cooler once we get going,’ said Gussie.

I turned over on my side, pretending to be asleep. Through the rails I could see the elm trees full of a blue darkness, and a heat haze shimmering above the hay fields. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I heard was Jeremy’s voice saying, ‘What the hell did you give me last night?’

‘Mogodon,’ said Gareth.

‘Mogodon!’ said Jeremy in horror. ‘Three of them! Christ, you bastard! That’s almost an overdose. No wonder they knocked me out like a sledge hammer.’

‘It was for your own good,’ said Gareth. ‘Kept you out of mischief and Miss Brennen’s bed.’

‘I wish you’d bloody well stop playing Anti-Cupid,’ snapped Jeremy.

‘Hush,’ said Gareth softly, ‘you’ll wake Octavia.’ Jeremy lowered his voice, ‘God she looks fantastic.’

‘Like a Ming vase,’ said Gareth. ‘Beautiful, but empty. Why don’t you write one of your famous poems about her? “Oh lovely Octavia, How I’d like to make a slave of ya.”’

‘Oh, put a sock in it,’ said Jeremy angrily.

‘Have you got a copy of Shakespeare on board?’ asked Gareth.

‘Somewhere in the bookcase in the saloon. What do you want to look up?’

‘The Taming of the Shrew,’ said Gareth. ‘I thought I might pick up a few tips on how to handle Octavia.’

Jeremy lost his temper. ‘Will you stop jumping on that poor girl?’

‘Why, are you jumping on her already?’

‘I am not. Why the hell don’t you go and start the boat?’

‘Why don’t you?’ said Gareth. ‘I’ve come here on holiday. It’s the first break I’ve had in months, and I’m enjoying the view far too much. I can’t decide if Octavia’s glorious knockers remind me more of the Himalayas or the Pyramids.’

‘Jeremy,’ called Gussie — she obviously didn’t like Jeremy admiring the view either — ‘do come and start the boat.’

‘All right,’ he said, reluctantly; then more softly to Gareth, ‘if you don’t get off Octavia’s back, there’ll be trouble.’

‘Her back is not the part of her anatomy uppermost in my mind at the moment.’

I was nearly expiring with heat and rage by now. I was also worried about my tits burning. My hair was ringing with sweat. I shook it out of my eyes and glared at Gareth.

‘Do you want me to oil you?’ he said.

‘No thank you,’ I hissed.