Octavia

‘Why don’t we have a cease-fire. It is the sabbath after all?’ he said, looking down at me with amused and lascivious pleasure.

‘You’re disgusting,’ I said, furiously turning over on my front.

There was the sound of engines, and the boat started. Even when we were on the move the heat didn’t let up. As we sailed into a long stretch of open river with no shade, Gareth got to his feet and stretched.

‘I’m worried you’ll overcook, Octavia.’

And the next moment he’d dived into the river with a huge splash, sending a tidal wave of filthy oily water all over me. I leapt up, screaming, grabbing my bikini top.

‘Will you stop hounding me,’ I howled as he surfaced, laughing, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

‘I thought you needed cooling down,’ he said, and, scooping a great handful of water in my direction, soaked me again.

Gibbering with rage, I rushed into the kitchen.

‘That sod’s just drenched me.’

Gussie giggled. ‘Oh poor Tavy! Here, have a towel.’

‘It’s soaked my hair,’ I stormed, ‘I must wash it at once.’

‘You can’t really,’ said Gussie, sympathetically. ‘There simply isn’t enough water. I’m sure it’ll dry all right.’

I caught sight of my face in the mirror. There was a great red mark on my cheek where I’d lain on Matthew Arnold. It looked as though Gareth had socked me one, and doubled my ill temper.

‘But normally I wash my hair every day,’ I screamed. ‘It’s crawling off my head. I’ve never been on anything as primitive as this bloody boat.’

Then I made the most awful scene. None of Gussie’s bromides could soothe me.

‘No one goes out of their way deliberately to hurt people,’ she said finally.

‘I do,’ said Gareth, coming in dripping river water and seizing the towel from me. ‘I’m like a leopard, I kill for the hell of it.’

‘You shouldn’t have soaked her,’ said Gussie, reproachfully.

‘I’m going back to London,’ I said.

‘Splendid,’ said Gareth. ‘There’s a fast train on the hour from Reading. Next time you come down we’ll arrange QE2 facilities.’

‘What’s the matter?’ said Jeremy, shouting down the stairs.

‘We’ve got a mutiny on our hands, Mr Christian,’ said Gareth. ‘Able sea woman Brennen wants to desert. Shall we keelhaul her or give her 1000 lashes?’

Gussie — God rot her — started to laugh.

Jeremy came down the stairs and took in the situation in a swift glance.

‘Go and steer,’ he said angrily to Gareth. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble for one morning. I own this boat, and what I say goes.’

‘Sorry Captain Bligh, I mistook you for Mr Christian,’ said Gareth, grinning and filling up his glass, he disappeared up the stairs, shouting, ‘Ahoy, Ahoy, my kingdom for a hoy.’

Jeremy poured me a stiff drink, and took me into the saloon.

‘I’m sorry about Gareth,’ he said, gently, ‘he’s being diabolical. I think he must be going through the change of life.’

‘He’s probably irritated I haven’t succumbed yet,’ I said.

‘Hell knows no fury like a Welshman scorned.’

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.’