Something Wicked (22 page)

‘And is the “Old Coll” on display today?’ she asked Edward with heavy sarcasm.

‘Indeed. At four o’clock, if you care to look at your programme – in The Ladies. It should be a good race against Trinity College, Dublin.’

‘The Ladies? That’s wonderful! I had no idea there were women rowing at Henley.’

‘Don’t be silly, V,’ he said crossly. ‘Of course there are no women’s eights. It would be physically impossible. It’s the Ladies’ Challenge Plate.’

‘I don’t see why . . .’ She saw his face and decided not to pursue the matter. Why shouldn’t women row? They had proved themselves in other ‘male’ sports but she recognized that this wasn’t the moment to speak her mind. It amused and annoyed her that Edward – in common with all men of his class as far as she could see – talked about
our
school, university or regiment long after ceasing to be a member of whichever institution was being discussed. It confirmed her view that the English – she did not know if were true of the Scots or the Irish – held tight to their authority and their place in society by tweaking on one string or another, like a skilled harpist, to obtain the desired effect. ‘Everyone’ knew someone you knew – that is if you had been born into a certain class.

She had noticed that, when Edward met a stranger, the conversation almost always began with the weather but that was not what was being discussed. After a sentence or two, he would know precisely what class the new acquaintance belonged to and even the school at which he had been educated. Once, provoked by Verity, he had admitted that he was more relaxed with other Old Etonians although, of course, he had friends who had been educated at other schools and at no school at all. It was as if, with a fellow Old Etonian, there was a sub-text or hidden language that made communication easier and so many things could be taken as read without having to be put into words.

‘So what are the prizes?’ she asked instead.

‘Some very impressive silverware,’ Edward said, a trifle pompously. ‘The cup for The Ladies is . . .’

‘I meant prize money.’

He looked shocked. ‘There’s no prize money. We are talking about a gentleman’s sport, I’m glad to say. I hope you aren’t going to ask where you can place a bet on a race.’

Verity ignored his sarcasm and persisted. ‘So they race their hearts out for the honour of it?’

‘Yes.’ Edward sounded surprised. ‘What did you think?’

Had he thought about it, he might have concluded that Verity was definitely feeling better if she was up to ragging him.

They decided to watch Eton and Trinity College fight it out from the stands. She was surprised to find Edward became quite agitated. It wasn’t until the last half of the race that he could see through his binoculars that the two crews were neck and neck. As they drew towards the finishing line, the crowd lost its inhibitions and began to shout and applaud. This seemed to release something in Edward. To Verity’s amazement, she watched him shouting himself hoarse for his old school, applauding enthusiastically as Eton won by a whisker.

‘Bad luck, old chap,’ he said to the man next to him who wore the black-and-white striped tie of the Dublin University Boat Club. ‘Your chaps did jolly well. Just up against a better crew, I suppose.’

His neighbour scowled and went off mumbling under his breath.

‘Did I say something wrong?’ he appealed to Verity. ‘I was just trying to be polite.’

That first day of the regatta was almost perfect and Edward looked back on it with some pleasure even though it was tarnished by what happened later. He met friends and acquaintances from Eton and Cambridge and enjoyed jawing about the old days. To a man, they all expressed surprise at seeing him at Henley and delight that, at his age, he was becoming a rowing enthusiast. Verity was quickly bored by all this back-slapping but her day was saved by the unexpected arrival of Kay Stammers who had been knocked out of Wimbledon in the second round. Verity found her on her own in the tea tent looking morosely at the river and eating strawberries and cream.

‘Kay! What are you doing here? I’m so pleased to see you.’

‘I’ve been kicked out of the tournament so I thought I’d come and find you. Where’s Edward?’

‘He went off with some “chums”,’ Verity replied, a touch acidly. ‘He said he would be back in a minute but that was half an hour ago. But what happened? Tell me. I thought this was going to be your year.’

Kay was philosophical about her unexpected exit from the tournament. ‘I played rotten tennis and I deserved to be beaten.’

‘Who beat you?’

‘A French girl I had never heard of and who turned out to be young enough to be my daughter.’

‘Not really?’

‘Well, not quite that young but she seemed a child to me. Still, there’s always next year.’

‘So who’s going to win?’

‘Helen Wills Moody as usual, I suppose . . . but,’ she added, brightening, ‘she’s first got to beat Hilde Sperling – the German girl who could be dangerous – and Helen Jacobs. But Helen Moody will win. She’s ice-cool, a robot on court.’

‘Kay, you’re my saviour. I’m so pleased you came to find me. Edward’s been sweet but really, I’ve decided rowing isn’t my sport. It’s all very pretty and everything and some of the men are gorgeous but it’s so repetitive. You see that island with the temple thing on it? A cannon goes off when a race starts, and that’s about the most exciting thing that happens. They parade down the course in parallel, sweating slightly, and one is declared the winner. I know I’m being unfair but it’s not like tennis where there’s so much variety . . . so gladiatorial.’

Kay laughed. ‘I don’t think you are a sports person at all, if the truth be told. I believe you see all sport as a trivial distraction from the real world of war and politics.’

‘I suppose I do really.’ Verity stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I never liked that story of Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls even though he had been told the Armada was in sight of Plymouth. It’s such a
man
thing – so English – always wanting to be “amateur”, as though trying too hard or preparing too well isn’t
sporting
, not “playing the game”.’

The contempt with which she spoke made Kay laugh. ‘That includes me, does it?’

‘No! Of course it doesn’t. You are serious – in fact you’re wonderful. I really don’t know what I would have done without you encouraging me and setting me a good example. I mean,’ she added, feeling that she was being disloyal, ‘Edward has been simply splendid and I owe him everything but . . .’

‘But you need a woman friend sometimes.’ Kay laughed again but gently. She seemed to have a thought because she said suddenly, ‘I tell you what! We’ve talked about it for ages but, now you are so much better, this is the time to do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘Take you up in the Tiger Moth. We can do it tomorrow. I’ve got nothing planned as I expected to be playing tennis and the weather forecast is good. Just for half an hour. It can’t do you any harm and might do you some good.’

‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’ Verity said, clapping her hands. ‘I’d love that but . . .’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell Dr Bladon or . . . or Edward. They might try to stop me.’

‘Our secret then.’ She clasped Verity’s hand. ‘It’ll be a lark. Just say you are having a day off from the regatta and I’m taking you for a drive. That won’t be a lie because I am going to take you for a drive – to Booker Aerodrome.’

Edward seemed more relieved than anything to know that Kay was going to take Verity off his hands for a day. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being with her. He loved her devotedly but she did demand his full attention otherwise he saw that look on her face he dreaded – that ‘what-are-we-going-to-do-now’ look – and if he failed to come up with anything, she became bored and fell to teasing him. He had an idea that when they were married – if they ever did get married – he would need to find something to occupy her. He began to think that a world war was just what she needed and then felt ashamed. It wasn’t really like that, he reminded himself. It was more like being the only person who knew that Mount Vesuvius was about to explode and bury the light-hearted, pleasure-seeking Pompeians in molten lava.

There was to be a party that night at Phyllis Court and Edward had taken a table. There would be dinner and dancing, of course, but nothing too dramatic. The fireworks were kept to celebrate the end of the regatta. To Verity’s chagrin, Kay and Edward both insisted that she was not yet well enough to stay up late and drink champagne.

‘If you want to come out with me tomorrow,’ Kay said meaningfully, ‘you must get some rest.’ With bad grace, Verity accepted her fate and Kay took her back to the clinic. Edward had invited Kay to join him and Harry at Phyllis Court. Kay was doubtful at first but Verity said she should go. ‘I want a full report in the morning. If Edward misbehaves, I want to hear about it.’

Harry and Kay took to each other immediately, which was hardly surprising. Kay looked stunning in a long white dress, long white gloves and diamond choker about her slim neck. Harry was just the sort of man she liked. He had seen as much of the world as she had so they compared notes on America, Africa and exotic places in between. They were both keen flyers and decided there and then to take to the skies together as soon as the regatta ended. Harry’s dubious reputation with women – Edward had thought it his duty to warn Kay – merely amused her. She was challenged and, although she did not trust him, she loved his rakish, devil-may-care attitude to life – and it didn’t hurt his being a lord.

Edward looked on – a touch morosely – as the two of them danced the night away to the music of Jack Palmer and his orchestra. He knew it would please Verity to hear that he had been sidelined and, shortly after eleven, he made his excuses and left. Harry and Kay hardly seemed to notice.

When he got back to Turton House, he sat nursing a whisky and soda. Idly, he took up a photograph in a silver frame of Harry arm in arm with a beautiful woman. As he studied it, he thought he recognized the woman as Christobel Redfern. She and Harry were both carrying guns and were clearly about to go into the bush to hunt game. There was something about the relaxed, intimate way they stood together, not touching – not
needing
to touch – that said as clearly as words that they were lovers. On a whim, he opened the frame to see if there was a date or inscription on the back of the photograph but found nothing. However, there was another photograph secreted behind it. It was of Peter and Isabella Lamming. In contrast to the other, it was a formal, posed study which had obviously been taken at their wedding. Isabella had a posy of flowers in one hand and the other was tucked under Lamming’s arm. He was wearing some sort of uniform.

The next morning, Edward left the house before his host was awake and strolled towards the Stewards’ Enclosure. The races did not begin until eleven but there were already crowds milling around – some hiring punts at fifteen shillings and six pence for the day. He met several acquaintances, one of whom introduced him to Lord Camoys – a Senior Steward and, inevitably, an Old Etonian. Camoys invited him aboard the
Arethusa
, one of the umpires’ launches, to follow a heat of the Stewards’ Challenge Cup. Leander, the oldest and most prestigious boat club, was rowing against Magdalen College, Oxford. Half an hour later, Edward found himself sitting next to the Magdalen coach as the launch ploughed downriver towards the start with all the superiority of a swan among ducks. He had a strong temptation to trail his hand through the water, as he had done as a child, but remembered being told that anything which could be construed as a signal from someone in the umpire’s launch might allow the losers to challenge the result of a race.

As the
Arethusa
rounded Temple Island, Edward admired the elegant folly which, with the church and the ancient bridge, gave Henley its air of serenity. The folly had been built in 1771 by Sambrooke Freeman of Fawley Court, one of the fashionable houses near the town. It was designed by James Wyatt and boasted, Camoys told him, wall paintings in the Etruscan style. The Victorians had added, rather unfortunately Edward thought, a heavy wooden balcony. Part of the island had been dug away when the new straight course had been made in 1924 but it was a delightful place to start a race – particularly if all one had to do was watch from a motor launch as other men laboured over their oars. He wondered idly if the captains of Roman triremes had viewed their galley slaves with the same detached satisfaction.

Back on dry land he thanked Camoys and went off to get a drink. The band of the Grenadier Guards was playing lustily and he stopped to listen. He was tapping his fingers to an overture by Suppé when Guy Black came out from behind the bandstand, deep in conversation with none other than Major Stille. What the German was doing at Henley, Edward could not imagine and what he had to say to Guy was something he did not want to think about. Roderick Black was, he suspected, to the right of Genghis Khan but it had never occurred to him that he – or, worse still, his son – might actually be a Fascist. Stille, who was dressed like almost everyone else in white ducks and a coloured cap, disappeared into the crowd. Edward hesitated for a moment and then decided he might as well make his presence known to Guy. Perhaps he did not realize that Stille was a Nazi agent pretending to be an Assistant Secretary at the German Embassy. It would be a good idea to warn him before Guy compromised himself.

‘Hello, Guy,’ he said, touching him on the arm. ‘You are racing today, aren’t you?’

‘Corinth! Yes, I am – this afternoon.’

‘I couldn’t help noticing that you were talking to Major Stille. You do know who he is?’

‘Of course, I do,’ Guy replied roughly. ‘He rowed for Rudergesellschaft Wiking just after the war. He helped coach them to win the Grand Challenge Cup last year.’

Edward was taken aback. He had no idea Stille was an athlete but, then, why shouldn’t he be? ‘Wasn’t that the time they gave the Nazi salute?’

Guy shrugged. ‘I don’t see what all the fuss was about. After all, we have the National Anthem or,’ he added as the band struck up the Eton Boating Song, ‘your old school song.’