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Authors: Carola Dunn

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Besides, Daisy thought, a picture hat would look less than professional. She glanced down at her frock. Ought she to have worn a tailored costume? The day was far too fine!
Her clothes had nothing to do with her credentials, she reassured herself. Her Press pass from the Regatta office was safe in her handbag with her notebook. She wondered whether the American magazine's prestige had obtained it, or the “Honourable” before her name, which often proved useful in gaining access.
They walked along the towpath, past marshy meadows splashed with shiny yellow kingcups. Few people were about as yet.
“There's the new starting line,” Tish pointed out as they approached the downstream end of Temple Island. “It used to be on the Bucks side.”
Half-way up the island's length, a small knot of people had gathered on the bank. A stewards' launch was already there, but neither the Ambrose boat nor their opponent, Marlow Rowing Club, had yet arrived.
As they passed the upstream tip of the island, Daisy
glanced back at the so-called Temple, hidden till then by the trees. The small building was an enclosed summer-house topped with an open, pillared cupola and fronted by a wide landing-stage, sheltered on the north by a weeping willow—a delightful place for a picnic. It was private land, of course, belonging, Daisy assumed, to Crowswood Place, where Lord DeLancey was staying, over there on the Buckinghamshire bank.
Or was it Oxfordshire at this point? The Cheringhams' address was Bucks but Henley-on-Thames was Oxon.
The town was visible now, beyond the Phyllis Court grandstand. Mellow red brick and brown tile roofs stretched along the river, dominated by the square grey tower of St. Mary's. The eighteenth-century bridge was hidden by the bend at Poplar Point. There, on the Berkshire bank, overlooking the finish line, grandstands and marquees sprang from the water-meadows like monstrous mushrooms.
A good half-mile to go. Daisy consulted her wrist-watch. Still plenty of time to get there before the first heat started.
Past Remenham Club they came to the fairground. The calliope was silent now, the merry-go-round horses still, the booths shrouded. Over all loomed the Ferris wheel, a steel spider's web, the gaudy cars exotic insects trapped in its toils. A few sleepy-eyed men with cigarettes dangling from their lips lounged about doing odd jobs.
“It looks frightfully tawdry without the crowds, doesn't it?” said Tish a trifle nervously. “It needs people and chatter and music.”
A cuckoo called from the woods on Remenham Hill. They all laughed.
They reached the General Enclosure. Dottie and Tish had the Ambrose crew's guest passes. Daisy presented her Press card and was waved through the gate with them.
“Whew!” she exclaimed in relief. “I've never had one of these before. It really works!”
“Open Sesame,” said Tish. “Come on, let's go up in the stands. Have you got Cherry's binoculars, Dottie?”
Dottie opened the small satchel she carried over her shoulder, rummaged, and produced the glasses. “Here. Don't lose the lens caps or he'll have your blood. Or mine.”
They climbed up into the grandstand.
Only dedicated rowing enthusiasts were present so early in the day, gentlemen from eighteen to eighty, most in caps and blazers. The vivid—not to say vulgar—salmon-pink of the Leander Club predominated, their premises being just along the bank beyond the Stewards' Enclosure, by the bridge. Eavesdropping on a disgruntled conversation, Daisy gathered the Leander eight had been knocked out in the first heat of the Grand. However, they had good hopes for a pair in the Silver Goblets and a single-sculler in the Diamond.
The starting gun sounded in the distance. Instantly, binoculars sprouted, and a bright-hued flock which had been chatting on the ground hurried up into the stands.
“So Bott came through!” Dottie sighed, releasing unacknowledged tension.
“Damn good view!” commented the Leander man in front of them to his companion. “Wasn't too sure about this new course, but having the start south of Temple Island is a definite improvement.”
Tish had the glasses trained downstream. “I can't see
much,” she said. “They're just dots. You can't tell who's ahead.”
“Let me see.” Dottie took her turn. “We are the Berks side, aren't we? There's a terrific glare off the water with the sun so bright. Gosh, they hardly seem to be moving at all.”
“They do look slow at this distance,” Tish agreed.
“Here you are, your turn, Daisy.”
Daisy peered, adjusted the focus, and peered again. There they were, the two boats, crawling up the river. She swung the glasses to gaze at Phyllis Court, where the grandstand was even less populated, and then to the flotilla of small craft crowding the river. Racing boats threaded between, heading downstream to the start.
She turned back to the race course. Now she could clearly make out the individual men hauling on their oars. Her angle of vision distorted the view, but she thought Marlow was nosing ahead.
The Ambrose crew visibly speeded their stroke. They crept up on Marlow, inch by torturous inch.
Then, without warning, Bott doubled up over the side and was violently sick.
“Oh gosh!”
“What is it?” Tish demanded. “Look, they're veering all over the place. What happened?”
“They've hit the boom,” said Dottie resignedly, as Daisy passed the binoculars to Tish. “They'll never make it up now.”
“The cox is sick as a dog,” said one of the Leander men. “Just like the Oriel crew on Wednesday.”
The other nodded. “They're out of it, dead in the water. Damn shame. What's the next heat?”
Daisy watched the Marlow boat drawing swiftly away from their floundering opponents. The Ambrose crew had pulled themselves together enough to make way against the current, but barely. Soon she could see with the naked eye Bott curled in a miserable ball in the stern. He must be holding the rudder straight, at least, so that Cherry, in the bow, could give the rowers appropriate orders to keep them more or less on track.
“Let's go down to the finish line,” Tish proposed, longfaced.
They reached the floating jetties, just beyond the finish, as the Marlow boat crossed the line to a smattering of applause and a tactful lack of cheers. Marlow would advance to the next round, but it was scarcely a victory to be proud of.
Glum Ambrose struggled in. Current and former Ambrose men in maroon blazers crowded around offering commiseration. Two of the youngest crouched to hold the boat as Rollo led the crew in the disembarking drill. Disconsolately, the eight oarsmen clambered out. Cherry and Rollo pulled wry faces at the three girls.
Rollo and numbers three to seven, accompanied by Tish and other well-wishers, set off with the oars to the racks by the tents.
“There's always next year,” said Meredith philosophically.
“And you've got the four s-still to come, Frieth,” Poindexter consoled Rollo.
Ignored, Bott still crouched, head in hands, in the stern. With plenty of willing hands to hold the boat, Cherry went along to him.
“Come along, old fellow. It can't be helped.” He offered his hand.
Accepting his aid, Bott clambered rockily out. He stood swaying on the jetty, eyes shut, his face drained of colour. “It was the motion,” he mumbled, “and the glare of the sun on the water. I told you I wasn't fit enough.”
“Not fit!” exploded DeLancey, swinging round from the men he had been talking to. “You're not fit to associate with gentlemen, you ghastly little oik! Bounders like you shouldn't be allowed out of your filthy hovels.”
He pushed past Cherry and gave Bott a mighty shove in the chest. The cox toppled backwards into the river.
B
ott surfaced, spluttering. “Help me,” he cried in a panic. “I can't swim.”
Daisy reached for a nearby boat-hook. Rollo thundered past her, the jetty bobbing beneath his tread. Cherry was already on his knees, reaching for Bott's waving arms.
“It's all right,” he said calmingly, “it's only three or four feet deep at most. You can't possibly drown. Put your feet down, man. Stand up.”
Flushed with humiliation, Bott rose to mid-chest above the water. He waded a step forward and Rollo and Cherry hauled him out. Murky river water streamed down his face from his hair. His sodden shirt and shorts clung to his wiry, shivering body.
“A drowned rat,” DeLancey mocked.
Someone snickered. Two or three men grinned openly; Rollo and others turned away to hide their mirth. But one or two, including Cherry and Dottie, looked at DeLancey in disgust.
“You're responsible for the whole bloody mess,” Cherry said angrily.
“Filthy
mess,” said DeLancey, eyeing Bott, “but I can easily make the disgusting little wart a bloody mess.” He moved forward, fists clenched in a boxing stance.
“Shame!” someone cried.
“Whoa, there!”
“Hold on, he's half your size!”
“I s-say, not the thing!” Poindexter and the others were back.
Cherry and Rollo moved to intervene, but they were forestalled by a newcomer, a man of about thirty in a navy blazer. As tall as DeLancey but slightly built, he grasped the stroke by the arm.
“For pity's sake, Basil, don't be a blithering idiot.” Harassed and furious, he gestured at the bystanders and the overlooking grandstands. “Half the world's watching. You're creating a thoroughly vulgar scene.”
“The only vulgarity here's that swab who's supposed to be our cox,” DeLancey said sulkily, shaking off his hand.
“Leave the fellow be. You're making a spectacle of yourself, lowering yourself to his level. The pater will be livid. Come away.”
“Please, do take him away, Lord DeLancey,” begged Rollo. “We'll manage the boat without him.”
“I'll get back at you for this, DeLancey,” Bott swore venomously, as Cedric DeLancey dragged away his protesting brother. “Just you wait! You're going to find out you can't ride roughshod over people without suffering the consequences.”
Seeing he was losing whatever sympathy his plight had elicited, Daisy moved to hush him. She reached his side at the same moment as an attractive girl with a snub nose and dark red, bobbed hair under a jaunty buttercup-yellow hat.
“Do shut up, Horace,” said the girl. Beneath a superficial refinement, her voice had the same touch of the Midlands as Bott's.
“Did you see what that cad did?” Bott spluttered.
“Yes, but you're just drawing more attention to yourself now. Least said, soonest mended, say I. You'd better come back to my room and dry off.”
“I quite agree,” Daisy put in. “The whole business is best forgotten, and, unwell as you've been, Mr. Bott, you'll very likely catch a chill if you don't change.”
“Thank you.” The girl gave her a friendly smile. “I'm Susan Hopgood.”
“Daisy Dalrymple. The Ambrose crew is staying at my cousin's.”
“Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.”
“The
Honourable
Miss Dalrymple,” said Bott in a doomladen tone.
“Don't be silly, Horace,” Miss Hopgood said severely, “and come along, do. My landlady's ever so nice. She'll dry your clothes and give us a cuppa.”
She took his dripping elbow in a white-gloved hand and urged him along the now deserted jetty towards the bank. Under Rollo's orders, the rest of the crew and a volunteer had lifted the boat from the water, and crying, “Mind your backs!” they wended through the spectators towards the boat-tent. All eyes were now directed downstream, where the next heat was in progress.
Daisy walked along with Bott and Miss Hopgood. The girl was obviously strong-willed and a good influence on him, but she might need further support to make her awkward
swain behave sensibly, especially if he happened to catch sight of his tormentor.
Heading towards the bridge, they passed the Leander Club, aswarm with pink blazers, caps, ties, and socks, like a flock of flamingoes. Daisy saw the DeLancey brothers going into the club house with one of the flamingoes, perhaps Lord DeLancey's host at Crowswood. She hoped Cedric would succeed in reining in the Hon. Basil.
Hastily, she directed Bott's attention in the opposite direction. “You see the keystone in the centre of the bridge?” she said. “I was reading up on Henley before I came down. The heads—there's another on the upstream side—were carved by an eighteenth-century woman sculptor.”
“Fancy that,” said Miss Hopgood brightly. “Look, Horace.”
He growled.
“They represent Isis and Tameses, the spirits of the river, I suppose you could call them, but I can't honestly remember which is which.”
“Didn't you tell me the Thames is called the Isis in Oxford, Horace?” Miss Hopgood persevered.
“That's right. A typical attempt to separate those in the know from the ignorant masses.”
“You
are
an old bear today, reelly, and me coming all the way down to see you! Well, you'll feel a sight better once you're dry and comfy.” Without abandoning her firm grip on his elbow, Miss Hopgood turned to Daisy and enquired, “D'you always read about places you're going, Miss Dalrymple? I must say, I think it's ever such a good idea.”
“Only when I'm going to write about them.” Daisy had
meant to turn back when they reached the bridge, but she didn't want to throw fuel on the fire of the thin-skinned Bott's resentment by seeming above her company. Besides, she rather liked Miss Susan Hopgood. “I write for magazines, you see,” she explained.
“Gracious, you mean you're a working girl?”
“For fun,” grunted Bott.
“For a living,” Daisy said firmly. “Do you have a job, Miss Hopgood?”
“I'm a bookkeeper. The pay's quite a bit better than typing, or even stenography, and I always was good at numbers in school. Not like Horace, here, of course,” she said with affection. “He's a real genius, he is. Oh look, Horace, isn't it nice?”
She stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned on the parapet, admiring the view. Downstream was all the bustle of the Regatta, framed by green, wooded hills. Marquees and grandstands hid most of the fun-fair, but the Ferris wheel was clearly visible.
“Oooh, Horace, you didn't tell me there's a fair!”
“We'll go this evening.” Bott smiled at her, for the first time, but then a burst of cheering greeted the winners of the heat after the disastrous Ambrose race, and he added sombrely, “Since I won't be coxing.”
If he was willing to contemplate the fair, Daisy reflected, at least his ducking must have relieved his hangover!
No one they encountered as they walked on took much notice of his bedraggled state. Sodden boaters were no uncommon sight in the river town.
They passed the picturesque Angel Inn, on the river-bank at the end of the bridge, and St. Mary's Church with its stone and flint chequerwork. Just beyond the church was the Old
White Hart, the ancient inn where Alec had booked a room.
Surreptitiously, Daisy crossed her fingers, entreating Providence not to allow a sudden spate of heinous murders, dope fiends, or Bolshevik bombers to spoil their weekend together.
Miss Hopgood's room was in a tiny brick terrace cottage in a back street—half the population of Henley made a little extra by renting out rooms for the Regatta. The lady of the house clucked over Bott's condition. Shooing him upstairs, she promised his shorts and shirt would dry in no time on the line in the back garden. In the meantime, she'd bring a cup of tea to him in Miss Hopgood's room, while Miss Hopgood and her friend had theirs in the front parlour.
The minuscule parlour was stuffed with furniture to the bursting point, its usual couch and easy-chairs augmented by a small table and chair for the lodger's meals. Daisy and Miss Hopgood shared a pot of tea so black that milk barely turned it mahogany. With it came huge slices of Victoria sandwich cake.
Miss Hopgood took a bite and a sip and turned to Daisy. “Well, now, Miss Dalrymple, d'you mind telling me what all that nasty fuss was about? And what you meant by saying Horace was unwell? I know something happened in the middle of the race, but I couldn't see much from the bank.”
Deciding the girl was sensible enough to hear the whole thing, Daisy explained about the taunts, the Scotch, the hangover, and the disastrous effect of the boat's motion.
“I see.” Miss Hopgood sighed. “I've told him time and time again not to let that DeLancey bloke get his goat. He's a nasty piece of work, he is, if you don't mind me saying so.”
“Not at all. He's no friend of mine. He's rude to everyone, you know, not just Mr. Bott.”
“What Horace heard is he's the baby of the family, with three sisters a whole lot older than him who spoiled him to death. They prob'ly thought anything the dear little boy said was clever or funny.”
“Or both,” Daisy agreed.
“But all the same, however much he provoked him, Horace ought to know better than to drink whisky. He's always had a weak head, he has. Hardly ever drinks more than a half of pale ale.”
“You've known him a long time?”
“We were neighbours in Wolverhampton when we were kids. His dad owns the newsagent's on the corner. We went to the same Board School, him on the boys' side, me on the girls', and started keeping company soon as we were old enough to walk out together.”
“But—forgive me for being nosey—you're not engaged?”
Miss Hopgood spread her bare left hand, glancing at Daisy's ring as she said bluntly, “I wouldn't. He's going up in the world, going to be a professor at least, maybe win one of those Noble Prizes. I'd only hold him back. He needs a posh wife that can help him get on.”
“You may be right,” Daisy acknowledged, “except that the way he feels he's been treated at Oxford, a ‘posh' wife might just increase his inferiority complex. I think you'd be jolly good for him. You'd support him and stop him dwelling on his grievances.”
“He always did take things personal, if you know what I mean—take things to heart, like.”
“I wouldn't give up too quickly if I were you.”
“Reelly?” Miss Hopgood looked pleased but dubious. “Well, I wouldn't give him the push anyway, but who's to say what he'll be wanting once he gets to this here Cavendish Labororatry at Cambridge. Who's
your
fella, then? A lord, is he?”
Daisy laughed. “No, a policeman.”
“Go on, you're having me on! A bobby?”
“Not exactly an ordinary bobby. He's a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard.”
“Coo, you'll have to mind your p's and q's, you will,” said Miss Hopgood, giggling. “But if you're an Honourable, that means your dad's a lord, doesn't it? I shouldn't be calling you ‘my lady' should I?”
“No, Miss Dalrymple is right, but do call me Daisy.”
“Oh no, I couldn't. I mean, your auntie's a Lady, isn't she? Sir Rupert and Lady Cheringham, Horace said. It's ever so nice of them to invite the whole crew to stay.” Her face fell. “Oh dear, d'you think your auntie'll mind Horace stopping on another two nights now his college is out of the race?”
“I'm sure Aunt Cynthia expects them to stay, to cheer on the four. Most of them probably will.”
“Yes, but Horace … . The rest's all nobs, aren't they? Real gentlemen, I mean. The thing is, I've already paid Friday and Saturday nights, but I wouldn't want to stay without him, and he can't afford to get a room, even if he could find one, which isn't likely. I s'pose he could sleep in his tent.”
“I'm quite sure he can stay at my aunt's till Sunday,” Daisy assured her. “Why did he bring a tent? Don't tell me he expected to be made to sleep on the lawn?”
“Oh no!” Miss Hopgood laughed at the thought. “That nice Mr. Frieth, the captain, he said they'd have to double up
but there was room for everyone, and Horace had a room of his own in the end. No, Horace is going on a walking tour after the Regatta, so he brought his tent and knapsack and all. He likes …”
She stopped as the landlady came in with Bott's crumpled shirt and maroon shorts over her arm.
“What'd I say, dry near as makes no odds and I'll just run a hot iron over ‘em to finish 'em off so's the young gent don't catch cold.”

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