Chapter 4
Bott 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.”