Chapter Eight
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Felicity was excited to be escaping her mother and the beautiful but formal house on her own and (she had had to be sneaky to manage this) be wearing her jeans. The following Saturday she found a cab at the end of the road and asked the cabbie to take her to the Bell and Crown in Chiswick. Luckily, he knew the pub and Felicity got in merrily. It felt rather dashing being in a London taxi on her own, and she settled back to enjoy the journey along the river.
She was looking out of the window eagerly and when she saw Oliver waiting outside the pub, her stomach turned over. She could hardly wait for the cab to pull up, but she was also shaking with a mix of nerves and excitement.
‘Hey, miss, you’ve overpaid me!’ said the cabbie a few moments later.
‘It’s all right,’ said Felicity, who’d had no idea about how much she should tip. ‘That’s fine.’
Oliver, who was obviously nervous but looked extremely handsome in a smart overcoat, was by her side. Felicity noticed that his hair now reached his turned-up collar. If she’d had butterflies before, they were much worse now.
He took hold of both her hands. ‘You’re here,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘Now let me take you to the barge. My friends are all there, longing to meet you.’
‘That sounds a bit unnerving.’ Felicity didn’t want to meet other people, she just wanted to spend time with Oliver. But she knew other people were the price she had to pay. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
Oliver laughed. ‘They’re very friendly.’ They walked along the side of the river for a few minutes before they reached a gate which Oliver opened. ‘Watch yourself here, the walkway is a bit muddy.’
Felicity felt this was an understatement and feared for her new boots, but Oliver took her arm when he saw her slip, and she decided that Oliver was worth a bit of mud.
‘The boats are all so different!’ she exclaimed as they walked. ‘Some are so brightly painted and they have little gardens!’
Oliver was amused by her amazement. ‘Well, they’re people’s homes and everyone needs somewhere to grow a few herbs. My barge isn’t so decorative, I’m afraid, although it’s fine inside.’
‘Which one is it?’
‘It’s this one. Our Nora – it’s a Thames barge so quite big. It’s what you might describe as a work in progress. I work on it whenever I have a moment spare that I’m not using to go mudlarking on the river.’
Felicity followed Oliver gingerly down some steps, which were hardly wider than a ladder, into a fairly large space that was only illuminated by small windows high up. ‘This was the hold, where the cargo went,’ Oliver explained. ‘And now it’s known as the saloon. And here is the party.’
In the centre of the room there was a grand table, lit by a large oil lamp which hung from above. Around the table sat several people. For a couple of seconds Felicity felt she was in a painting, possibly by Rembrandt, because there was such a contrast between the general dimness of the barge and the golden light illuminating the faces of her fellow guests.
A woodstove glowed from the corner providing warmth. Although it was very atmospheric, Felicity suffered a moment of panic as she realised she’d never been anywhere like this before and she was with a boy she didn’t know very well.
‘This is Felicity,’ said Oliver, holding her sleeve, ‘and this is Sophie.’ An eccentrically dressed woman, swathed in scarves and hand-knitted cardigans, who was probably older than Felicity’s mother, nodded. ‘And Quentin and Miranda: they’re actors. And this is Phil.’ Phil was wearing a boiler suit and seemed different from the others.
‘We all have barges on these moorings,’ said Quentin.
‘And we’re not quite as scary as we look,’ said Miranda.
‘Give the girl a glass of wine,’ said Sophie. ‘She looks terrified.’
Felicity forced a laugh. ‘I’m not terrified at all!’
‘Oh, she’s French!’ said Quentin. ‘How adorable!’
Phil didn’t say anything, just placed a glass of white wine into her hand.
‘Actually I’m half English,’ said Felicity, having taken a sip. The wine wasn’t very nice, she discovered, but it would help her nerves.
‘If you sit there,’ said Oliver, pointing to a spot on the bench that went round the table, ‘I’ll get the lunch.’
‘Do tell us, how did you meet Oliver?’ asked Miranda. ‘At one of the debutantes’ parties he keeps going to?’
‘No,’ said Felicity. ‘We met in the street. He had fallen over and was covered in mud.’
‘Oh,’ said Miranda. ‘Let me guess, he’d been mudlarking but hadn’t planned to go.’
‘Wasn’t wearing the proper gear,’ said Phil, ‘I bet.’
‘And what is the proper gear for mudlarking?’ said Quentin.
‘Oily boiler suit,’ said Phil promptly. ‘That’s what I wear all the time,’ he went on, turning to Felicity. ‘Being French, you might not know what they are.’
‘My stepmother wears a boiler suit sometimes,’ said Felicity.
‘What are you doing in London?’ Quentin asked. ‘Just gadding about?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Felicity. ‘I am learning shorthand and typing. It’s very boring but I’ve been told it might come in useful.’ She paused. ‘I don’t need to learn how to cook. I am half French.’ She frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to say that because I am French I can cook, but I don’t need to go on a course, like my stepmother did.’
‘Secretarial skills are very useful for an actor,’ said Miranda. ‘All those times when one is resting – that’s what we call being out of work – but still needs to eat. Unfortunately, I didn’t do one. It’s why we live on a barge – so much cheaper than a flat.’ She paused. ‘I do life modelling for artists. It’s well paid but very cold. I’d much rather be in a nice warm office banging out letters for a boss who’d take me out to lunch.’
‘I hope to be an artist,’ said Felicity, ‘which is why my mother insisted on me going to college first. For once, my father agreed with her.’
‘You could be an artist’s model,’ said Quentin.
He looked at her in a way that made Felicity feel a little uncomfortable but she quickly brushed off the feeling.
‘I’d rather type,’ she said. ‘Or paint. I like doing murals.’
‘Murals!’ Miranda and Quentin looked at each other. ‘That would be very like painting scenery for the stage.’
Felicity gave a small shrug.
‘Darling, you may well become my best friend before this lunch is over,’ said Miranda. ‘We are in desperate need of someone who can paint flats. Ah, here is Oliver with the food.’
Oliver approached the long table with a plate of food in each hand. There was one with slices of quiche lorraine and rolled ham, a pork pie, also sliced, and hard-boiled eggs. The other had lettuce and tomato and cucumber.
‘It won’t come as a surprise to anyone that I bought most of this from the delicatessen,’ he said. ‘I am a dreadful cook but a very good shopper. What doesn’t come from the deli came from the greengrocer. I’ll get the salad cream. I’m sorry not to have mayonnaise but I can’t make it.’
‘Do you have olive oil?’ Felicity asked. ‘And vinegar that isn’t dark brown?’
‘He has got olive oil because I gave him a bottle when we came back from France,’ said Miranda.
‘And I could pop back home and get some wine vinegar and French mustard,’ offered Quentin. ‘Can you make mayonnaise?’ he asked.
‘Of course she can, she’s French,’ said Sophie. ‘ Vive la France! ’
‘Do you have eggs?’ asked Felicity.
‘I have one …’
‘If you don’t mind, I could make some?’ Felicity asked. ‘It wouldn’t seem rude?’
He made an expansive gesture. ‘I would be delighted. More importantly, my other guests would all be delighted.’
Felicity was soon in Oliver’s little kitchen area, which he referred to as a galley. Apart from being small, it was cold and wasn’t very clean. He only had a fork to make mayonnaise with and no other eggs to save it if it went wrong. Felicity hoped she wouldn’t regret her offer. But the oil was good and the mayonnaise came together quickly. She put the bowl on the table, relieved it had all worked.
‘You’ve got a good one this time, Oliver darling,’ said Sophie, who didn’t hesitate to help herself to the mayonnaise. ‘So much better than the last girl you brought here.’
‘We don’t usually get to meet Oliver’s girlfriends until a bit later in the relationship,’ said Miranda, obviously wanting to ease Felicity and Oliver’s embarrassment.
Felicity suddenly felt uncomfortable. Was this barge rather sordid? Who were these friends of Oliver’s? How many girls had he brought back here? She glanced at Oliver for reassurance. He was looking at her, diffident, caring, obviously worried about her. He smiled and she felt a little better.
‘I expect you’re finding us all rather odd,’ said Miranda. ‘Actors, you know. We’re a strange lot.’
‘I know an actor,’ she said, wondering what David would make of this situation. Would he find it as unsettling as she did?
‘Oh, anyone we will have heard of?’ asked Quentin.
‘No,’ said Felicity firmly. ‘He lives in France.’
‘But we are quite nice,’ went on Miranda. ‘Particularly if you could help us paint scenery.’
Felicity suddenly felt better. The barge was a bit old and dirty, and Oliver’s friends were not the sort of people her mother would entertain, but they were kind and obviously very fond of Oliver.
As for the girls he might have brought back here in the past, she couldn’t think about them. He was a good-looking boy; he was bound to have lots of girlfriends. She’d had a few boyfriends herself. She took a sip of wine. It seemed to taste a bit nicer now.
‘The thing is,’ said Quentin later, ‘we’re putting on a play. It’s in a room over a pub, so for a small audience. But a bit of scenery would make the world of difference. We’ve tried to do it ourselves but neither of us have any sense of scale.’
‘I’d be happy to help,’ said Felicity. ‘Where is the pub?’
‘Not far from here. We could go and look at it now,’ Quentin said, obviously eager.
Felicity looked at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock. ‘Oh! The time. I will be late home.’
Oliver looked at his watch too. ‘Well, you won’t be late, but you won’t have time to look at the pub. We’ll have to go another time.’
Felicity gathered her things and wrote her telephone number on a cigarette packet, waving goodbye to Oliver’s friends before hurrying out of the barge and along the walkway with Oliver.
Luckily, there was a taxi just leaving the Bell and Crown and Oliver stopped it. Just before he opened the door so she could get in, he hugged her. ‘I do hope I haven’t terrified you. My friends, my barge—’
‘Your friends are fine. Your barge on the other hand …’ She got into the taxi, laughing at him. ‘Thank you for lunch, Oliver.’
‘Oh, darling, you smell funny, and what are you wearing?’ said Lucinda as Felicity arrived through the front door. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Lunch with Oliver. I told you. The other guests were delightful. He lives on a barge.’
Lucinda frowned and didn’t speak immediately. ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right. He seemed like a very nice young man.’ She paused. ‘But please change. You smell like a bonfire.’