They had coffee in the lounge with its view towards the river. A grand piano stood in one corner and Woody went to take possession of it. His long body, perched on the stool, seemed to dwarf the large instrument, and he leaned about at grotesque angles as he softly and brilliantly played.

  ‘Woody can never get past a piano.’

  Simon brought his coffee beside her. He offered her a cigarette from a slim, monogrammed gold case. Glynda was chatting with Jeff and a bored-looking Jill Shore. Dawn was sprawled by herself on the settee. Her pretty face wore a blank expression.

  ‘Is he playing something I should know?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Not Woody. He plays it straight from his inside. He’ll go on like that until someone kicks him.’

  ‘You mean he makes it up as he goes along?’

  ‘He does just that. Then, one day, he writes it down. Woody has a memory like an elephant’s. He never forgets a note he plays.’

  ‘But that’s remarkable.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Some people have it and some haven’t. Keith can remember reams of poetry – he’s the envy of Dawn, who fluffs every other line.’

  Remembering Keith, Stella glanced about her and found him sitting at a distance, with a book. More than ever he seemed a total stranger, determined to shut himself away from the others. She now noticed that he had changed since he had been introduced to her, when he was wearing a grubby sports shirt and even grubbier shorts; he had put on some fawn trousers with the memory of a crease in them, a neat open-neck shirt and a Cumberland tweed jacket. Apparently he didn’t smoke. He looked appealingly innocent. He had an engaging frown or scowl as he gazed at the printed page. With rather mixed feelings she identified the book as one of her own. It was a collection of silly poems which, like many writers, she had produced in her nonage.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you that he admired your work?’ Simon was grinning amiably at her. ‘When I told him who I had for a tenant he was most impressed, believe me. He went into Norwich and bought two of your books he hadn’t read.’

  ‘Isn’t he a little bit out of things at Lazy Waters?’

  ‘Of course he is, my dear. He’s never met the like before. But we all have to grow up. Life isn’t a succession of lecture periods. I’m hoping that his stay here may prove educational.’

  ‘But he is so utterly different from the rest of you.’

  Simon cocked a humorous eyebrow. ‘Do I detect a note of censure? But that’s all to the good, you know, the young man needs a rub of sophistication. Besides, he enjoys being here apart from the society we offer. He adores sailing and fishing and messing about in boats. He was born under Cancer, which gives him a penchant for the water – he swims like a seal and represents his college. No, he likes Lazy Waters, and perhaps not the less because of its inmates. They are very strange and disquieting – they are very good for Keith.’

  ‘You will never make him like one of yourselves.’

  ‘Again that gentle note of reproof! And heaven forbid, say I, that Keith should ever become a theatre type. But he has a balance to be redressed. He has been living too much out of the world. Wouldn’t it be educative, for example, if he had a little fling with Dawn?’

  Stella was silent for a space. She was trying to weigh the morals of this. She found the idea distasteful but couldn’t assign an immediate reason for it.

  ‘I don’t think Dawn would find him amusing.’

  ‘So much the better, he would learn the hard way. But what makes you so certain that Dawn is difficult to amuse? Take a look around the room and see who is sitting alone. You can discount Woody – he’s never alone with a piano.’

  Stella looked, and saw. Dawn still lay on the settee. She was draped languishingly, seductively, with a knee waving in the air. Jeff Simpson had his eye on her but Dawn was ignoring him: her head was turned towards the windows, where sat Keith with Stella’s book. No interpreter was needed.

  ‘She’s not his sort. She’s too exotic.’

  Simon chuckled. ‘You think she’ll scare him? She lacks subtlety, I agree. But that’s what makes it rather interesting. It should bear watching if it develops.’

  ‘You’re a more likely customer yourself.’

  ‘I kiss your hand, but keep your voice down.’

  When the conversation became more general however Dawn showed no reluctance to taking part, and an hour of theatre talk slipped by without her once glancing in Keith’s direction. Stella found herself keeping a close eye on them, especially Dawn, who puzzled her. Dawn had a sullen expression; she was bitchy to Jeff Simpson, and suspiciously neutral towards Simon. Had there been a row at some time? Stella wondered what it had been about. Perhaps it concerned some professional matter about which she could guess nothing. It could scarcely have been over Keith when Simon’s attitude was so accommodating, but Glynda’s jealousy might have sparked something and provided a motive for Dawn’s behaviour. ‘I kiss your hand, but keep your voice down.’ Had she divined Simon’s secret?

  She quietly detached herself from the group and moved to a chair near Keith.

  ‘I couldn’t help seeing what it is you’re reading.’

  He looked up eagerly. ‘I’ve read them before, but . . .’

  She smiled. ‘Now you want to compare the poems with the person.’

  He was absurdly young and puppyish, a man animal in the ferment of his spring. His vulnerability gave her a pang, he seemed so undefended and woundable. He was taller than Simon, bigger and clumsier, his shoulders broad and his body well-fleshed, but he lacked the symmetry of feature that made his uncle so photogenic. Yet he had his own good looks. His features knitted well together. They gave an impression of character, of ardent sincerity. When he was older they would probably fine a little and then he would be regarded as handsome; now they depended on their bloom and on the coltish charm of youth. He was about the same age as Dawn, but she had several centuries start on him.

  ‘So what do you think of us, the poems and me?’

  ‘They . . . they’ve got passion. I don’t know how to express it.’

  ‘Most of them were written when I was your age.’

  ‘Yes . . . I understand. You were in love with someone.’

  ‘But I wasn’t.’ Stella was taken aback. Her published poems hadn’t been amatory. Of these she had written quite a few but her natural reserve had prevented her from including them. Entitled Floating Vistas, her collection had been mostly poems of mood and place.

  ‘Yes, you must have been. In love with someone. They sound so full of it. So full of . . . yearning.’

  ‘I was in love with love then. And that’s not an uncommon malady.’

  ‘I can’t think you wrote them . . . well, just cold.’

  She laughed in amusement, because that was just how she had written them. She had always planned her work and her poetry along with the rest. She had never described an emotion which had not been recollected in tranquillity; she had seized a mood for each poem but she had evoked it by taking thought.

  ‘I’m not a very good poet.’

  ‘But you are. You are really.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say so and I’m enchanted by the compliment.’

  ‘You make one feel and understand. You show them new ways of experiencing things. I wish I could tell you . . . after reading them, one knows you.’

  ‘Not too well, I hope!’

  ‘But it’s true, you know.’

  ‘I shall have to be more careful what I publish in the future.’

  They finished up silent and looking at each other, he staring defencelessly and Stella determinedly amused. She knew now, quite certainly, that Keith had fallen for her, and she was resolved to keep the callow young man in his place. To do other would be ridiculous: there was over a decade between them. She wasn’t old enough to be his mother but she would have made a distinctly elder sister.

  ‘You write poetry, Simon says.’

  ‘Yes . . . at least, I try.’

  ‘A poet is a writer in embryo you know.’

  He stared a little at this heresy. ‘But I’ve always understood—’

  ‘A poem is the first and easier form of literary expression.’

  He looked bewildered; he began to say something about William Faulkner. But she brushed him aside, changing the subject deftly. She was adept at applying a snub, she had a wicked touch with one, she could keep a man in continual discomfort without ever exposing herself to retaliation. And yet, in the end, he completely disarmed her:

  ‘I’ve been thinking . . . you look so much like Jane Austen in that portrait.’

  She did, she knew she did; she was almost guilty of a blush. She was silenced and for some moments pretended to be absorbed by Woody’s playing.

  Simon drove her back to the cottage. She realized then how tired she was. For several hours she had lived on her nerves and now she was half-inclined to snivel. Her mind would run away to Justin, however hard she tried to stop it. She felt it was unfair that she should be so wretched when the people she had been with were so complacent. She grudged them their petty jealousies. These seemed very desirable emotions.

  ‘Well, my dear, I hope we amused you with our tantrums and tattle.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘You must make a habit of us. By the bye, I think you’ve put poor Dawn’s nose out of joint. I’m rather sorry about that. I would like to have seen how Keith handled it.’

  ‘Keith is a silly young man.’

  ‘Dear Stella, we are all silly. Men are very foolish creatures until women take them in hand. But it’s an inimitable process and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.’

  ‘You’ve been spoiled by too many women.’

  ‘But it’s the first one who’s important.’

  She found herself laughing as she gave him her hand. He brushed it with his lips, and she went into the cottage.

  EIGHT

  SHE WAS TIRED, but she didn’t go directly to bed. She lay smoking for a while on the studio couch in the cottage’s living room. Although it was eleven it was scarcely dark so she didn’t put on the light, and as the night was mild and still, she set her French windows wide open. Then she lay with her thoughts, watching the tip of the cigarette smoulder; she discovered a great deal to think about and not all of it was painful.

  She liked Simon very much; it was easy to see why women fell for him. He had distinction himself and he made a woman feel distinguished. He was intelligent and observant. He had tact and good manners. He communicated a poise while being quite prepared to laugh at himself. He was probably not wholly sincere, but one didn’t take exception to that; it was the necessary price that one had to pay for charm and politeness. In an imperfect world there were not many Simons and it was worthwhile to compound for their sins: she couldn’t help contrasting him with Justin. Both were egotists, but one was a hypocrite.

  Woody she liked, with his rueful face; Jeff Simpson she had yet to make up her mind about. She was intrigued by Glynda, she was curious about Jill, and she decided that she was too wise to take an active dislike to Dawn. And Keith, of course – the poor angel, with his poetry! She hoped that Keith would find a really nice girl to hang his sonnets on. He was terribly sensitive, she could see, he could be hurt all too easily; he needed firm but gentle handling in his emotional debut. She tried to picture the proper girl for him and toyed with the idea of Jenny. She held Jenny in high esteem and could answer for her generosity. But wasn’t Jenny a little hard, a little too much of a ward-sister – wouldn’t she affront his romantic feelings with her implacable common-sense? He needed someone more like himself, with a readier response to the subtle nuances: one who had been through the experience herself and could vividly remember its aches and pains. But a girl with these qualities was a little difficult to imagine, for unless in maturity they were not easy to come by. An older person seemed indicated, perhaps a woman in her late twenties, somewhat dedicated, Stella hoped, and likely to behave with disinterest. It was a situation requiring a paragon and she admitted doubts as to whether he would find one.

  For half an hour she lay thinking about anything but Justin, then she rose, locked the French windows, and went upstairs to undress. She lit the light on the dressing table, and stood for some moments examining herself – she had always a critical eye for the weak points of her person. She thought she would probably diet and take an inch off her stomach. It would be foolish to run to seed merely on account of Justin. She was pleased enough with the rest, her figure had always been passable, and she had a good waist and hips and her legs were shapely and supple. Her bust gave her no qualms, it was on the large side but quite firm. She had elegantly sloping shoulders and just the neck to go with them. She studied her face; in this light it was astonishingly Austenesque. The cheeks were rounded, the chin decisive, the nose straight and the eyes candid. They were pleasant, friendly eyes, a warm brown with tints of gold; in colouring they matched her hair, which she wore short, and which had natural curls. Her complexion, however, left a margin for improvement. It was pale, and had a tendency to porousness that bothered her. She had taken advice about this and was using a recommended cream, but to the best of her observation its effect was largely moral. Still, it might have been worse. She had few lines over which to frown. Taking her head to foot, she was a woman likely to turn any man thoughtful. She was no longer a blushing maiden but she had achieved a piquant maturity, her body was full of wisdom, it held sophisticated promise. Had she really intended to retire it into the limbo of perpetual indifference?

  ‘Damn it, Stella, put yourself to bed.’

  She whisked on her cream with reproving vigour. While she did so she tried to recapture the stricken mood she had experienced earlier – she was deserving of reproach for her frivolous meditations.

  With an effort she managed to make her last waking thought of Justin, she remembered him touching his hat from the other side of the barrier. The swine! He hadn’t even had the guts to tell her. Along with his other iniquities, the rotten so-and-so was a coward.

  NINE

  ON THE VERY next day she ran into Keith again.

  During the morning she had taken great pains to continue her programme, performing all the little rituals that led to her sitting down to her typewriter. In these there was nothing superstitious or intrinsically useful but they formed an established pattern at the summit of which she began to write. Like many authors Stella was lazy, and particularly so this morning. She felt a powerful disinclination to going down to the summerhouse. She noticed a tendency to sit thinking, to muse on anything that came to mind. She fought it bravely; she went on with her preparation. She liked to consider herself a reliable author.

  But having got to her typewriter she found her efforts had been in vain and that no amount of brute will-power would take the place of inspiration. She finished a sentence which had been broken off at the bottom of the last sheet, but then she simply sat and stared at the blank paper beneath it. The weather, most unfortunately, continued to be fine. Every water-lily was out on her private sheet of water. Sails chased each other beyond the reed islands, swallows came and went in the boathouse, she could hear the chittering of countless sedge-warblers and the distant throb of passing engines. It was neither the day nor the place for writing; the mood engendered was of languorous calm. One felt that the only business of life was to lounge and to soak up the sensuous beauty.

  So she had given it up and gone to the boathouse, suddenly remembering the dinghy that Simon had left there. It was a sturdy-looking clinker-built craft and she fetched it out in some eagerness. Did she remember how things went? It was some years since she had sailed a dinghy. She puzzled a little over the sail, but eventually got it set up fair. She had to paddle away from the staithe because the alders blanketed the wind, but soon her tan sail caught a puff and the willing dinghy began to travel. She felt a thrill of pure pleasure – this was better than pounding a typewriter! She put in a few quite needless tacks, just to get the feel of the little boat. Then she passed close to the houseboat, where the fisherman looked out and waved, and gybed rather breathlessly to point her bows towards the Broad.

  The Broad was larger than she had supposed. Its shape was irregular and it was bounded by endless reed-swamp, forming innumerable bays and inlets and giving glimpses of secret lagoons beyond. It was divided almost in two by a large island and red and black posts marked the sailing channels, but the dinghy was not confined by these and Stella was free to go where she would. On a soldier’s wind she sped up the Broad among the yachts and burbling motor-cruisers, then turned out of the busy channels to explore the quieter margins. The reed-swamp was delectable; there one could penetrate hidden pools and tiny creeks, and everywhere floated the starry white lilies along with the scented yellow ‘brandy-bottles’. At length she chose a spot and moored. She dropped the sail and lit a cigarette. She couldn’t remember the last time when a cigarette had tasted so sweet. She felt a dreamy sense of peace, of unconcern and complacency, as though the world and all her troubles had slipped that moment out of the reckoning. She smoked her cigarette and didn’t give a damn.

  Half an hour later she became aware of Keith. He was sailing a National Twelve dressed in smart new terylene sails. She saw it turn in a flutter at the top of the Broad and instantly recognized the helmsman – and was a little appalled to discover that the recognition gave her pleasure. But hadn’t she settled all that last night, deciding to be firm and only amused. She made a hasty review of her feelings . . . yes, she was only amused by Keith! At the same time she had to admit an interest, Keith was a case, and she wanted to study him: it would need careful handling, perhaps, but there could be no harm in a few soulful exchanges. She stood up, she waved to him. Keith saw her and put over his helm. The National wove towards her mooring in a series of dashing little tacks, then slid fastidiously through the reeds and brought up short beside the dinghy. He reached over and took hold of her gunnel.