‘I think Dawn rather had the impression that Keith was invited for her benefit, and in a way he was. I thought they might pair-off usefully.’

  ‘Usefully, yes.’ Stella queried him with a look. So Simon had engineered this balance of interest from the beginning. In a moment he would probably hint to her to soft-pedal with Keith – his falling for her had upset the delicate equation at Lazy Waters.

  ‘Of course it doesn’t matter, my dear, and I’m not pretending it does. It’s up to Keith. He’s the heir to the self-will of the Lea-Stephens. Dawn can divert herself elsewhere, Jeff is falling over his feet for her. And I’m not sure that Dawn would be the best thing for Keith anyway.’

  A different turn to the plot! Stella had forgotten about Jeff. But now she could easily see how he might come into the reckoning.

  ‘As you say, it’s up to Keith.’

  ‘And up to you, I rather imagine.’

  ‘You’re being a little premature, Simon.’

  ‘My dear, you only have to snap your fingers. Keith has got the complaint badly, you know that as well as I. He has taste, I will say that for him. I wish I had met you when I was his age.’

  ‘That’s an odd sort of compliment.’

  Simon kissed her with gentle appreciation. ‘You know what I mean. You’d be a heaven-send to him. He would remember you all the rest of his life. And I wish I’d met a woman like you instead of the little tart I took up with.’

  ‘You would be a better man, no doubt.’

  ‘Seriously, yes. May I kiss you again?’

  ‘How long does Glynda take to dress?’

  ‘Half an hour, my dear.’

  ‘Then you’d better be quick.’

  THIRTEEN

  KEITH PUT IN an appearance in time for supper, and annoyed Stella by gazing at her with soulful, reproaching eyes. If anyone had been in doubt before, she thought, they must know now that the young man was infatuated with her. She snubbed him without mercy, and took a sadistic pleasure in it. After supper she was at pains to join the conversation of the others. She had the pleasure of seeing him retire into self-banishment with a book, and of eventually disappearing from the company altogether. She felt cruelly satisfied with what she had done and she pressed her triumph by twitting Woody.

  But she was quickly to learn that Keith meant to have the last word. When, at eleven, she returned to the cottage, she found him there waiting in the garden. She had refused a lift from Simon and had walked home deep in her musings, and when she caught sight of Keith it gave her quite a shock.

  ‘You! What do you mean by coming here to the cottage?’

  He was standing as still as a post by the bench under the apple-tree. To the lingering twilight the stars were adding a pale radiance, so that he really did have a ghostly appearance against the dark mass of the tree.

  ‘Stella.’

  She went over to him. She was in a panic of anger. God, the place was rank enough already in the local nostrils. It wanted only Fulcher to come prying along the lane and she would be branded for ever in the annals of Alderford.

  ‘Keith, just you listen to me. I won’t have you coming here. Don’t dare to do it again or I shall never forgive you.’

  ‘But Stella, I had to come—’

  ‘You’re a stupid blundering idiot. You’re a nitwit, Keith. Now for heaven’s sake go.’

  His face was too pale for it to have been simply the starlight and his expression was pitiable: she could hear his teeth nittering. He put out a shaky hand, as though to placate her wrath. He looked as though a push would have been enough to send him toppling.

  ‘I had to, Stella . . . you seemed angry . . .’

  ‘Angry! My God! That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘But why? What have I done?’

  ‘You’ve come here, you blithering goose.’

  ‘No, but before that—’

  ‘Before that you were being a fool.’

  He rocked, and made another placating motion with his hand, and this time she felt a little surge of pity for him. He was genuinely in a bad way, the helpless chump that he was. He had worked himself up so far that he was likely to go off in a faint.

  ‘Sit down then, blast you.’

  ‘But Stella, tell me—’

  ‘Sit down and stop waving about like a reed.’

  He sat down heavily, and after a moment Stella sat herself decorously beside him.

  ‘Now I’m going to tell you something, and you’ll remember it, my lad. I don’t care what notions you’ve got stuffed in that woolly head of yours. There’s a quality called discretion. It means exactly what it says. And you’d better know right away that I value it very highly.’

  ‘But I haven’t breathed a word, Stella—’

  ‘It isn’t necessary to breathe words. You’ve only to look like a dying duck and you’ve told the whole world. There’s a lot of gush talked about love, my sweeting, but take a tip from your Aunty Stella. All the world hates a lover, and that’s the first lesson in the business.’

  ‘Stella, I didn’t know . . .’

  She let him lean against her with his arm half round her waist. The shock of finding him there was subsiding and with it the biting edge of her indignation. After all, it was a very secluded cottage, and on a by-road but little frequented. She had met not a soul on her walk from Lazy Waters, and the odds were high against anyone passing that way so late. She needn’t have been so sharp with him perhaps, or so extinguishingly crushing. She kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘I’m sorry, my pet, but honestly you must learn not to be so obvious. It’s in bad taste, for one thing. It embarrasses other people. Love is a very excluding emotion and not to be exhibited in public. People who do it are either clowns or experiencing a sense of inadequacy, and you should avoid being the one and tackle the other with more intelligence.’

  ‘It’s so difficult, Stella.’

  ‘It’s a terribly difficult subject.’

  ‘I just can’t help feeling the way I do.’

  ‘It’s a phase, and I promise you it won’t last for ever. So don’t let it fool you. Try to see it with detachment.’

  He drew a deep breath and laid his head on her shoulder. ‘I think I could. I think . . . if only . . .’

  She nodded to herself. He could, if only she would accept him. It was an occasion when being an elder sister was not enough.

  ‘Now you had better be getting back, before someone starts wondering.’

  ‘They won’t.’ He snuggled up a little closer. ‘They’re used to me going off for a row or a swim.’

  ‘Not at this hour they aren’t.’

  ‘Yes – I’m always doing it. I love swimming in the dark, I’ve been right up the Broad.’

  Stella was incredulous. ‘You mean you’ve swum up there?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve often swum five miles, you know. And in the dark it’s curious, it gives you peculiar feelings. You seem alone, miles away, as though you were out in space somewhere.’

  ‘You’re a strange boy, Keith.’

  ‘Oh, other fellows do it too. There’s a man in Kings who swam to Waterbeach one night.’

  ‘Suppose you got cramp or something?’

  ‘Yes, that’s rather interesting. I’ve found out how to float while I relax and get rid of it.’

  Stella shook her head, still a little unbelieving. She sensed suddenly the gulf that thirteen years opened between them. He was still at the stunt age, imperfectly aware of any limitation. He wanted an excess of experience. He hadn’t begun to weigh the cost.

  ‘Anyway, I think you had better be making tracks, my son.’

  ‘No, Stella, not yet. Don’t send me away yet.’

  ‘And unless I tell you, you’re not to come to the cottage any more.’

  ‘I won’t, Stella, honestly. But you seemed so angry with me.’

  She let him hold her closer and kiss her. Her resentment was now appeased. There was something romantic in the hour and the cool, stock-scented garden. Moths were buzzing about her honeysuckle and flitting across the lawn, and the soft, still air seemed to carry an indefinable promise.

  ‘Tomorrow . . .’

  Quarter of an hour had passed in a silent, passive embrace. He had kissed her several times and fearfully moved his hand over her hip.

  ‘What about tomorrow, pet?’

  ‘We could . . . well, go for a trip in the halfdecker.’

  Stella thought about it. ‘Yes. We could.’

  ‘You’ll come then?’

  ‘If it’s fine.’

  He was silent again, slightly withdrawn. But then he kissed her with dangerous emphasis. She laughed and pressed his knee with her hand:

  ‘But this time you’re really going, young man.’

  FOURTEEN

  AND THE MORROW was fine. When Stella woke the sun was sparkling past her curtains, while the moving shadows of foliage cast upon them promised just the right amount of breeze. She took her bath, and dressed, and put her breakfast on a tray, and ate it sitting in the garden while she read her letters and the paper. Among the former was a characteristic and commonsensical letter from Jenny. She smiled over it, it seemed written for a different person than herself. She no longer needed admonishments to keep cheerful and to Try To Meet People, or moral reflections on the dangers of idleness. Dear Jenny! But what would she have thought of Stella now? Who had shrugged off her tragedy overnight and had taken up with a fresh fellow? She decided she better hadn’t mention Keith when she replied to that letter; then she smiled over it again before folding it away in its envelope.

  Keith had promised to have the halfdecker at the staithe by ten o’clock, so she waited until twenty-past before setting out to the summerhouse. As she went through the carrs she caught sight of a scandalized sail. Then Keith, who’d been sitting by it, sprang to his feet and came forward.

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind!’

  She chuckled silently at his relieved expression. ‘You said you would be here at about this time, didn’t you?’

  ‘At ten o’clock, actually. But I got here earlier.’

  ‘I must have lingered too long over breakfast.’

  Simon’s halfdecker was a high sail number in the local one-design class. A slim, white enamelled boat with a touch of tumblehome in her lines, she had a dark green cove line and varnished mahogany transom. Her name, Lutestring, was painted on the transom in a flowing shadowed script.

  ‘Would you like to sail her?’

  ‘Oh yes. If you think I’m up to it.’

  Keith bustled about setting the jib and raising the tall Bunter peak. He was wearing a navy shirt, navy slacks and suspiciously new Magisters, and looked altogether a thoroughly presentable young man. She noticed a picnic bag stowed forward, and a most unseamanlike collection of cushions. She took her seat at the helm.

  ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . about the Broad. We can go anywhere you like.’

  ‘Where does the river go from here, out of the top end of the Broad?’

  ‘Oh, Staybridge and some other places.’

  ‘Right. The next port is Staybridge.’

  He looked a little solemn at this and she knew that it hadn’t been in his programme, but he had given her the choice and he would have to abide by it. She drew her sheet and sent the halfdecker chuckling away from the staithe. Keith settled down with the jib and kept his eyes fixed ahead.

  There was breeze to spare on the wide acres of the Broad, enough to lift up the polished blue bottom of the halfdecker. It was a close haul to the top end, a tight, surging passage, in which they outpaced a couple of cruising yachts and even left motor-cruisers standing. Yet Stella felt no sense of strain as she handled helm and sheet. Perfectly balanced, the halfdecker rose precisely up the wind. She resembled some marine Pegasus, gentle, obedient to command, fierce to devour the way before her and unbearably jealous of competitors. To be sailing her gave Stella a feeling of exquisite satisfaction. In a mysterious, glorious way she seemed to be poised between wind and water. She found the Broad all too short, it should have gone on into infinity; she wanted the land to pass away and the open sea to stretch before her. She thought she understood why people like Justin took to the ocean, why they devised their tiny vessels and turned their bows to mighty waters. To be sailing was a thirst which grew as it was quenched, and the best that one could do was to seize on a semblance of the infinite.

  But the Broad came to an end, and a beat up to Staybridge succeeded it. Yet this too had a fascination in its demands on skill and judgement. The wind here was uncertain, being affected by low trees, and Stella’s helmsmanship was quickly tested as they now sped, now drifted. On either hand stretched the lush fen with stands of reed and gnarled willows; meadowsweet grew rankly along the banks, together with loosestrife and orange balsam. In the end, Stella found that the river too was undesirably short, and they were gliding into Staybridge before she was ready to quit the sport.

  It was a sunny, sleepy mooring beside some rusted brick malthouses, Staybridge being at the end of a dyke and remote from the main river. Keith took the warps ashore while Stella fondly coiled the sheet. She gave it a twist and a little pat: she felt she had earned her title to it.

  ‘It’s too early for lunch, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

  Her watch showed barely twelve o’clock; the journey had taken little over an hour. She sat and sunned herself on a cushion, a cigarette between her lips, her mind replete and slightly dreamy with the pleasure the sail had given her. Keith, at the other end of the boat, was less inclined to be restful. He was sitting doubled up as though his stomach ached and boredly massaging his ankles. He ought to smoke, she thought, now was the time for him to put on a pipe.

  ‘Did you think I handled her all right?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you did well.’

  ‘It’s quite a time since I did any sailing, so it wouldn’t be surprising if I were rusty.’

  ‘But you weren’t, you handled her beautifully.’

  ‘My overtaking needs brushing up.’

  ‘Honestly, I thought it was good.’

  ‘It was lousy. But thanks all the same.’

  She smiled to herself at his dejected figure. Well, he would learn, in time. If he had wanted to force the pace he would have done better to have stuck to Dawn.

  ‘Now that we’ve arrived, what sort of place is this Staybridge?’

  ‘Oh, just one of those places. A big sort of village.’

  ‘Then we may as well give it a look. I want to buy some cigarettes.’

  He walked silently beside her off the quay and towards the village, his hands in his pockets and his head drooped forward. The way led by a water-meadow overhung by young willows, and crossed a single-line railway before joining the village street. It was a place of lazy charm. A huge, square, flint church-tower overlooked the ambling street, which boasted a miniature town hall, a fire-station, two banks and several shops with old-fashioned fronts. In addition it had a curiously relaxed atmosphere as though everyone, not merely the yachters, were on holiday; though its back was turned to the river, still it was penetrated by a river-influence.

  After strolling the length of the street, Stella went to buy her cigarettes, leaving Keith lounging outside and still affecting to be bored. He had an unfortunate way of suggesting that he was above her mundane interests and was politely condescending to these foibles of his senior. It irritated Stella, and she deliberately lingered in the shop. If the kid couldn’t be more gracious, then she would leave him to stew in his own juice. She spent some more idle minutes in choosing a postcard for Jenny, and then tried every ballpen in the shop before making her selection. Coming out, she gave Keith a brilliant smile:

  ‘So sorry to keep you hanging about.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I don’t mind a bit.’

  So she squandered another ten minutes in writing the postcard.

  Their lunch consisted of chicken salad and an apple tart, washed down with canned beer. Stella had worked up a sailing appetite and she ate hers with relish. From their mooring there was plenty to watch in the shape of other craft, a yacht or two, dinghies, and a motor-wherry that nudged in beside the maltings. When she had finished the meal, Stella sighed; she felt that this was the life for her. It was a long way from Kensington, and she cared not if it were further.

  ‘Where now, my lad?’

  Keith was repacking the bag huffily. He seemed to have drifted as far away from her as the flat in town. His foolish small mouth was tucked up in a bundle, there was a flush on his cheek, and as he worked he kept his eye firmly averted from where she sat. The stupid young man! For after all, she had promised him nothing: to spend the day sailing had been the limit of her assent. Didn’t he guess that it was up to him to provide a mood, an emotional springboard, and that without it the best-intentioned of women would remain cool? True, it was perhaps her business to teach him, but she needed straw for her bricks, and while he was being such an ass she felt the effort was really beyond her.

  ‘Back again, I suppose. At least we’ll have the wind with us.’

  ‘We passed two turnings coming up. Wouldn’t they be worth exploring?’

  He was silent for a moment as he buckled the straps of the bag, then he replied, carefully neutral, ‘They go to Southery and Hunsett Bridge.’

  ‘Well, and what are they like?’

  ‘Oh, up Hunsett way it’s shoaly.’

  ‘And Southery?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a Broad, but it’s all grown up with reeds and stuff. Then there’s a staithe at the end, and a guesthouse. There’s nothing else.’

  ‘All the same it sounds pleasant.’

  ‘There’s better sailing on the Broad.’

  ‘Never mind, we have plenty of time. I think I’d like to go to Southery.’

  She couldn’t help it, there was a devil in her that was driving her to be contrary: for two pins she would have included Hunsett in the itinerary, too. Perhaps she was trying to exasperate him into coming to meet her, she wasn’t sure: but she was positive that she couldn’t care less about it.