Glynda, she thought; it must be Glynda again; her jealousy had spilled over from Dawn to Stella. Glynda must have heard or guessed something of the flirtatious passage on Simon’s motor-cruiser, and now it devolved on Simon to see that Stella was firmly tagged. Yes, that had to be it; and she felt a momentary sympathy for Simon. But then the sympathy turned to scorn as she considered his weakness. He was letting Glynda push him around when in fact he had only to put his foot down: an ultimatum sternly delivered, and she must either climb down or get to hell. He wasn’t in love with her, he’d said so, she was there purely on her merits; so why was he descending to these Machiavellian tactics – did he enjoy them for their own sake?

  When the chores were finished and her clutter cleared away Stella stuffed some cigarettes in her cardigan pocket and went down to the summerhouse. There, still laid out on the table, were the synopsis and sheets of her abortive novel, and she looked them over coolly from what seemed an enormous distance. Thank the Lord she hadn’t gone any further with that one! It was easy to see how it would have been a resounding flop. One couldn’t write like that, in the grip of personal emotions, it could only be done objectively when the emotions were tidied up. The summerhouse had a grate; Stella crumpled the papers into it. When they had burned she broke up the ashes and riddled them into the pan below. Then she carried them to the veranda and tipped them over into the water – and so much for Justin! She felt she had cauterized a wound.

  The dinghy was still moored at the staithe and the calm evening was inviting; the sun had descended behind trees to leave a cool, pellucid light. An evening breeze had sprung up, tracing cat’s-paws on the surface, and a few small sails had come out to take advantage of it. Stella decided it would suit her mood to be out there too. She went down to the dinghy and raised its friendly brown sail. The breeze was light, but she didn’t mind, it seemed the hour to be slowly drifting; she stretched herself on the floorboards and let the boat sail as it would. It was a novel experience. The dinghy enclosed her like a cradle. Its sail mounted the sky above her as huge as the sail of a wherry. Their progress was silent, a slow, rippleless gliding, and gave an impression of vast detachment from all the world beside.

  In this way she went drifting round the island in the Broad, until the need to begin tacking brought an end to her dreamlike passage. Also the breeze, which had been adequate to send her over the Broad, now had to be nursed with care if it was to be deceived into bringing her back again. She got up on the seat and began to sail with more attention. Another dinghy, with a blue sail, was slowly crossing the Broad ahead of her. Then she noticed, bearing towards her with easy strokes of his oars, her would-be gardener, Sam Fulcher, in his double-ended rowboat. She put about. She went off in a tack away from the Alderford corner. She had no intention of inviting another encounter with this detestable fellow. After her turn she saw him pause, then alter course to keep towards her, and she was glad when a slant of breeze came to speed her away from his pursuit.

  But he continued to hang about where she would have to pass by him. Her anger rose as she saw this: Simon had promised to deal with the brute! She made a turn or two in the channel, hoping to wear out his patience, but still he remained, his oars levelled, now and then dipping them to hold his place. Very well: she thought she knew a trick worth two of that. There was a passage through the reed islands outflanking the one that Fulcher was guarding. She had noticed it the day before and thought it might be worth exploring, and though she was ignorant of where it came out, yet it had to be in the Alderford direction. She retracted her plate a little and tacked towards the reeds. She found the passage quite easily and was able to lay it on a close haul. She knew that Fulcher must have seen her but she doubted his nerve to come in pursuit, and she wasn’t too upset when the breeze tailed away and she was obliged to take to her oars.

  But her escape route led her into a different sort of encounter, for on turning a bend she found her way blocked by the houseboat of the angler. There was room for her to push by, but he had to raise his line for her, so she could scarcely escape without some exchange of pleasantries. He gave her a friendly grimace.

  ‘You’re the first person to come that way.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter, the fish have gone off the feed anyway. They usually do about now, and then come on again at midnight. Would you like to see my catch?’

  Without waiting for her reply he hoisted on the cord of his keep-net, and dragged to the surface a bag of fish which, even to Stella’s blank ignorance, looked a haul of some magnificence. He inspected it complacently.

  ‘They’re rudd, those beauties with red fins. And roach, and bream. And that perch is going on two pounds. I pulled out a tench on Saturday, and a rare fight he gave me. This is a prime spot for fish. They run through the channel into the Broad.’

  ‘How many would there be?’ Stella gazed with fascination at the struggling netful. Some of the fish looked veritable monsters and their fins were a beautiful glowing ruby.

  ‘I haven’t weighed in yet. Getting on for four stone, it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘But how many fish?’

  He heaved bulky shoulders. ‘Maybe fifty, more or less.’

  He let them sink slowly out of sight, then winked at her and took out a pipe. He was a big, solidly-built man, probably nearer fifty than forty. He had a likeable, rugged face with a determined, square jaw, a strong nose, emphatic brows and hair lightly touched with grey. He wore an ancient tweed jacket and a yet older, more shapeless hat, and was studying her amusedly with twinkling, greenish eyes. For some reason Stella said to herself: country GP.

  ‘And how do you like the Broads, Miss Rushton?’

  She was startled. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Mmn.’ He nodded over lighting his pipe. ‘I haven’t read your books, I’m afraid to say. But I have seen them reviewed.’

  ‘Then you must think them profitless, vapid and stupid.’

  ‘I might. But I’ve read a lot of reviews.’

  ‘You’re in publishing, are you?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! But I do a bit of reading. When they let me have the time.’

  Now she was convinced that her guess had been correct, because ‘when they let me have the time’ was a favourite expression of her father’s. He too liked reading when the evening surgery closed its doors – with one eye on the clock and an ear on the telephone. He used to devour crime fiction at the rate of one title per sitting.

  ‘You read detective novels, do you?’

  ‘Mmn.’ His eyes twinkled roguishly. ‘And straight novels too . . . thought they’re apt to be profitless, vapid and stupid.’

  ‘What have you got on board?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Oh, an odd sort of collection. You can come and see if you like. You are welcome to borrow what’s there.’

  She hesitated but only for the moment before hitching her dinghy to the houseboat. There was nothing in the least predatory about this amused, pacific man. He had that degree of modest charm – his bedside manner, no doubt – that in an indefinable way impressed one as being deeply understanding. His patients were lucky people, she thought; he was the very best type of country GP.

  The houseboat was rectangular in shape and much too large for one person. One boarded it by a landing well and went through a sliding door into a lounge. This was a spacious cabin furnished with a low table and comfortable chairs, having a fitted sideboard, a bookcase and a bureau, the latter with a barometer and a clock mounted over it. The floor was carpeted, and a gas fire offered comfort for chill evenings; altogether, it seemed more of a turn-out than one might expect an angler to inhabit. He grinned at her silent appraisal and, though it was unnecessary, switched on a light.

  ‘I don’t own this, of course – I’m not in the supertax bracket.’

  ‘It looks a lovely boat.’

  ‘It belongs to a good friend of mine.’

  ‘It’s nice to have friends with possessions, too.’

  He chuckled, dropping into a chair. ‘Those are my books, on the top shelf.’

  She examined them with curiosity. They were not at all what she had anticipated. There were indeed a handful of paperback Simenons but these formed only a small part of the parcel. The rest comprised a selection of Broads books by such as Davies, Suffling and Patterson, a number of classics in translation and two volumes of Notable British Trials. It was such a disparate collection that Stella could make nothing of it. She thought that her angler was a man with either a broad or a very discursive intellect. After a little tasting around she selected Patterson’s Through Broadland in a Breydon Punt.

  ‘Since you are so kind, I would like to borrow this.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Miss Rushton. I shall be here for another week.’

  ‘I’ll take care to return it before then.’ She paused. ‘Shouldn’t we be introduced?’

  He blew a casual but perfect smoke ring. ‘George,’ he said carefully.

  She waited, but that apparently was all she was going to get. All right, she thought, all right, my boy. Then she was aware of the mild eyes fixed quizzically upon her, and she felt herself flushing: he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘George what?’ she asked furiously.

  ‘Just “George” in these parts. When I’m on holiday I leave the rest of me behind.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s fair. You knew who I was.’

  He nodded. ‘But I’m a nobody. So be a sport and let me stay anonymous.’

  ‘You’re a GP, aren’t you?’

  He smiled slowly, hesitatingly. ‘You’re an observant woman, Miss Rushton. What made you guess that?’

  ‘Because my father is one too, so I happen to know the type.’

  ‘Good.’ He puffed at his pipe. ‘I’ll have to get hold of some of your books.’

  Stella was still nettled but she felt she had settled that point: her instinct had been true, she could almost smell the ether. She leaned against the bureau enjoying her little moment of triumph. Against her will, she was being forced to admit that George had a very disturbing effect on her.

  ‘Whereabout do you practice?’

  His smile became almost angelic. ‘No, Miss Rushton, you’ve gone far enough. Let me stay my holiday self.’

  ‘I could find out, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But you won’t, will you? We fellows deserve our holidays. We’re sometimes darned lucky to get them.’

  ‘I still think you’re being mean.’

  ‘No you don’t, not really.’

  ‘Well, I would if it were someone else.’

  He laughed. ‘For that, I’m going to offer you a drink.’

  When at last she rowed away the disturbed feeling was far from quieted, and not looking where she was going, she twice had brushes with the reeds. It was odd. George had been there all the time she was at the cottage. How could Stella, for so long, have missed this intriguing element in her little world?

  SEVENTEEN

  ON ARRIVING BACK at the summerhouse she drew the mosquito netting across the veranda, then lit the brass ship’s lamp that hung on the wall. The evening breeze had died too, leaving the twilight perfectly still, and a ghostly carpet of smoke mist lay in bands over the water. She sat broodingly watching it and drinking in the night sounds. The light of the lamp attracted moths to the net from all directions. Some were enormous, some small and delicate, but all had fiery, gem-like eyes, and as they buzzed and fluttered they stared in at her with fierce, choleric intentness. Other sounds she identified slowly: the sudden plunge of a fish, the rustle of a coypu or a water rat, an angry snicker which she attributed to an otter.

  Then she heard another sound, a low, continuous splashing. It sounded as though it were coming towards her down the mist-covered waterway. Once or twice its beat hesitated, as though what made it had stopped to listen, but then it continued to advance with a steady, intent rhythm. She strained her eyes to pierce the mist for a glimpse of the origin of the sound. She felt a tingle of apprehension at its unafraid approach. Surely there was nothing on the Broad that could be regarded as dangerous – some nocturnal horror akin to the monsters of the Scottish lochs? At last she made out a dark object moving slowly in the water; and rowing it along what at first appeared to be two thick, pale tentacles. With a gust of relief she identified this startling phenomenon as a swimmer, and then immediately she understood: of course, it was Keith. She pushed the net aside. She went out on the veranda. She saw him drag himself out on the staithe near the gently rocking dinghy.

  ‘What on earth are you up to?’

  He remained for a moment kneeling, shaking off the weakness induced by immersion. Then he pulled himself to his feet. He stood dripping and slapping his ears.

  ‘I was out swimming . . . I saw your light. I thought I’d come in this direction.’

  He was on the shiver, and had a look more than usually pathetic. He was wearing a pair of red trunks that sagged unfortunately at the stomach, and his hair was plastered in a spiky fringe from which water dribbled into his eyes.

  ‘Well – you’d better come up. I keep a towel here, fortunately.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m going to swim back to the house in any case.’

  ‘Your teeth are chattering, you nitwit. You’ll come and dry yourself this minute. And if you do any more swimming tonight, you’re a fool.’

  ‘I’m used to it, Stella . . .’

  ‘Keith, sometimes I despair of you.’

  He came wetly up the steps and stood dripping in the doorway. She thrust him the hand-towel which, with a bit of soap, she’d brought to the summerhouse. He began to use it with simulated vigour, still standing in the doorway, and she looked round to find him something to throw over his shoulders. In effect there was only a raincoat which she had installed there for insurance; it was large for her, but didn’t look much to cover Keith’s generous six foot.

  ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do with you. You’ll have to be swathed in blankets. I’ve no clothes at the cottage that will be of any use.’

  ‘I’m going to swim back, I tell you. You don’t understand. Naturally you shiver when you get out, but that doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Yes it does. It means you’re chilled.’

  ‘But you’re all right if you stop in. Honestly, Stella, I haven’t been far. I just came . . . through the Broad.’

  ‘Meaning you came to see me?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I wanted . . .’

  She looked him over, nodding her head. He kept scrubbing away with the towel. So he had come to see her, come blindly seeking the thing he wanted. And she was there. And they were alone. And the dark night lay about them. Like Leander, he had swum his Hellespont to gain his Hero. She wondered if the original Hero had met her swain with a towel, and whether his teeth had been chattering as he stood dripping water everywhere.

  ‘Dry yourself for heaven’s sake. That’s the least you can do.’

  ‘Yes, Stella. I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘And you’d better shut the door.’

  He pulled it shut, fumbling the latch. She went across to the lamp. For a moment she stood eyeing him. Then she turned down the light.

  EIGHTEEN

  SHE WAS SURPRISED to find how quickly Keith went out of her head – like an eaten meal, for instance, or the clearing-up after it. When she had returned to the cottage and put herself to bed only a complacent languidness reminded her that he had existed. She felt unrepentant about this. She had no duty to be thinking about him. Whatever she was to him, he was to her only a delectable bedfellow. And now that her desire had been satisfied, her curiosity sated, it would be hypocritical to try to lend the matter a significance it didn’t possess. Rather, if it came to measuring significance, it was the angler, George, who claimed her attention. He had scarcely been out of her thoughts and she had gone to sleep thinking about him. He was by every standard disturbing; she wondered if he were married. He must be a widower, she decided, taking one thing with another. If he were married his wife would hardly release him for holidays of this sort, though a man like George must surely have been married at some time. She found the conclusion a pleasing one and she was sent to sleep by its flattery.

  The smoke mist of the evening had promised another fine day and other than a skein of high stratus the morrow verified its portent. Stella wasted no time in going down to the dinghy, and from the staithe could see sails already moving on the Broad. She made sail and reached away down her bay of waterlilies. She took care to go close to the white-painted houseboat. George was sitting in the well in his familiar position, wearing the same old jacket and disreputable hat. He lifted the latter and smiled across to her. She fetched up into the wind. She asked, incredulously:

  ‘Have you been fishing all night, then?’

  His smile became a chuckle. ‘No, I’m not that crazy. I’d had a good day, you remember, so I decided to turn in.’

  ‘Did you weigh them?’

  ‘Of course. There were fifty-four pounds. That bream was the best one, but I had a rudd going two.’

  ‘Is that big for a rudd?’

  ‘Well . . . yes! It’s getting large. You hear stories of three-pounders, but you never meet a man who’s caught one.’

  He winked at her, and by this light she saw that his eyes were in fact hazel, and that they had an engaging way of screwing up when the sun fell on them. She scooped some wind in her sail to prevent the dinghy from edging away, and he watched the manoeuvre with an approving sort of interest.

  ‘Are you going to watch the regatta?’ – she nodded towards his rowing dinghy.

  ‘Mmn. I may do.’ His broad shoulders twitched. ‘You will be on Sunbird, will you, with Mr Lea-Stephens?’

  ‘Yes – do you know him?’

  ‘Oh . . . I’ve seen him about here.’