leaves. Today the sky was overcast and the boat house looked almost grim, like a fat toad crouching at the far end of the garden. It had rained in the night and the wooden frame had a sodden, almost sullen look, Marianne thought nervously, but she went up the three steps carefully and thrust the key into the lock. It turned, but only so far. ‘Try the other way,’ she told herself and tried to reverse it. It moved both ways but only part way and had presumably rusted within the movement of the lock.
‘Bother!’ she said loudly and then, in a lower voice, ‘Damn!’ Shielding her eyes from the reflection in the glass, Marianne peered in at what she could see of the interior. It seemed to her that the water level was slightly down but there were locks on the river in both directions so the water could not rise and fall with the tide. It was gloomy inside the boat house and it took some time for her eyes to adjust but then she could make out the wooden walkway around the edge and in the middle, on the water . . .
‘That’s odd!’ Where was the boat she had seen previously? The narrow, flat-bottomed boat that she had assumed was a punt. There was no sign of it. Just the water, which barely rippled, reflecting the small amount of light allowed in by the windows.
On the riverside she could make out the outlines of the gates, which opened out on to the river, but now she fancied they resembled heavy doors rather than gates, and Marianne could just make out a chain and padlock that secured them. So how could a boat have made its escape? Unless, she thought, the boat house was being used by someone from outside – from beyond the house – with or without Mrs Matlowe’s permission. Or was it possible that she rented it out to someone?
Now she could also make out a few sacks to one side on the right-hand walkway and a few utensils hanging on the wall – one which she guessed might be a boat hook. On the left-hand walkway she could see a couple of baskets – possibly abandoned picnic baskets – but they seemed to be decaying fast and leaned almost drunkenly towards each other.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she told herself. ‘Too depressing!’
But how wonderful it must have been, she mused, when the young people were there. Marianne sighed with envy. She could imagine them punting up the river – the women elegantly dressed with shady hats or parasols, the men wearing straw boaters – with the picnic basket stowed between them. Maybe a salmon mousse in a circular mould, or chopped vegetables in aspic. Maybe a game pie and potato salad, or better yet a still warm chicken wrapped in a cloth, and a . . .
‘Yoo hoo, Marianne! It’s me, Mrs Brannigan!’
Reluctantly Marianne surrendered her vision of gracious living and returned the neighbour’s wave. She walked over to the hedge where Mrs Brannigan held out a paper cone filled with something that promised to be sweet.
‘My husband just spotted you from the landing window,’ she told Marianne. ‘And I’ve just finished making these coconut creams. I hope you like coconut.’
‘I do. Thank you.’ She took them gratefully.
‘The rest are for the Methodists’ Church Bazaar. I always make something for them – it’s such a good cause.’ She watched Marianne taste one and waited for her reaction.
‘Mmm! Quite delicious!’
Satisfied, Mrs Brannigan said, ‘All on your own then?’
Marianne nodded. ‘The twins have been invited to a birthday party and Mrs Matlowe has taken them. Her sister’s persuaded her to stay the night so I’m footloose and fancy free.’ She seized the moment. ‘Does anyone else have permission to use the boat house? I ask because last time I looked I thought I saw a punt in there and now it’s gone.’
Mrs Brannigan frowned. ‘A punt? Oh no. You must have been mistaken. No one is allowed to . . .’
‘I’m wondering if someone is using it without permission. First we see a man in the garden – or the twins do –
‘Bother!’ she said loudly and then, in a lower voice, ‘Damn!’ Shielding her eyes from the reflection in the glass, Marianne peered in at what she could see of the interior. It seemed to her that the water level was slightly down but there were locks on the river in both directions so the water could not rise and fall with the tide. It was gloomy inside the boat house and it took some time for her eyes to adjust but then she could make out the wooden walkway around the edge and in the middle, on the water . . .
‘That’s odd!’ Where was the boat she had seen previously? The narrow, flat-bottomed boat that she had assumed was a punt. There was no sign of it. Just the water, which barely rippled, reflecting the small amount of light allowed in by the windows.
On the riverside she could make out the outlines of the gates, which opened out on to the river, but now she fancied they resembled heavy doors rather than gates, and Marianne could just make out a chain and padlock that secured them. So how could a boat have made its escape? Unless, she thought, the boat house was being used by someone from outside – from beyond the house – with or without Mrs Matlowe’s permission. Or was it possible that she rented it out to someone?
Now she could also make out a few sacks to one side on the right-hand walkway and a few utensils hanging on the wall – one which she guessed might be a boat hook. On the left-hand walkway she could see a couple of baskets – possibly abandoned picnic baskets – but they seemed to be decaying fast and leaned almost drunkenly towards each other.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she told herself. ‘Too depressing!’
But how wonderful it must have been, she mused, when the young people were there. Marianne sighed with envy. She could imagine them punting up the river – the women elegantly dressed with shady hats or parasols, the men wearing straw boaters – with the picnic basket stowed between them. Maybe a salmon mousse in a circular mould, or chopped vegetables in aspic. Maybe a game pie and potato salad, or better yet a still warm chicken wrapped in a cloth, and a . . .
‘Yoo hoo, Marianne! It’s me, Mrs Brannigan!’
Reluctantly Marianne surrendered her vision of gracious living and returned the neighbour’s wave. She walked over to the hedge where Mrs Brannigan held out a paper cone filled with something that promised to be sweet.
‘My husband just spotted you from the landing window,’ she told Marianne. ‘And I’ve just finished making these coconut creams. I hope you like coconut.’
‘I do. Thank you.’ She took them gratefully.
‘The rest are for the Methodists’ Church Bazaar. I always make something for them – it’s such a good cause.’ She watched Marianne taste one and waited for her reaction.
‘Mmm! Quite delicious!’
Satisfied, Mrs Brannigan said, ‘All on your own then?’
Marianne nodded. ‘The twins have been invited to a birthday party and Mrs Matlowe has taken them. Her sister’s persuaded her to stay the night so I’m footloose and fancy free.’ She seized the moment. ‘Does anyone else have permission to use the boat house? I ask because last time I looked I thought I saw a punt in there and now it’s gone.’
Mrs Brannigan frowned. ‘A punt? Oh no. You must have been mistaken. No one is allowed to . . .’
‘I’m wondering if someone is using it without permission. First we see a man in the garden – or the twins do –
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