Free The Boat House by Pamela Oldfield

words to please Grandmother. Boat is bateau. ’
    He smiled at Marianne. ‘Your girls are amazing.’
    Emmie said, ‘Marianne is not our mother. We told you. She’s our governess . . .’
    ‘. . . because our mother has run away and our father has died and we don’t even remember them . . .’
    ‘. . . but we had a nanny once who was ever so old and Grandmother had to get rid of her. We don’t remember her.’
    A silence fell between them.
    Marianne, disconcerted, said, ‘A potted biography!’
    Emmie looked at Donald. ‘We need some bread for the swans.’
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any.’ To Marianne he said, ‘A nanny?’
    ‘Apparently.’
    ‘Do you know her name?’
    ‘If I ever did know it, I’ve forgotten it. It might come back to me.’
    He lowered his voice. ‘It really is rather important that we talk, Miss Lefevre. If you would be kind enough to get in touch.’ He said, ‘Goodbye,’ to the twins and walked quickly away.
    Emmie, disappointed, said, ‘He’s not as nice as I thought he was.’
    The swans had grown tired of waiting and now swam away and Marianne decided they must bring the French lesson to an end and walk home.
    Donald Watson – Private Investigator.
    What on earth could he want with her? she wondered.
    As soon as they arrived back at the house, Georgina sent the children into the schoolroom with instructions for Marianne that they should sit down quietly and learn a piece of poetry.
    ‘They are hopelessly overexcited,’ she told the governess. ‘My foolish sister has that effect on them, I’m afraid. She has the same effect on me! I want the twins to calm down completely before they start to eat their lunch.’
    ‘Certainly. I’ll find a suitable poem – unless you have something particular in mind.’
    Georgina frowned. ‘I’ll leave that to you. That’s your job, not mine.’
    ‘Then perhaps “ One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock at the . . .”’
    ‘Yes, I know it. That will do very well. I shall be . . . busy for the next hour or so and am not to be disturbed.’
    Hurrying along to her special room, Georgina let herself in and locked the door behind her. Leaning back against the door she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh of relief. She was safe for the moment. She stayed with her back to the door as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
    ‘That wretched woman!’ she murmured. How was it, she wondered, that Ida always managed to catch her wrong-footed in some way, so that a few hours in her company left her nerves jangling. Here, alone in the darkness, she could find some peace of mind. Here, she could talk to her son without fear of interruption.
    ‘Neil,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Mother. I’m back.’ Her son had died in a foreign country but Georgina had no doubt that his spirit had returned to Henley-on-Thames where he belonged; where he was welcomed with open arms; where he was still needed.
    Opening her eyes, she looked slowly round the room with a sigh of pleasurable relief. Crossing to the altar, she felt in the hidden drawer for the matches and lit the two black candles with a hand that trembled. Watching the small wicks flicker into light, she was comforted, and already she felt some of her anxiety slip away. A faint smile touched her face as she knelt carefully, resting her knees on the hassock that had once belonged to her mother. She knew every detail of the faded embroidery – every stitch that Ellen Matlowe had applied all those years ago.
    ‘I’m back, Mother,’ she whispered through her clasped hands. ‘I’ve been with Ida and she’s given me a terrible headache, as usual.’
    She always waited for a whispered reply, faint as a breeze but audible. It never came but Georgina understood that it was just a matter of time. Ida had never been close to her mother, and Georgina had always known she was the favourite.
    She said, ‘I’m home, Herbert,’ and smiled for her dead husband. He had always told her how pretty