Free The Boat House by Pamela Oldfield Page A

she looked when she smiled. ‘It’s like the sun bursting through the clouds!’ he had said one day – the day he had proposed marriage and she had accepted.
    Now, she bowed her head. If Herbert came to her now he would find her very changed, she thought. She was no longer young and beautiful, happy and serene. Now she was growing old, her life had become fearful and full of agonizing regrets – the days too long, the nights filled with terrible dreams.
    ‘Dear Lord, hear my prayers.’
    Dutifully she began the short series of prayers to which she felt He was entitled. The Lord came first and she spoke to him with cautious reverence. Afterwards she would relax her vigilance and talk to Neil.
    Further down river, below Henley Bridge, Donald Watson found what he was looking for – the boatyard. It was an unpretentious enclosure containing about thirteen boats of various shapes and sizes but this would soon change, he knew. From past experience he understood that as the time for the regatta drew near, more boats, mainly punts, would be taken in for a final check before the big day. The event lasted from the first Wednesday in July until the Saturday.
    He parked his motor car and took his time, strolling towards the low buildings that were either repair shops, stores or offices. He whistled cheerfully as he made his way across the rough ground – patches of thin grass surrounded by stony ground and stretches of mud baked hard by the sun – not wishing to give the impression that he was ‘nosing around’ or that he had no right to be there. Trespassers were never welcome.
    All around him men were working on boats – painting, sawing, polishing, caulking and otherwise intent on their labours. No one gave him more than a curious glance but Donald felt reasonably at ease among them because his earliest memories were of hours spent as a boy in his uncle’s workshop where he worked in his spare time on an almost derelict dinghy. Strangely the work never ended and the boat was never declared seaworthy. His aunt insisted that her husband simply wanted somewhere to hide away when she started to nag him.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    Donald turned, smiling. It was more a challenge than an offer of assistance but he knew better than to alienate anyone. ‘Good morning! Is the boss around?’
    ‘Might be, might not.’ The man, thought Donald, might fairly be described as ‘grizzled’.
    From somewhere the sound of wood being planed carried on the breeze and with it the unmistakable tang of wood shavings and sawdust.
    Donald said, ‘Is it still Leo Croom? It’s a long time since I was last here.’
    ‘It’s Mr Croom, yes. He’s in the office.’ He pointed a calloused finger. ‘A bit older and a bit crustier, if you get my meaning! Doesn’t like being bothered.’
    With that he turned sharply on his heel and walked away.
    Donald muttered, ‘Thanks for the warning,’ and made his way to the squat building that served as the boatyard’s office.
    Before he could knock on the door it opened and a man in his fifties stepped out, a disgruntled look on his face.
    ‘Mr Croom! I don’t know if you remember me but . . .’
    Leo Croom eyed Donald sourly. ‘I do and I’m busy so make an appointment with my secretary.’
    ‘I won’t take up much of your time but . . .’
    ‘I know you won’t because I’m due somewhere in ten minutes and it’ll take me twenty to get there! Excuse me.’
    Donald was not at all rebuffed by this rejection but gave a polite nod of understanding. In his opinion secretaries were often a very fruitful source of information so he opened the door of the office and made his presence known.
    Miss Batt, turning from the filing cabinet, stared at him as if she had seen a ghost. ‘Donald Watson!’ she said at last. ‘Gracious me!’
    ‘I can’t deny it,’ he laughed. ‘And you look as young as ever!’
    ‘Now then, Mr Watson.’ She wagged a finger at him but blushed as she did so. ‘And it’s Mrs