Enter Pale Death(24)
“Well, it’s not exactly a garden,” Joe said as they stepped outside into the summer evening, “but there’s a very pretty bit of greenery out here. Do you know this place? It’s quite extraordinary! A river-side country house surrounded by meadows full of hairy brown cows up to their udders in buttercups. Just a stone’s throw from the city centre. Let’s stroll along the bank of lawn that goes down to the river. The landlord’s put out some tables and lit up some lanterns along the towpath. Listen! You can hear people out there on the water, laughing and singing. Very romantic! Shame I find myself sharing a whisky with a hulking great copper instead of a champagne cocktail with my sweetheart.”
“And there’s plenty of light in the sky,” Hunnyton nodded. “It’s Midsummer, after all. Longest day of the year on Saturday. You can still catch a few flannelled fools on the water punting their girls about. Heading back to the college boathouse, I should hope. Most of the razzamataz passed off last week—the degree awards, the May balls, punting down to Grantchester for breakfast … all that stuff. But you always get the odd ones left behind, finishing off research, unable to cut the strings.”
“Lingering over a romance? Trying it on with the local lovelies?” Joe wondered.
“That too. The local lads as well sometimes come out, nip down Laundress Lane and hire a canoe from the Anchor boatyard, bent on reclaiming the river once the straw boaters and college scarves have cleared off.” The policeman in him added, “There’s always a nasty couple of days when they clash. Dunkings and de-baggings and other low-grade mayhem. Town and Gown have never been easy neighbours and we always put our strongest swimmers and liveliest lads on beat duty down here in June.”
They watched as a punt drifted by, both men enviously amused to see the lithe young scholar poised at his punting-pole entertaining with his chatter three girls in white dresses who lounged like decorative sofa dolls along the cushions in the centre of the flat boat, fluting and chirrupping and sipping from champagne glasses.
The girls caught sight of the two men watching them in silent admiration and, from the safety of their mid-river station, raised their glasses and shouted saucy invitations to come aboard and even up their numbers. Joe chortled, returned the salute and called back his acceptance. Would they pull over and pick up or should he swim out? He handed his glass to Hunnyton, strode to the edge and began to take off his jacket, miming eager intent. With shrieks of tipsy laughter from its cargo, the punt gave an elegant swish of its tail and swept off downstream.
Joe stared after it, sighing in mock disappointment.
Hunnyton handed him back his glass, commenting starchily, “You look like Mr. Toad when he caught sight of his first motorcar. Sitting dazed in the middle of the road murmuring ‘Poop, poop!’ as it disappeared in a puff of smoke. I must say, I can never see the attraction of a punt.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard not to look heroic, playing captain and crew at the same time. Towering over your girls, poised on the stern, chin raised, teeth to the wind, muscles cracking.”
“River water running down into your armpit.” Hunnyton grinned. “You may manage to look like Odysseus resisting the call of the Sirens but you can never leave go of that bloody nine-foot-high pole! Nowhere to park it. You’re lumbered. Both hands fully occupied for the duration of the whole chilly uncomfortable event. All you can do to impress from back there on the platform is look noble and spout Homer. If you really want to make some serious progress with your girl, you’d get further in the one and ninepenny double-seaters on the back row at the Alhambra. The city lads all know that much. For them, a punt is some old fenland boat you ferry the cows across the river in.”
“Don’t spoil it! I was just considering bringing my girl up here to stage a romantic moment,” Joe said.
“She’s not a stranger to East Anglia, then?” Hunnyton suggested tentatively.
“I had thought so, but you, I’m willing to wager, know better,” Joe said drily. “Shall we stop pussyfooting about and put the few cards we have between us on the table?”
Hunnyton laughed, shrugged and plunged in. “Miss Dorcas Joliffe I understand to be known to you in some way or other. Mind telling me in what capacity exactly?”
“I’d love to tell you exactly but there’s no exactitude about our situation at all. Wish there were.” Joe gave him the few unadorned facts about his relationship with Dorcas. It occurred to him, in his dry account, that he’d never once discussed the matter with a male friend or relation. It came surprisingly easily when face to face with this bluff, unquestioning, apparently all-knowing fellow copper.