Clutch of Constables

“To make it rhyme,” Mrs Tretheway pointed out, “you have to say ‘pote’. ‘The Man that carries the Watering-pote’.”

She pushed their drinks across the bar. The back of her hand brushed Mr Bard’s fingers.

“You’ll join us, I hope,” he said.

“Another time, thanks all the same. I’ve got to look after your lunch. It’s cold—what do they call it—smorgasbord, for today. If everybody would help themselves when they’re ready.”

She went over to the hatch into the cuddy. Tom, the boy, had gone below and handed up the dishes to his mother who set them out on the tables that had been pushed together and covered with a white cloth.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mrs Tretheway repeated. “Please help yourselves,” and returned to the bar where she jangled a handbell.

Without consulting Troy, Mr Bard ordered two more dry Martinis. This was not Troy’s favourite drink and in any case the first had been extremely strong.

“No, really, thank you,” she said. “Not for me. I’m for my lunch.”

“Well,” he said. “P’rhaps you’re right. We’ll postpone until di

It now occurred to Troy that Mr Bard was making a dead set at her. Gratifying though this might or might not be, it did not fit in with her plan for a five days’ anonymous dawdle along the British Inland Waterways. Mr Bard, it was evident, had twigged Troy. He had this morning visited her one-man show for the opening of which, last evening, she had come up from London. He had been cu

There was a place beside Dr Natouche at the end of a circular seat that ran under the forward windows of the saloon. Troy helped herself to cold meat and salad and sat beside him. He half-rose and made her a little bow. “I hope you are pleased with the accommodation,” he said. “I find it perfectly satisfactory.”

There was an extraordinary quality in Dr Natouche, Troy suddenly decided. It was a quality that made one intensely aware of him, as if with the awareness induced by some drug: aware of his thin, charcoal wrist emerging from a white silk cuff, of the movements of his body under his clothes, of his quiet breathing, of his smell which was of wood:—cedarwood or even sandalwood.

He had neatly folded his newspaper and laid it beside his plate. Troy, glancing at it, saw herself having her hand shaken by the Personage who had opened her show. Was it possible that Dr Natouche had not recognised this photograph? “I really don’t know,” she thought, “why I fuss about it. If I were a film star it would be something to take-on about but who cares for painters? The truth of the matter is,” Troy thought, “I never know what to say when people who don’t paint talk to me about my painting. I get creaky with shyness and hear myself mumbling and am idiotic.”

Dr Natouche, however, did not talk about painting. He talked about the weather and the days to come and he sounded a little like one of the Pleasure-Craft and Riverage Company’s pamphlets…“There will be a great deal of historic interest,” he said, calmly.

He had moved away from Troy to give her plenty of room. She was as conscious of the distance between them as if she had measured it in inches.

“All the arrangements are charming,” concluded Dr Natouche.

Mr and Miss Hewson now appeared. They seemed to be the dead norm of unpretentious American tourists. Miss Hewson was fairish, shortish and compact in shape. Her brother was tall, thin and bespectacled and wore a hearing-aid. They both looked hygienic and practical.

“Well, now,” Miss Hewson said, “if we aren’t just the slowest things to settle. Pardon us, folks.”

Mrs Tretheway from behind the bar introduced them to the assembled company and in a pleasant, sensible fashion they repeated each name as they heard it while the British murmured and smiled. Dr Natouche reciprocated in this ritual and Troy wondered if he too was an American but could hear no trace of it in his voice. West Indian? African? Pakistan?

“One to come,” Miss Rickerby-Carrick presently a

Miss Rickerby-Carrick began playfully to whisper: “What do you think? Shall we guess? What will he be?” She pointed to Mr J. de B. Lazenby’s name on the card and looked archly round the company.

They were spared the necessity of reply by the entrance of Mr Lazenby himself.

In a way, Troy felt, it was something of an anti-climax. Mr Lazenby was a clergyman.

It was also a surprise. One did not, somehow, associate the clergy, except in the upper reaches of their hierarchy, with expensive cars and uniformed chauffeurs. Mr Lazenby gave out no particular air of affluence. He was tall, rather pink and thinly crested and he wore dark glasses, an immaculate clerical grey suit, a blue pullover and the regulation dog-collar. Mrs Tretheway from behind the bar, where to Troy’s fancy, she had become a kind of Oracle, pronounced his name and added sensibly that he would no doubt find out in due course who everybody was.

“Surely, surely,” said Mr Lazenby in a slightly antipodean, faintly parsonic voice.

“But,” cried Miss Rickerby-Carrick, “it doesn’t say in the passenger-list. It doesn’t say Rev… Now, why is that?”

“I expect,” said Mr Lazenby who was helping himself to luncheon, “it was because I applied for my reservation by letter. From Melbourne. I didn’t, I think, declare my cloth.”

He smiled at her, composed himself, bent his head for a moment, scratched a miniature cross on his jumper and sat down by Mr Pollock. “This looks delicious,” he said.

“Very tasty,” said Mr Pollock woodenly and helped himself to pickles.

Luncheon went forward in little desultory gusts of conversation. Items of information were exchanged. The Hewsons had come up from the Tabard I

“Well, now,” Miss Hewson said, “I just don’t get this Commonwealth. It’s the British Commonwealth but you’re not a Britisher and you got the British Queen but you don’t go around saying you’re a monarchy. I guess the distinctions are too refined for my crass American appreciation. What do you say, dear?” she asked Mr Hewson.

“Pardon me, dear?”

Miss Hewson articulated carefully into her brother’s hearing-aid and he began to look honest-to-God and dryly humorous. Miss Rickerby-Carrick broke into the conversation with confused cries of regret for the loss of Empire and of admiration for the Monarchy. “I know one’s not meant to talk like this,” she said with conspiratorial glances at Troy, Mr Pollock and Mr Bard. “But sometimes one can’t help it. I mean I’m absolutely all for freedom and civil rights and integ—” she broke of with an air of someone whose conversation has bolted with her, turned very red and madly leant towards Dr Natouche.