‘I swear,’ she heard. ‘The constitution of an ox. The Watts woman keeps an eye out for him, God knows why. Last year they had to fish him out of the mud before the prizes. I don’t know what he puts in that home brew but it hasn’t killed him yet.’ They were talking about the barge match, the race still two days away. Wednesday now – Wednesday night, one day gone. Alison looked with longing towards release. Thursday to get through; Friday the race; Saturday the wedding; Sunday, they’d be back in London. The party had been in full swing when they arrived, the house not a new-build after all, Alison registered, but only thirty or so years old, a big ugly solid building in unfaded brick, with an over-imposing porch and heavy lintels. Lucy Carter met them at the door with a glitter of excitement about her and a glass in her hand. The fragile, tentative woman they’d seen at the hotel had gone: elegant in high-heeled shoes she had paused dramatically to take Alison in, her sandals, the strong, old-fashioned colour, the scarf twisted in her cropped hair.
