66
Saturday, 5 May 2012
David had been right about the weather. The sky was dark and, as she turned off the engine, a fine rain slicked the windscreen, making it opaque. Stella peered out of the side window. As Marian Williams had anticipated, there was no one at Dukes Meadows and thick scrub on the bank obscured the river. She felt more and more uneasy.
She had parked beneath an oak tree. The branches accentuated the gathering dark. Close by was a building that must be the boathouse. Stella doubted the café was open, but the cleaners might be there. This spurred her on. She liked to meet cleaners and was not due to meet Marian Williams for ten minutes.
When she got out of the van, a gust of wind whipped her hair. She put up the hood of her anorak. It blinkered her view and, nervous, she pulled it down again: better to be soaked than caught unawares. She trudged around the boathouse. Above the wind was a clinking, a sound that chilled. Stella rounded the corner and came upon boats stacked on towing racks. Wind funnelled between the long racing vessels made the hollow bell-like sound. Stella tripped on a metal rigger and grabbed at the boat’s bow. St Michael. A sign, Jack would say.
Stella shielded her phone from the rain. She had no signal. If Marian wasn’t coming she could not let her know.
She wended her way across the slipway; she would call Marian from the boathouse café. A set of folding doors were tight shut. She cupped her face to the glass. Inside was another boat and piles of gear related to rowing, life jackets, oars. No cleaners. The boathouse was what the name implied. No tea either. And no way to call Marian.
Above her a flag snapped in the wind, wrapping and unwrapping around the pole.
Stella zipped her anorak to her chin and struggled down to the shoreline. She slipped on the ramp and, faltering, became aware of the insidious lap of the tide. Water smacked the pillars of Chiswick Bridge. Feet away, the cover on a sewer outlet creaked as it lifted and dropped, each time expelling a seepage of liquid. The pipe was wide enough to hide in. Stella retreated. She knew how easy it was to be cut off when the river filled. This was an idiotic place to meet. Marian Williams was not thinking straight. Stella hurried along the towpath past the boathouse; looking up the grassy slope she was grateful to see her van, a blurred shape in the misty rain.
It felt as if she were in remote countryside cut off from the city. On another evening Dukes Meadows might be scenic, but tonight the area was fraught with threat. David’s story of the dead woman propped against the tree was too real, too possible.
A layer of mist was suspended over the river, tinged with red. Stella caught the looming bulk of the brewery; the red tinge came from the light of the Budweiser logo. David had said that in 1959 a policeman described Elizabeth Figg as apparently sunbathing, gazing over the river towards the Watneys brewery.
The willow tree was on a sloping verge between the road and the towpath. Stella stumbled on thick twisting roots and steadied herself on the trunk. Elizabeth Figg’s body was discovered right here. She stared out through long trailing fronds that swept wildly in the wind and saw the glow of the brewery sign – Budweiser now. Then swirls of mist obliterated it. She turned to the tree and heard herself whisper: ‘Rest in peace, Elizabeth.’ She agreed with David, it was important to remember the dead.
She hurried along the track, now harder to see in the fading light. Wreaths of fog parted and she saw that her van was the only vehicle by the boathouse.
Marian was fifteen minutes late. Stella got back in the van. She was damp and cold and wished herself back in David Barlow’s light sunny kitchen. She was startled by a noise on the windscreen; hailstones bounced off the bonnet. She flicked on her wipers, but the chips of ice made them sluggish and the screech-screech of the blades frayed her nerves. She was stuck here. Until she could see properly she could not leave.
After a grindingly long time, the hail reverted to the mizzling rain. Green and brown smudges resolved into the willow tree. Someone was standing under it. Marian had been there all along. Stella depressed the button and the glass slid down. She breathed air heavy with sodden vegetation and river mud. There was no one.
She reversed jerkily on to the road. She would call Marian when she was out of the dead zone.
A figure stepped out of the blackness. Stella slammed on the brake and the van went into a skid; boats zoomed towards her; she heaved on the handbrake. The van turned full circle and came to a stop.
A face was at the window. With relief, Stella recognized David Barlow.