The Ladies' Midnight Swimming Club(80)

‘Miranda Reilly,’ she said, swinging her legs across the bridge to get a better angle on her next skimming stone. ‘Delighted, I’m sure,’ she said to match his formality. Then she remembered the time. She needed to get back or her mother would surely have organised a search party. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be skimming stones?’ she said to make fun of him, throwing one last shot along the water.

‘I probably am really. There’s not a lot else to do here at the moment. I’m looking forward to getting my fishing rod out. My grandfather is letting me borrow his old punt, but I’ll have to do a bit of tidying up on it first.’ He jumped down from the bridge and began to walk with her.

‘I’d love that… fishing on a boat in this weather. It sounds like heaven,’ Miranda said. Trips on boats were few and far between, since most of the boats were fishing boats and they had no room for children who just wanted to sightsee. ‘I could help, you know, get it ready, if you wanted,’ she said, unsure of what that would entail, but if it meant getting a few boat trips it would be worth it.

‘Ah, I’m not sure that’s really the kind of thing a girl would be any good at…’ He turned now, smiling at her. There was no animosity in his words. ‘You know, painting, it’s all very messy and it’s damned tricky work.’

‘Huh, I’ll have you know, I’ve probably done a lot more painting than you have.’

‘I’m sure you have, but this is proper painting, not flowers in vases or fruit in bowls.’ He bent down, pulled a bunch of cardinal flowers and handed them to her. He laughed then but his eyes were kind.

‘That’s not proper painting…’ she began, because there was one thing that living without her father had taught her over the last few years and that was how to be practical. Each Christmas it was her job to run the paintbrush around the edges of doors and windows, skirting boards and tiles. She had, her mother always said, an eye for detail.

In the distance she heard a church bell ring out and felt a stab of panic. She’d been gone much too long. The short jaunt had turned into not only a long ramble, but stopping here, with Richard Blair, had also robbed her of time when she should be getting back if she didn’t want to be grounded for the rest of the summer. That notion made her heart sink. She couldn’t imagine being shut up in their little cottage with her father for days on end. ‘Where’s your boat anyway?’

‘Down along the river.’ He jutted his thumb forwards. ‘Of course, it’s locked away in the boathouse on the estate for now, but tomorrow…’

‘I know it.’ Miranda wouldn’t particularly want to admit that she knew most of the old outhouses along the riverbank. She had explored every place she could make her way into. The little boathouse, musty and empty, had given her shelter when she was caught out in an unexpected downpour once on her way back from a day spent tadpoling on the bank.

‘You do, do you? Well, I’ll be there first thing tomorrow, so if you’re at a loose end you’ll know where to come, won’t you!’

‘You’re making fun of me,’ she said as she hoisted herself up over the gate that blocked this lane from the main road.

‘Me? Never.’ He smiled and she was suddenly aware that they were standing there watching each other for a little too long.

‘Well, I should be getting back,’ which of course, was an understatement.

‘I suppose that we’ll be bumping into each other again,’ he said diffidently then he scudded his final flat stone along the top of the river. ‘See you soon, Miranda,’ he shouted as he made his way in the general direction of Blair Hall.

*

The following day, Miranda arrived at the boathouse just as Richard was pulling back the huge doors. With the morning light flooding the little shed, it seemed much brighter and less eerie than when she came here before. Now, she could see it was a very old building, home to two boats, one – Richard’s little punt – slept silently beneath a great blue cloak. He pulled back the cover and resolutely ignored the sorry-looking remains of a red and white sailboat in the corner.

‘Hi,’ she said shyly as she slipped around the door.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’ He was lining up a couple of rusting tins of paint, but there was no way of knowing what they contained without opening the lids. ‘Come to watch me work, have you?’ he said kindly.

‘I thought I’d help you,’ Miranda said with more confidence than she felt.

‘Oh, I can’t see you helping here. It’s all…’ His words stopped when he caught her eye, as though he was thinking that he might jolly her along. Then he turned back to the bench, taking up one of the paint cans again. Miranda spotted a big old screwdriver and she grabbed it, quickly levering open the first can before moving on to the next, aware of Richard at her back watching her silently.

‘Well done, maybe you’ll be able to assist me after all,’ he said, surprise lilting his voice.

‘We’re in luck,’ Miranda said on opening the final can. It was almost full of varnish, a slightly more vivid colour than the faded tone of the little boat that lay stretched out in the sunshine coming from the doorway. She set to stirring it up with the screwdriver so that soon the lumpy years of disuse were being broken into the liquid. ‘Have you found some brushes?’ she called to him.