She was behind the little bar, displayed in the classic manner within a frame of bottles and glasses many of which were splintered by sunlight. She herself had a kind of local iridescence: she looked superb. Mr Pollock kept glancing at her with a half-smile on his lips and then turning away again. Miss Rickerby-Carrick gazed at her with a kind of anguished wonder. Mr Bard expressed his appreciation in what Troy was to learn was a very characteristic manner.
‘The Bar at the Folies Bergère may as well shut up shop,’ he said to Troy. ‘Manet would have changed his drinking habits. You, by the way, could show him where he gets off.’ And he gave Troy a little bow and a very knowing smile. ‘You ought to have a go,’ he suggested. ‘Don’t,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Please.’ He laughed and leant across the bar to pay for their drinks. Mrs Tretheway gave Troy a woman-to-woman look that included her fabulous smile.
Even Dr Natouche lowered his paper and contemplated Mrs Tretheway with gravity for several seconds.
At the back of the bar hung a framed legend, rather shakily typed.
THE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC
The Hunt of the Heavenly Host begins
With the Ram, the Bull and the Heavenly Twins.
The Crab is followed by the Lion
The Virgin and the Scales,
The Scorpion, Archer and He-Goat,
The Man that carries the Watering-pot
And the Fish with the Glittering Tails.
‘Isn’t that charming?’ Mr Bard asked Troy. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘The magic of the proper name,’ Troy agreed. ‘Especially those names. It always does the trick, doesn’t it?’
Mrs Tretheway said, ‘A chap that cruised with us gave it to me. He said it was out of some kid’s book.’
‘It’s got the right kind of dream-sound for that,’ Troy said. She thought she would like to make a picture of the Signs and put the rhyme in the middle. Perhaps before the cruise was over –
‘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 dinner time. Let moderation be our cry.’
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 cunning enough to realize that she wanted to remain unrecognized. Evidently he was disposed to torment her about this and to set up a kind of alliance on the strength of it. Mr Bard was a tease.
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 recognized 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 announced, excitedly tossing salad into her mouth. ‘You’re not the last.’ She had been talking energetically to the Hewsons who looked dazed and baffled. She indicated a copy of the passenger list that had been put on the table. Troy had already noticed that the name K.G.Z. Andropulos had been struck out opposite Cabin 7 and that her own had not been substituted. Mr Bard with one of his off-beat glances at her, now reached out for the card and made good this omission. ‘We may as well,’ he said, ‘be all shipshape and Bristol fashion.’ Troy saw that he had spelt her surname correctly but obligingly prefaced it merely by the initials A.T. She couldn’t help giving him a look in return and he tipped her another of his squinny winks.
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