The Ladies’ Challenge Plate was the fourth race on the card. No preliminary heat had been necessary. It was to be a straight race between First Trinity and Christ Church, a distance of a mile and a quarter from the starting point above the Temple Island to the winning post opposite the Red Lion, below the town bridge.
The Oxford boats were sheltered under a large tent erected beside the river on the far side of the bridge. The scene here was in stark contrast to the merriment along Regatta Reach. An air of serious endeavour prevailed, the oarsmen preparing for the ordeal to come, nervously pacing the turf, saying little. The observers here seemed also to be infected with the sense of what was at stake. They stood at a respectful distance. I spotted Echo at once, looking ravishing in the Christ Church colours, standing with her father.
I doffed my boater and Echo gave a sweet curtsey.
“Please,” I said. “No ceremony. Let’s all be family today.”
Turning to Dr Stubbs, I asked, “Are the crew in fine fettle?”
“The best I’ve seen, sir,” he told me. “They’ve been here for a week, staying at the Red Lion, getting in hours of practice.”
“Not at the bar, I trust,” said I, evincing a delightful laugh from Echo. “Shall we offer them our good wishes?”
“Oh, yes!” said Echo, with a shade more passion than seemed appropriate. She made a beeline for a diminutive figure in blazer and flannels whom I recognized as Bilbo.
“He’s our cox,” said Dr Stubbs, as if I didn’t know. “He steers a canny course.”
“Is there some skill involved?” I said.
“Good Lord, yes. The steering is paramount. He’ll be steering for the church.”
I didn’t understand. I hadn’t heard that Bilbo had religiousaffinities. “Do you mean Christ Church?”
“No, sir. You misunderstand me. Henley Church is the object to have in one’s sights until Poplar Point is cleared. We’ve drawn the Berkshire station and that should be to our advantage. He’ll make it tell. You’ll see.”
Not choosing to add to the adulation, I passed a few words with several of our oarsmen, who would, after all, be putting their bodies on the rack to win the race. But I kept an eye on what was happening and I saw Echo blush deeply more than once. I hoped nothing indiscreet had been said. Finally, Dr Stubbs himself went across to remind Bilbo that it was time to lift the boat off its trestles and take to the water.
Even I will admit that I was stirred by the sight of eight blades cutting the water in concert as they moved into the stream to row down to the start. But we couldn’t linger. Stubbs had decided to watch the race from Poplar Point, a quarter of a mile from where we stood.
As we threaded a route through the crowd, with Dr Stubbs leading, I turned to Echo and enquired if she was feeling nervous.
“Terribly,” she admitted.
I leaned closer and confided, “If you’d care to hold my hand and give it a squeeze, I wouldn’t object in the least.”
She blushed and murmured her thanks.
I said, “Speaking for myself, the main excitement will be standing close to you.”
She lowered her eyes. I have that effect on the fair sex.
Stubbs was right: Poplar Point was a fine vantage place, even if we had to stand shoulder to shoulder with others. I took out my binoculars. There were signs of activity from the Umpire. The crews were poised for the off. I saw Bilbo take a hip-flask from his pocket and knock back a swig of whisky to calm his nerves. Dr Stubbs enquired if I had a good view. I put down the glasses, eyed his daughter and said I could see everything I wanted.
At length the word was given, and the oars dipped in. The Black Prince had the better of the start and for two hundred yards kept a narrow lead. The Christ Church men remained calm, pulling splendidly, their blades scarcely creating a ripple. Bilbo put his megaphone to his mouth to raise the rate.
“If they can stay in contention, the Berkshire station will be in their favour towards the finish,” I told Echo, exhibiting the expertise I had picked up from her father.
Some know-it-all turned and said, “They’ll need it with this wind blowing. The Bucks station will be sheltered by the bushes. Christ Church are going to struggle.”
Beside me, Echo was taking quick, nervous breaths. I felt for her right hand and held it. My own pulse quickened.
Christ Church came up level as they approached the first real landmark, at Remenham. I thought I heard Echo say, “He can do it!” She was so involved in the race, poor child, that she ascribed a personality to our boat.
Steadily, with never more than a canvas between them, the crews approached Poplar Point. Echo was pressing so close to me that I could feel the steel hoops of her dress making ridges in my flesh. It was peculiarly stimulating.
Then a strange thing happened. Something fell into the water from the Christ Church boat: Bilbo’s megaphone. It floated a moment before disappearing. Bilbo half-turned, and evidently decided he could do nothing about it. They had reached the critical stage of the course and they were definitely in the lead, but he was steering dangerously close to First Trinity’s water.
The umpire picked up his own megaphone and his voice travelled over the water. “Move over, Christ Church.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“He’s in danger of fouling,” said Dr Stubbs in a strangled tone. “Move over, man!”
As if he could hear, Bilbo tugged on the rudder, but too powerfully, for our boat lurched to port, and was now in danger of running aground.
“What’s his game?” cried Dr Stubbs. “He’ll lose it for us.”
The Black Prince had drawn level. In fact, it was slipping by whilst our erratic steering was causing uncertainty in the boat. The crew were losing their form, bucketing their strokes, uncertain whether to reduce their effort as the boat veered off course.
“For God’s sake, pull to starboard, man!” Dr Stubbs bawled. Bilbo couldn’t possibly hear.
Echo let go of my hand and covered her eyes. I put a protective arm around her shoulders. Her Papa was far too occupied to notice.
The Christ Church boat was out of control. It glided inexorably towards the bank. People in punts screamed in alarm. Parasols fell into the water. The bows hit one of the punts with such force that the front of the eight rode straight over it. A man tumbled into the water. The stern dipped below water level. It started to sink. Several of the crew freed themselves and leapt clear. I looked to see what Bilbo was doing, for his inept steering had caused this catastrophe, but he remained at his post, head lowered, as the water crept up his chest.
Meanwhile, the Black Prince rounded Poplar Point in fine style and cruised towards the finish, past the band of the Oxford Rifles on their raft and the cheering thousands along the banks and in the stewards’ grandstand. The drama at Poplar Point had been unseen by those at the finish and they must have waited vainly for Christ Church to come into view.
My pretty companion was in distress. “Oh, Bertie, we must see if he’s all right! We must go at once!”
We made the best speed we could down to the towing path. But movement was difficult in the throng of people anxious to observe the accident. We couldn’t get close. Someone was being lifted from the water. There were shouts for a doctor.
“Who is it?” I asked. “What’s happened?”
“The coxswain. He went down with the boat and almost drowned.”
“Henry?” cried Echo. She fainted in my arms — some consolation for the lamentable end to my romantic afternoon.
“Hold on, sir,” said Dr Stubbs. “I’ve got some whisky here.” He felt into his hip pocket. Then tried his other pockets. “Where the devil is my flask? Hell’s teeth, I must have dropped it in all the excitement.”