LITMIR.BIZ

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just over a mile downstream to where the old fieldstone cottage of Samuel Stevens stood. This straight stretch of navigatable river had gained the village its reputation as a centre for the rowing fraternity and when Samuel and his sons paid for a weir to be built across the river below this point it ensured that the rowing course would always be available, even when the river level dropped.

      When plans had been made for the construction of a railway line, Stevens had used all his influence and much of his money to ensure that the line crossed the Henning River at Henswytch and that a station was built in the village. This meant that the rowers and the cheering crowds that followed the sport could be transported easily and quickly to the regattas at Henswytch.

      As Henswytch lay upstream, the races began in the village itself. Here, the spire of the local church was used as a reference point for the starting position and the course then ran downstream to end at a point right outside the rowers’ clubhouse. Here, excited onlookers gathered on the banks of the river to cheer the crews to victory while the successful punters collected their winnings.

      When the Henswytch Rowing Club was formed with Samuel’s son David elected as its first president, the old farmhouse was transformed from a dark and brooding farmer’s cottage to a more pleasant and airy meeting place. Internal walls were removed to form a large meeting hall with a bar at one end. The kitchen was retained and meals now sold to hungry rowing enthusiasts, but the most significant change was the almost total demolition of the stone wall facing the river. Here, in even the most inclement weather, the club’s patrons could sit in the warmth of the clubhouse with a whiskey in hand and cheer the racers on through the windows that had now replaced the wall.

      David Stevens had smiled with delight at the changes and knew that this was exactly what his father had envisioned when he had made his endowment.

      The only thing that cast a shadow over his musings was the fact that their wonderful new clubhouse overlooked the very part of the river where the Iceman lurked.

      1956

      A

      ndrew Lang’s muscled frame pushed his blades deep into the river’s surface as his crew chased victory in the major event of the afternoon. But his strokes were erratic and his partner was having trouble compensating. Meanwhile the cox tried valiantly to get the pair of scullers into a racing rhythm.

      Andrew was not paying attention because his mind was reeling from the shock and shame of being found behind the boatshed with one of the juniors from the local private school.

      For generations the rowers had chosen to duck behind the shed to relieve themselves before their races, too lazy to climb the river’s bank to the clubhouse.

      Andrew had done as he had done before all his races, but on this occasion he had chanced to stumble upon the sweet-faced young lad with his pants at half mast. In midstream the boy had been alarmed and disgusted when the much older and larger youth had forced himself upon him, but his cry of distress was quickly answered by the appearance of the Henswytch Rowing Club’s president.

      Alarmed and embarrassed, Andrew had released the unfortunate youth and the boy had rushed back to his friends, pulling up his trousers as he went.

      ‘Get back to your boat!’ roared the president, ‘and don’t say a word to anyone. I’ll speak to you after the race.’

      Andrew hung his head and nodded.

      The president poked Andrew in the chest. ‘I’ll deal with the boy. You make sure you win the race. There’s a lot of our money riding on this.’

      The cox of Andrew’s crew screamed at him, trying desperately to get the big youth to pay attention. Already their unsteady craft was dropping back in the field and if their rhythm couldn’t be brought under control they would have no chance in the race.

      In utter desperation the slim youth in the rear of the craft leant slightly to the left and dipped his hand in the river. Cupping a handful of water, he threw it in the rower’s face.

      ‘Pay attention!’ the cox roared. ‘You’re losing the race!’

      Andrew shook his head to remove the droplets and regained his composure. The water and the yell of ‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ allowed Andrew to awaken from his reverie and to time his strokes to the cox’s call.

      Slowly but surely the crew regained the lost ground and with the finish line in sight the cox yelled for an increase in their rate which saw the scull slice cleanly through the water and on to a remarkable victory.

      The rowers slumped in their seats, exhausted. It had taken all of their strength to overcome the bad start, but the years of training had paid off. They had won.

      In the rear the cox raised his arm in victory to the cheering crowd while Andrew wondered with trepidation what awaited him when they landed.

      Amongst those on the bank were many of the locals who would be travelling home tonight flush with their winnings jin-gling in their pockets. The gambling was all very informal of course because it would not have been viewed as seemly that an amateur sport like rowing could be ruined by the crassness of wagering; however, if the supporters of a rival crew from a local grammar school insisted on wasting their hard-earned money by backing their boys then the citizens of Henswytch thought it impolite not to accommodate them.

      Roger Stevens was Henswytch Rowing Club’s current president and the sixth member of his family to hold the title. He managed to smile broadly as he made his way to the bar. He placed his empty glass down without speaking and watched as the barman took a bottle of single malt whiskey from the top shelf and replenished his glass with a hefty slug of the amber fluid. Stevens lifted the glass and swallowed. ‘I’ll also have a couple of your coldest bottles of beer, Tony.’

      The barman smiled and nodded. He was well aware who the bottles were for but chose to turn a blind eye. ‘On your tab, Mr Stevens?’ he asked.

      ‘Of course!’ Stevens smiled. ‘I’ll fix you up as soon as I collect my winnings. We’ll let our friends at St Gilberts pay for the drinks.’

      ‘It was a very close thing out there today,’ commented Tony. ‘I didn’t think we’d get there.’

      The smile faded from Roger Stevens’s face. ‘Yes. It was close.’ He collected the opened bottles and quickly turned away from the bar before Tony could add anything more.

       He’s right. It was a very close thing, Stevens thought to himself as he made his way outside. It was much too close for comfort, and all because of that fool Andrew Lang.

      On the grassy slope below the clubhouse many of the spectators were still enjoying the late afternoon sun, picnicking on cold meats and salad while lounging on blankets spread out on the lush grass.

      Stevens wound his way through the happy throng and came at last to the water’s edge where a long, narrow wharf enabled the rowers to climb in and out of their boats. Here, he knew he would find the crew of the victorious coxed pairs washing down the hull of their boat and its oars. Every time they returned from their training sessions or a race this ritual had to be performed before the equipment was stored away in the boatshed. It was a discipline that ensured the club’s sculls were kept in top condition and went a long way toward ensuring their racing successes.

      A short, skinny youth with a dark Mediterranean complex-ion passed Stevens on his way up the hill, carrying an oar over each shoulder. The young man nodded grimly to the club president and Stevens returned the gesture with a similar silent nod. Angelo Biagi had not been the club’s first choice to act as cox for their most important crew, but when Andrew Lang had suddenly undergone a youthful growth spurt the year before, the club had been given no option but to seek out a replacement. But with youths in the village being of very sturdy farming stock they had been forced to offer the position

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