No Mark Upon Her

almost been swamped one year in the Boat Race, in conditions like this. An unpleasant experience, to say the least, and a dangerous one.
    “You’ve got someone joining you?” asked Lily as she poured him coffee.
    “Yes.” Freddie glanced at his watch again. “But he’s late.”
    “Some of the staff haven’t made it in,” said Lily. “Chef says there’s a pileup on the Marlow Road.”
    “That probably explains it.” Freddie summoned a smile for her. She was a pretty girl, neat in her Leander uniform of navy skirt and pale pink shirt, her honey-brown hair pulled back in a knot. A few years earlier he’d have fancied her, but he’d learned from his mistakes since then. Now he was wiser and wearier. “Thanks, Lily. I’ll give him a bit longer before I order.”
    She left him, and he sipped his coffee, idly watching the few other diners. This early in the week and this time of year, he doubted there were many overnight guests in the club’s dozen rooms, and the weather had probably discouraged most of the local members who normally came to the club for breakfast. The food was exceptionally good and surprisingly reasonably priced.
    The chef would have his hands full, regardless of the slow custom in the dining room. He was also responsible for feeding the voracious appetites of the young crew, who ate in their own quarters. Rowers were always starving, hunger as ingrained as breathing.
    At half past eight, well into his second cup of coffee and beginning to feel desperate for a smoke, Freddie rang Angus Craig’s number and got voice mail.
    At a quarter to nine, he ordered his usual breakfast of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, but found he’d lost his appetite. Pushing the eggs aside and buttering toast instead, he realized the rain had eased. He could see across the river now, although the watery gray vista of shops and rooftops on the opposite bank might as well have been Venice. But perhaps the traffic was moving again. He’d give Craig another few minutes.
    The sound of voices in reception made him look round. It wasn’t the big, sandy-haired Craig, however, but Milo Jachym, the women’s coach, having a word with Lily. He was dressed in rain gear, and had a purposeful set to his small, sturdy frame.
    “Milo,” Freddie called, standing and crossing the dining room. “Are you going out?”
    “Thinking about it. We might have an hour before the next squall line moves through.” Zipping his anorak, Milo looked out of the reception doors. Following his gaze, Freddie saw that a few patches of blue were breaking through the gray sky to the west. Milo added, “I’d like to get them off the ergs and onto the water, even if it’s a short workout. Otherwise they’ll be moaning the rest of the day.”
    “Can’t blame them. Bloody ergs.” All rowers hated the ergometers, the machines that were used to simulate rowing and to measure a rower’s strength. Workouts on the ergs were physically grueling without any of the pleasure that came from moving a boat through the water. The only good thing that could be said for an erg workout was that it was mindless—you could drift into a pain-filled mental free fall without ramming your boat into something and risking life and limb.
    Milo grinned. “Never heard that one before.” He turned back towards the crew quarters. “I’d better get them out while it lasts.”
    Freddie stopped him with a touch on the arm. “Milo, did you have a chance to speak to Becca? I was hoping you might have been able to talk some sense into her.”
    “Well, I talked to her, but not sense.” Frowning, he studied Freddie. “I think you’re fighting a losing battle there. You might as well give in gracefully. And why are you so sure she can’t win?”
    “You think she can?” Freddie asked, surprised.
    “There’s no woman in this crew”—he nodded towards the crew quarters—“or any other I’ve seen in the last year that could out-row Rebecca at her best.”
    “But she’s—”
    “Thirty-five? So?”
    “Yeah, I know, I know. And she’d kill me if she heard me say that.” He imitated Becca at her most pedantic. “Redgrave was thirty-eight, Pinsent, thirty-four, Williams, thirty-two . . . And Katherine Grainger won silver at thirty-three . . .” Freddie shrugged. “But they had medals behind them. She doesn’t.”
    “She has the same capacity for crucifying herself. Which is what it takes. As you very well know.”
    “Okay,” Freddie admitted.