A THAMES MOMENT

Chapter 1

August: In Search of Toffs and Twits

Ah, Reading—city of magic.
Linda and I are on the expressway that rings the city’s downtown
shopping district. We have been at a dead stop now for about
twenty minutes, which gives us ample opportunity to admire the
way the dark brown exterior of our rented Rover absorbs the
August sun. On the plus side, this also gives me a chance to pull
out a tourist guide and read about our new home. The annual
Reading Festival of contemporary music is on today, which goes a
long way toward explaining the military fatigues, facial metallica,
and skullhead tattoos we’ve been seeing since our arrival—and
that’s just on the girls. We are passed by a strolling troupe of
buskers playing plastic recorders. I tempt them with a handful of
coins, but they refuse to cross between my bumper and the car in
front. I must say, for entertainers, they really don’t have much
sense of fun.
The traffic jam finally eases, and we are able to advance to our
hotel. Even though it is 3 PM, our room is not quite ready; the
reception clerk recommends we go for a stroll through the centre
of Reading, which has been renovated into a pedestrian mall. This
proves to be an illuminating suggestion; the street is lined with
quaint Victorian buildings, their façades of molded terra cotta
frescoes and finely carved sandstone lintels all cleverly concealed
by billboards for cellphone retailers and fast-food outlets. We reach
the entrance to the Arcade, a sparkly new indoor mall specifically
designed to reinvigorate the downtown core. It consists of a
quarter-mile or so of emporiums where the good folks of Reading
can buy their Nike shoes, Nokia phones, and FCUK jeans, all the
while protected from the harmful effects of English air. It is also an
excellent place to observe the locals in their native habitat. I stop
to marvel at the thighs on a woman eating an ice cream sundae in
the food court. Imagine if you will, a Volkswagen Beetle crammed
into pink Lycra tights, and you’ll pretty much have the right visual.
We return to the hotel, where the clerk announces it is safe to take
up residence. The décor in our room has an African theme; it
resembles a mud hut. The walls, curtains, and bedspread are
decorated in beige, ecru, and several variations of bentonite. For
relief, I stare out the bay window. To the north is a panoramic view
of the gasworks, and to the south, terrace estate homes roll into
the distance in grey waves of brick. I pick up a welcome brochure
that has been left upon the bureau. “Modern Reading is a
revelation to most people,” proclaims the title page. Tragically, I can’
t agree more. Linda cranks the bay window open; the breeze has
shifted and the gentle aroma of a hide-rendering plant drifts into
our room.
“It says here that suicide is Reading’s favourite pastime,” I note.
“I don’t doubt it,” says Linda. “We should find a place in another
town.”
I look up from the brochure. “Like, where?”
“How about Henley-on-Thames?”
Located a little under ten miles northeast of Reading, Henley-on-
Thames isn’t one of those places that top the list of most well-
known British tourist attractions. It is promoted as “a quaint Thames
enclave,” best known for its annual rowing regatta and as a hub for
“caviar eating, champagne swilling, and antics.”
But when we ask our British friends about that town, the response
is unanimous.
“Full of toffs,” says Zoe.
“Inbred twits,” asserts Brendan.
Well, in my book, any town that’s renowned for its champagne
swilling beats Reading any day. Grabbing the car keys, we head out
in search of Toffs and Twits.

After an hour of dodging faux Rasta kids, we finally clear the edge
of Reading. Almost immediately, the grey terrace homes give way to
idyllic English landscape. To the right, the River Thames is a distant,
sinuous flash of crystal and silver. To the left, gentle mounds of
emerald pasture rise to the horizon. Above, white clouds dawdle
across a pastel blue sky. It’s as though Reading never existed,
which, I suspect, is a wish a lot of people make.
After a fifteen-minute drive, we pass a sign marking Henley’s official
boundary. As we enter the town from the south, we encounter a
boring procession of red-brick terrace homes, petrol stations,
building supply stores, and dry cleaners. On the plus side, we’ve
been here almost three minutes and haven’t spotted a single
hippie. I park the car in a municipal lot and we set out to explore the
centre of town. The Market Place is picturesque and charming, with
a rather imposing town hall at one end. I am immediately struck by
the fact that the square is free of the souvenir stores so favoured
by Stratford-upon-Avon, where Ye Witches Brew Kitchen Shoppe
and rubber Hamlet skulls abound. Apparently, Henley hasn’t gone in
for that, although I’m not quite sure what kind of mementoes might
be engendered by alcoholic excess during a boat race.
We walk down to a pub by the bridge, the Angel. I order two pints of
bitter and join Linda at a wooden picnic table on the patio adjacent
to the water. The outdoor area is filled with cyclists in orange
shorts and girls in tank tops and silver nose rings. A trio of large
lads is laughing loudly enough to drown out the ten-tonne lorries
rolling across the bridge above us. We ignore all this and stare out
at the vista. Along the far bank of the river, weeping willows dangle
languidly over slender rushes. The sun is beaming down against
the forest-covered hills in the distance. Rowers, their backs erect,
scull under the bridge. An elderly man in a blue blazer and straw
boater hat putters upstream in an antique wooden boat. It’s as if
every cliché of every English countryside landscape has been
plopped down in one place.
“This is where we’re going to live,” says Linda.
“How will you get to work in Reading?”
“We’ll lease a car.”
“What will I do here?”
“You can write a book.”
“About what?”
A tall man comes goose-stepping across the bridge. He is about
fifty, with a big handlebar moustache, green beret, and a long golf
umbrella cocked over his right shoulder. When he reaches the end
of the bridge, he marches out into the centre of the road, tucks the
golf umbrella under the crook of his left arm, and smartly salutes
the church tower.
“You’ll find something,” says Linda.

The next morning, I return to Henley, park the car in the large lot
adjacent to the train station, and head toward the centre of town.
Christ Church stands at the head of Station Road; the handsome
hexagonal tower rises some eighty feet, capped by a cock’s
weather vane and fronted by a large clock. The church sits adjacent
to a baptistery, wedding chapel, funeral parlour, and tombstone
retailer—kind of a one-stop shop to Eternity. These English are
damned efficient when it comes to metaphysics.
Further north, Reading Road turns into Duke Street for no
discernible reason. The buildings along this stretch of road are a
monotonous series of two-storey brick edifices, whose appearance
has been improved, if anything, by the addition of garish plywood
signage, including an advertisement for a Chinese buffet
announcing “Eat as Much as You Like,” which, judging from the
look of it, is more of a warning than an invitation.
I continue on to the Market Place, where I hope to spot some realty
offices. The square is lined with the usual collection of banks and
video chain stores, although there are also some one-offs,
including a butcher and a men’s clothing shop. A sign in the window
of the clothing store promises “The finest in British fashion.” If you
ever want to make a Frenchman laugh until he squirts Pernod out
his nose, mention Britain and fashion in the same sentence. This is
the same country in which the city of London—in a move that would
have been deeply ironic in any other country—decided to locate
their new fashion museum in a factory that had once manufactured
garbage bins.
The road north of the town hall is lined with a dreary stretch of
Dickensian terrace homes, so I turn and retrace my steps back
through Market Place to Hart Street. On my left is the Catherine
Wheel pub, named after St. Catherine, an early Christian convert
who annoyed the Roman emperor so much with her prattling that he
chopped off her head and then tied the rest of her to a torture
wheel in case she didn’t get the point. The wheel spun round and
round, throwing off sparks until it finally burst asunder and the
body flew off toward Mount Sinai. I haven’t a clue why anyone in
Henley would name a pub after her, but my estimation of the town
rises two notches.
The rest of Hart Street’s architecture is pleasantly more varied than
Duke Street, with styles ranging from Tyrolean Alps to Oxfordshire
Gothic. One thing that disappoints me is the lack of allusions to
George Orwell. Although the man who would grow up to write
Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four wasn’t born in Henley, the
former Eric Blair certainly spent enough of his formative years here
for the town to make a credible claim on him as one of their own.
Yet, I haven’t spotted a single Big Brother TV Shop or Piggie’s
Trough. This town’s got a serious case of good taste.
I finally spy a realty office near the end of Hart Street. The agent is a
young man in his early twenties with spiky blond hair, black suit,
and fluorescent purple tie. I pry him reluctantly away from a
pornographic Web site to view some lettings near the centre of
town.
My taste in homes is relatively modest. My only prerequisites are
that it be within staggering distance of the nearest pub and has
never served as a baboon sanctuary. Linda is more specific. She
has furnished me with a list of twenty requirements and strict
instructions not to deviate. Like most of my gender, I understand
the consequences of disobeying.
The first home we look at is only a few hundred feet from the
Thames, but the kitchen is tricked out in avocado green appliances
and the carpet features an orange, red, and green pattern. There is
nothing on Linda’s list prohibiting a carpet that induces epilepsy in
direct sunlight, but I make a judgment call. The next stop is a
Victorian terrace home. The exterior has been renovated to show
off the authentic brick façade, but the rooms are so tiny that I
envision sleeping with our feet hanging out the bedroom window.
Since Linda’s feet are already notoriously cold, I scratch this off the
list as well.
I am about to give up for the day when I spot a second agency.
Taped to their window is an ad for a home located on the
waterfront. The townhouse is part of a small development adjacent
to a marina and is clad in red brick, white wooden trim, and grey
slate roofing. It even has a name: Boathouse Reach. It looks rather
charming. The monthly rent is several hundred pounds out of our
budget, but the thought of living directly adjacent to the river fills
me with romantic visions. Sue the realtor, a petite, animated woman
in a brown suit, agrees to arrange a showing that evening. I head
back to Reading feeling, for the first time, a glimmer of hope.
After dinner, Linda and I drive back to Henley and meet Sue at
Boathouse Reach. She opens the door and we walk through to the
dining room overlooking the river. The interior of the home is done
up in rather drab ivory walls and dark green carpet, and I am
already considering ways to politely end the inspection when we
come to the rear balcony and are confronted with an absolutely
gorgeous view. Directly in front of us, tiny rowboats painted in
yellow, blue, and red bob in their moorings. Across the river, tall
columnar aspens sway in the breeze and, in the distance, the
Chiltern Hills rise in oak-covered glory.
“We’ll take it,” says Linda.
Sue holds up a finger. “There is just one further requirement; you
need to be vetted by the landlord.” She dials her cellphone and
makes a short call. “He’ll meet us at the office.”
We walk back toward town. Linda and Sue are engaged in an
animated conversation regarding kitchen appliances, furnishings,
and other non-essentials. I, on the other hand, am worried about
meeting the landlord. Renting a home in England can be a
nightmare, with endless delays. I envision a country squire in a
tweed jacket and hairy eyebrows pounding back a succession of
gin and tonics as he gives us the once-over. Is this going to be our
first encounter with one of the Henley Toffs that Zoe had warned us
about? I try to comport myself as something more presentable than
an ink-stained wretch.
When we arrive at the office, Andy is waiting for us. He is perhaps
seventy, with snow-white hair, large ears twisted by countless
rugby scrums, and a face burned deep brown by a lifetime messing
about on boats; I can’t think of anyone who looks less like a Toff. I
stick out my hand and he crushes it in a vicelike grip. His eyes, ice
blue, stare at me for several seconds. “Where you from?” he finally
asks.
“Canada.”
“Ah.” I get the distinct impression he is relieved I am not from Mars,
or worse, the United States.
“When do you want to move in?”
“Monday, if that’s all right.”
“Fine by me.” He calls over his shoulder as he turns to the door.
“See you on Monday.”

Linda has to work on Monday, so I drive to Henley to do the
honours. At the appointed hour, Sue meets me at the house and
formally hands over the keys. I enter and open the foyer closet to
hang up my coat; inside, a large square metal box is chuffing and
bubbling in a manner that indicates either acute indigestion or
internal combustion, neither of which I particularly welcome in a
receptacle for coats. Attached to the device is a bright red label
warning one not to twiddle with the knobs unless death by scalding
is one’s hobby. I quickly close the door and continue my inspection.
The kitchen has been laid out according to classic British
ergonomics, which means you can’t open the cupboard doors
without splitting your skull. The freezer portion of the fridge sports
enough ice to build a snowman, and the oven interior is covered in
an impressive coat of dark brown grease.
I go upstairs to the living room. The view from the balcony is just as
magnificent as the main floor, but I now have the leisure to observe
that the chairs and couches are covered in the same red, green,
and yellow geometrical swirls seen when someone punches you
smartly in the eye. A chaise lounge lurking in the corner wouldn’t
look out of place with Mae West in feather boas draped over it.
I retreat to the main bedroom on the top floor. Clinging to the side
of the vanity by the window is a black blob that I first mistake for a
false eyelash, but discover is a very large spider when I try to peel
it off. I redeploy to the kitchen to fetch an oven mitt and spatula and
adroitly detach the arachnid and fling it toward the window in a
manner that would have been highly effective had the window
actually been open. Fortunately, a spatula is also handy for flailing,
and I reduce the spider to a carpet stain that is hardly noticeable
from ten feet.
Such exertion, of course, is thirsty work, but the previous tenants
have neglected to leave so much as a can of lager in the house. A
quick scan of the fridge and cupboards reveals nothing more than
a jar of mustard (full) and a box of mouse poison (half-empty). I
conclude this is insufficient to make dinner, and since I am in
charge of cooking a meal this evening, I decide it is time to go
shopping. I grab my coat and wallet and head for the grocery store.
As I step out the door, I spot a woman standing with her back to me,
peering around the corner of the adjacent building. She has a small
dog on a leash. The woman is perhaps fifty, with a sharp, beaklike
nose and a dye job that started out as Tuscany Auburn but now
looks more like Toyota Sunburn. The dog is a Yorkshire terrier
cross, white with black markings. I step quietly outside then slam
the door as loudly as possible.
The woman spins around so fast that she jerks her dog almost clear
of the ground. Rather than being embarrassed, however, she
bursts into a brilliant smile.
“Hello this is Princess and I’m Edwina and we live just around the
corner we were just on my way to visit your neighbour Meg who’s
feeling poorly but who can blame her what with her husband Norris
running off with his dentist to some nude beach in Ibiza and I
always told her there was something funny about him but no he was
so kind and gentle not like her first husband Dennis who would
chase anything in skirts and if you ever saw the rector’s wife you’d
know I mean anything but what can one do honestly?”
She finally stops for breath and blinks both her eyes slowly. “And
what’s your name?”
I must say, up to this point, I had feared that I might be dealing with
an example of the Henley Inbred Twit, but I am so relieved by
Edwina’s effusive nosiness that I break into a broad smile. I have
pursued many professions during my lifetime, including geologist,
dynamite courier, and bowling lane jockey, but by far the most
rewarding job I have ever had is that of journalist. Not only does it
require a minimum of physical effort, but you can also gratify any
ingrained nosiness and get paid, to boot. For most people, gossips
are about as welcome as a dose of clap at the nunnery, but for a
journalist, they’re like manna sent by a benevolent, higher
authority. I introduce myself and explain that my wife and I have just
moved from Canada.
“Canada!” she effuses as the torrent begins anew. “My youngest
nephew has been living in Edmonton he got a job there after
graduating from Oxford first in his class we’re so proud he’s
engaged to a wonderful girl from there apparently her father has a
large household fixtures store and they call him the ‘king of
doorknobs’ hah if you can believe it what some colonials …” She
once again blinks both eyes slowly. “And what brings you here from
Canada?”
I lean over to give Princess a pat and she licks my hand. “To
convalesce. I just had a brain tumour removed.”
“Oh, that’s ghastly!” She leans forward, hopefully. “Cancerous?”
“No, thank God. But it was the size of an apple. They had to saw off
the top of my skull and put in a hinge.” I lean forward to show her
my pate. “They did a great job—you can’t even see the scar.”
Edwina can barely conceal her delight. Tugging on Princess’s leash,
she bids adieu and scurries off to tell Meg. As I walk to the grocery
store, I am filled with the warm glow I get when I do my civic duty.

The grocery store that dominates the centre of Henley-on-Thames
belongs to the Waitrose chain. Unlike supermarkets in France,
where you are just as likely to find toothpaste mixed in with the
bacon, grocery stores in Britain have a certain predictability about
them that is a testament to the solid, no-nonsense society that
flourishes on this majestic isle; the vegetable section is on one
side, dairy and meats on the other, and row after row of other
tasteless stuff in the middle. Palatability is not an option.
This perception lasts as long as it takes me to read the label on a
jar of Samoan Islands BBQ Sauce. I’m used to reading cooking
suggestions like, “Tastes great with ribs!” so I am somewhat
surprised to see that it says, “Suitable for vegetarians.” I assume
they must have a different flavour for missionaries, but I don’t see
it on the shelf. I put the jar carefully back, wipe my hands on my
trousers, and retreat to the fresh vegetables.
I spot a young clerk throwing cabbage heads with furious agility
into a display bin.
“Excuse me; do you know where I can find the red onions?” I ask.
The clerk gives me a look as if sizing up if there’s room for one
more head in the bin. “No red onions today.”
I decide to have a gander for myself and, within about a minute,
discover a large tub of red onions in the organic section. Taking
one, I walk back to the clerk, waving it in his face. “You said there
were no red onions.”
“That’s organic red onions. You didn’t ask for them.”
The next time I’m looking for a can of pickled herring, I’ll remember
to specify the left-handed variety, just for the sake of expediency.
That night, I cook a traditional English meal for Linda: bangers and
mash. The dish consists of slowly roasted sausages served with
creamy mashed potatoes and smothered with fresh onion gravy. As
we gaze out onto the river from our dining room, we toast our new
home with a glass of French Médoc. It is such a romantic evening,
and the wine is so good, that we opt for a second bottle and soon
abandon the dining room to check out the romantic view from the
upstairs bedroom. Maybe that’s why they say that red wine is so
good for the heart.

Our first morning in Boathouse Reach dawns very early, with the
light of the sun flooding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows in
the master bedroom. I get up and gaze out onto a scene of
transcendental beauty. Before me, a mist rises from the glasslike
water and shrouds the Thames in a blanket of white. A lone sculler
cuts through the water, his rhythmic strokes startling a swan near
the shore. The bird splashes along the water then slowly gains the
air, cutting along the boundary of the mist and clear sky. I stare out
at this tranquil, almost ethereal scene, and one thought stands
foremost in my mind: I’d better buy some curtains before they arrest
me. For whatever reason, nobody has bothered to put up any
sheers along the bottom of the window, and I am making a
decidedly indecent show to a woman walking a greyhound through
the marina below. That’s the sort of thing that can get the
neighbours talking, you know, and not in a complimentary way.
After breakfast, Linda departs for work, leaving me with a long list
of chores. I opt to start with British Telecom. The phone company
combines the efficiency of government bureaucracy with the
service ethos of the Mafia, all delivered with the joviality of a
Barbary pirate. I call BT’s toll-free number on my cellphone and
connect with a customer service agent.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there is no record of that house,” I am told.
“What do you mean?”
“Your address doesn’t exist.”
Nice little Twilight Zone touch, that. “I’m sitting right here. Of course
it exists.”
“Perhaps you’ve made a mistake, sir.”
Keeping her on the line, I take my lease and go to speak with my
landlord directly. In addition to owning several rental properties in
town, Andy also runs the main tourist marina in Henley, which
happens to be located adjacent to Boathouse Reach.
As I round the corner, the marina staff is busy topping up the petrol
tanks and scrubbing the poop deck of a large sternwheeler tour
boat moored at the dock. It is perhaps a hundred feet long and
twenty-three feet abeam. The hull is painted blue and the top decks
white. Its name, The New Orleans, is inscribed in gold and black just
below the pilot’s cabin. A pair of thick smokestacks and a stern
paddlewheel complete the Mississippian allusion.
The marina office is housed in a small brick building set back from
the river; Andy is sweeping the front stoop with a broom. As I
approach, I hold up the lease. “Is this the correct address?”
Andy glances at the document. “Yes it is.”
By now, Miss BT is losing her icy charm. “Could you repeat the
postal code?”
“RG9. That’s R as in Robert, G as in George …”
“Oh! I thought you said B as in Bob! Here it is …”
Normally I don’t give in to psychological torture so fast, but this one’
s good. I quickly agree to all her offers of additional service,
including broadband, voice mail, caller ID, and monthly carpet
shampoos. “Thank you for calling BT.”
I hang up. Andy takes one look at the tears streaming down my
cheeks. “You look like you could use a pint.”
We walk around the corner to the Anchor. The interior roof of the
pub is approximately five and a half feet tall, although much of this
clearance is obstructed by thick oak timbers. Black-and-white
photos, including one of a much younger Andy and his oar mates
manning a scull, decorate the walls. We take our beers and retreat
to a small garden at the rear of the pub that has been planted with
wisteria and rose bushes. Andy tilts his glass in my direction.
“Welcome to Henley.”
I take a sip of my beer. It is nutty and sweet, and very delicious. I
turn my attention back to my host. “Have you lived here long?”
“All my life.” In fact, as Andy explains, his ancestors first came to
the area some five hundred years ago, just after the last plague
created numerous openings in the river transport business. In
addition to towing corn barges into London, his family has owned
pubs, hotels, and docks along the river. His grandfather founded
the marina and Andy hopes to pass it down to his son.
I have found in my travels that there are two types of people in life:
those who never stray far from home, and those who are always
eager to see what’s over the next hill. If you don’t know which you
are, here’s an easy quiz. Do you live less than ten kilometres from
your parents? Did you go to kindergarten with a sizeable number of
your adult friends? Are most of your religious holidays spent
deciding who is going to cook the turkey and invite Uncle Vince? If
you answer yes to two out of three, then you are likely the former.
Personally, I fall into the latter category. I don’t live within a
thousand kilometres of my family, most of my kindergarten friends
were in jail by Grade Three, and I would just as soon spend
Christmas Day lying on a beach in Australia roasting my hide as
basting a bird. “Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?” I ask
Andy.
He shakes his head. “I’m already living in the best place in the
world. Why should I leave?”

That evening, after dinner, I pour myself a large glass of wine and
step out onto the front balcony. The sun is just setting below the
Chiltern Hills to the west, and the trees across the way are lit in a
fiery orange light. Ducks bob on the sparkling surface of the river,
occasionally disappearing as they chase a minnow below. Far in the
distance, white clouds billow across the horizon.
I sip my wine and ponder Andy’s attachment to Henley. I have never
understood how someone could limit an entire life to one country,
let alone one village. As I ponder the vagaries of the human heart, a
full moon rises over the distant hills, its white face reflecting upon
the Thames. The swans head for the shore. Even though they could
stretch their wings and fly to the farthest corner of the earth, they
clamber up upon the marina pavement, tuck their heads beneath
one wing, and fall into slumber—at peace and content. I suspect
that even a rolling stone could be inspired to stop upon this restful
sanctuary, lulled by the beauty and tranquility. Will this paradise,
too, capture our hearts?