The Iceman. Jeff Edwards

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      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 to the son of a family of newly arrived Italian immigrants.

      The Biagi family had recently purchased a farm on the far side of the river, but Stevens, like most of his fellow Henswytchi-ans, was of a like mind when it came to outsiders. Even though the Biagi boy might live in the village for the rest of his days he would never be accepted as a local. Perhaps Biagi’s children might grudgingly be accorded that title, but not Angelo.

      Stevens checked on the remaining members of the coxed pair as they went about their work and was pleased to see that they were doing their chores diligently. He walked over to the crew’s sweep, Andrew Lang, and tapped the strapping youth on the shoulder as the boat’s hull shone brightly under his cleaning cloth.

      Andrew gave an involuntary jump and turned. When he saw it was the president he flushed and Stevens was yet again surprised at how young he appeared in some respects and yet how much he had grown in height and size since being ousted as the crew’s cox. Now, as the crew’s sweep, he towered over Stevens yet still managed to retain his childish features.

      ‘To the victors go the spoils,’ Stevens said without a smile as he handed one of the dark brown bottles to the tall lad. Still too young to drink, Stevens was allowing the crew a small reward for their success.

      ‘Thank you, Sir,’ Andrew whispered as he took the bottle and placed it to his lips. Stevens thought the boy looked like an overgrown kewpie doll and his unbroken voice was still that of a young child.

      The president shook his head as he made his way down the length of the slim craft to where a second young man worked at cleaning the scull’s bow.

      Almost as tall and broad as their sweep, the crew’s bowman, Clyde Stevens, looked up at his uncle. The older Stevens held out the second opened bottle to him, but before the young man could offer his thanks, Roger Stevens said harshly, ‘Come with me.’

      The younger Stevens took a long swig of beer and then followed after his uncle. He had a feeling in his stomach that what was to come was not going to be pleasant.

      Roger Stevens strode purposefully along a narrow dirt track that paralleled the river and finally came to a stop well out of sight of the club. He waited impatiently for his nephew to catch up.

      ‘What happened out there?’ Stevens demanded.

      ‘We won,’ said the young rower defensively.

      ‘Yes. You won. Just. You’re a far better crew than that. I want to know why.’

      ‘Did you want us to lose?’ asked Clyde, attempting to adopt an air of bravado under his uncle’s disapproving gaze.

      Roger Stevens poked his nephew in the chest with a stiff finger. ‘Don’t be smart with me! Tell me what happened out there!’

      ‘I don’t know. The little dago was calling the tempo, but Andrew didn’t seem to be listening. He was rowing at a pace of his own. I had to keep time with him or we would have had a clash of oars.’

      ‘Then what happened?’

      ‘Biagi threw some water in Andrew’s face. It must have woken Andrew up or something because he fixed up his stroke. It was a close thing, but Biagi picked the right time for us to up the tempo and our effort over the last hundred metres was enough to get us home.’

      ‘It could easily have been different and the village would have lost a great deal of money. What was wrong with Lang?’ The president knew exactly what was wrong with Lang but wanted to see if his nephew was aware.

      ‘I don’t know. He said he was suffering from a stitch, but it didn’t look that way to me. Maybe his balls are finally dropping.’

      The president grunted. ‘He’s caused the club a deal of embarrassment. I’ve had to make things right this afternoon and that wasn’t cheap. If he weren’t a club member he would be in the hands of the police right now.’

      ‘Perhaps it would have been for the best if you let the coppers take him. I can’t stand him. He’s a creep.’

      It was evident to the president that Andrew’s fellow rowers shared the same low opinion of their sweep as those expressed by his fellow directors and the members of ‘Old Codgers’.

      Andrew Lang’s father had come from a long line of well-built farmers and they had supplied the rowing club with a long line of successful oarsmen. He would have been automatically initiated into the ranks of the club’s ‘inner circle’ and ultimately joined the Old Codgers if he had not been killed while serving his country at Tobruk.

      While being raised by his widowed mother, the Old Codgers had discussed the ‘girlish’ Andrew and come to the conclusion that he needed more men in his life. They had therefore approached his mother and informed her that they were taking the diminutive Andrew into the club to train as a cox. It was the only position his small stature had allowed him to perform. Most had assumed that Andrew would continue to take after his mother’s side of the family with their pixie-like looks and size and had been taken by surprise when, seemingly overnight, he had taken on the size and shape of his deceased father; however, his mother’s pixie-like features and voice had remained attached to his now immense frame.

      ‘We can’t let what happened today happen again,’ continued Roger Stevens.

      ‘What can I do?’

      ‘The three of you are about to finish school. You’ll be going to university and Andrew will be off to do his apprenticeship. The time has come for the final step.’

      Clyde took a deep drink of the amber fluid and shivered. He knew exactly what his uncle was saying.

      ‘Do Mum and Dad know?’

      ‘We told your father. He agrees. This is not something that your mother should know about. Do you understand me?’

      ‘Yes, Sir. When?’

      ‘Later. After the crowds have left.’

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