Page 1 of Fire Must Burn

Prologue

Cambridge, 1935

The banks of the River Cam were a bustle of activity on the first day of the Lent Bumps. From First Post Corner down to Baits Bite Lock, eight-man boats at 150-foot intervals were secured to the bank by the towpath while their crews stretched and flexed in the chill of the late winter air.

Male crews, of course.

As the start time approached, they shed their coats and pounded on their chests and thighs to encourage both circulation and the admiration of the few female students and local girls who came out to cheer them on. Not a few flasks were passed around, ostensibly to provide warmth, energy and nips of courage.

On both sides of the river, marshals and umpires prowled the banks, glancing at their watches or calling out instructions.

With all of the hubbub by the water, no one paid any attention to a dark green eight-wheeled Leyland Octopus flatbed lorry as it rumbled up to a spot some fifty feet from Baits Bite Lock where the last of the ranked crews, the second boat from Pembroke, were now settling behind their oars, awaiting the boom of the tiny cannon that signalled the countdown to the start. As the lorry stopped, its engine idling, its cab blocked the view from the riverside of its cargo, another narrow, eight-oared boat that projected precariously beyond the rear of the bed. A head poked out from behind the cab. A woman’s head, topped with unruly, brunette hair. She scanned the scene in front of her, then turned to three other women who had been clinging for dear life to the ropes securing the boat to the lorry’s tray.

The brunette’s name was Iris Sparks. She was seventeen years old, and about to cause an uproar.

‘All clear,’ she said, and the four of them scrambled to remove the ropes from the boat.

Several more women separated themselves from the crowd on the towpath and sauntered back towards the Leyland, two of them wheeling bicycles. The four on the flatbed carefully slid the boat from the tray to the waiting arms of the women below. They placed it on the ground behind the lorry so it would stay hidden, should anyone bother to look their way. Then Sparks handed down oars and two long poles before hopping down.

‘What’s the situation, Sauce?’ she asked one of the cyclists.

‘Tildy is at the next launch point,’ reported Sauce, glancing at her watch. ‘The four-minute cannon should be in about—’

A loud boom sounded in the distance up the river.

‘Yes, well, that was it, wasn’t it?’ said Sauce with a laugh. ‘When Pembroke is coming to that point, she’ll wave her handkerchief, and the girls stationed down the path will relay it to you. Best of luck, ladies!’

She and the other cyclist mounted their bikes and pedalled off, turning down the towpath to await the beginning of the race.

Sparks and eight of the women shed their coats and tossed them into the cab of the lorry. The eight women grabbed oars, four with their left hands, four with their right, while two more picked up the poles.

‘I’ll wait for you at Ditton Corner if you make it that far,’ called the driver.

‘We’ll make it,’ said Sparks.

‘Good luck to you,’ he called.

‘Right,’ said Sparks to the others. ‘Positions.’

They stood four to each side of the boat and placed their oars inside. Sparks stood at the cox, while the two women carrying the poles brought up the rear. Jessica, behind her on the bow side, shivered in the cold.

‘I wish we had waited for the May Bumps,’ she said.

‘We wouldn’t have been able to keep it secret until then,’ replied Sparks. ‘Not with this many people involved.’

The cannon boomed again. The one-minute warning.

‘To shoulders, ladies,’ said Sparks. ‘Heave-ho!’

They grabbed the sides of the boat and lifted. Sparks lookedout at the Pembroke boat, which was being shoved away from the banks by their polemen, the coxswain holding high the bung at the end of the chain connected to the bank at the launch station. She listened for the countdown.

‘Thirty seconds, ladies,’ she reported. ‘We move at twenty. Five, four, three, two, quick march!’

They started towards the river at a jog. The starter’s cannon boomed as they were halfway there, and the Pembroke crew pulled their oars, sending their boat upstream, gathering speed with each subsequent stroke. Their classmates and supporters moved along the towpath in pursuit, clearing a space for the ladies.

They reached the bank and lowered the boat into the water. Sparks grabbed the bung and clambered into the cox seat.

‘Bow side, fix blades,’ she called, and four oars went into the riggers.