They drive on in companionable silence while from the rear of the bus comes a slow, haunting air, evoking smouldering farmsteads, depopulated glens, noble defeat.
"Isn't it sad?" says Bella, after a while. "I wonder what it's called."
"Someone's lament, probably. They're always lamenting aren't they? Ugh, the smoke!" She winds up her window. "What on earth's Jason using for fuel, bunker oil? I think I'll overtake him if I get the chance."
"What happened to Kiss and Phil? I didn't see them go."
"I packed them off earlier, before the police arrived."
Bluebell comes forward with Narcissus, who is clutching a large, crayoned drawing. "I told him you were busy driving," she explains. "But he insists on showing it to you."
"That's all right, " says Pat. "Put it on my lap and let's see. Is this Bluebell and Primrose?" Narcissus nods solemnly. "Hmm, yes, that's very good, and nicely coloured in too. But why have you made Primrose's face green?"
"Because it is green. Bluebell says so."
"She's just been sick again," says Bluebell. "It's mostly chyme now, and bits of carrot."
"Oh dear," sighs Pat, scowling at the police car in the wing mirror. "It's not even as if I can stop with this lot behind us. Did you clean her up?"
"Of course, Mum."
"Good girl. You'd better go back and keep an eye on her."
"Is that why you're wearing your nurse's uniform?" asks Bella.
"Yes. I thought I might as well look the part, as I've got two patients now. I expect Uncle McNab will pass out soon and then I'll have three, quite a little sick bay."
"Who's the other one?" says Pat. "Carol?"
"No, Sylvester of course," snaps Bluebell. "I'm trying to get him to eat something. Not that anyone seems to care."
"I do," protests Bella. "Of course I care. I didn't mean to run him over. Is that what you've decided to call him, Sylvester?"
"Narcissus chose it; it was in his book. A black and white cat and a funny looking canary. It's a cartoon film apparently." She scrambles awkwardly back past the bay trees and McNab's piled belongings. "Of course, not having a television, I wouldn't know."
"Tell Primrose we're going to the seaside," calls Bella. "That'll cheer her up."
Pat waggles her head and pulls a sour face at her departing daughter. "Are we?" she asks.
"Well, harbour-side, actually, but it's very nice. There's a shingle beach where they can play, and the whole heath to run about in and the real sea isn't far away. It's a lovely place. I've missed it terribly." This last, she realises, is her mother speaking. She hasn't missed it in the slightest. What she is missing is her little flat and Simon and Terry, and Selim at the kebab takeaway, downstairs.
Pat looks doubtful. "Are you sure your aunt and uncle won't mind?"
"Lord yes. They'll be so glad to see me they'll probably welcome you with open arms, and there's oodles of room, so you won't be in the way."
"But your mother. I mean, what about the funeral and everything?"
Bella claps a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God, the funeral! I'd clean forgotten. You don't really think about funerals, do you? Not when you've just downloaded their immortal soul. No, I'm sure it'll be all right. They've probably had it by now anyway, and it's not as if Aunty's going to be going around in black bombasine and jet and refusing to be seen in public for years. The fact is, they hated each other. They haven't even spoken since Aunty moved out of the manor house and that was centuries ago. I wonder if I should have sent a card or a wreath or something? Oh well, it's too late now." She turns her head and listens. "Ah, now I do know this one. It's Barbra Ellen. He's awfully good, isn't he? Was he a professional musician, do you know?"
"No, some sort of scientist, I think."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. The drink probably. He doesn't talk about it."
Bella smiles sadly. "What a shame."
"I wouldn't mind so much but he leads Thurston astray."
"Really? I thought they didn't get on. McNab always growls when you mention Thurston."
"Don't you believe it; they're usually practically joined at the hip. He's just upset because Thurston made him stay behind to look after us. Not that we need looking after. And I expect he's worried about him too. I know I am. It's not like him to just disappear."
"Tell me about him," says Bella.
"Who, Thurston?"
"Yes. You're always talking about him. What's he like?"
Pat shrugs. "Oh, he's just very nice, very . . . genuine."
"Yes but what does he look like? Is he pretty?"
Pat laughs. "I don't know that I'd call him pretty. He's too big to be pretty."
"Really? How big?"
"Very big. Six foot five and about eighteen stone. That rugby shirt you've been wearing is his."
"Gosh, that is big," says Bella, suddenly mindful of Lizzie's prediction. "I wondered who it belonged to."
Pat looks thoughtful. "He's a gentleman, that's what he is. If you want to describe Thurston in one word, he's an old-fashioned gentleman. There aren't many left."
Boring then, thinks Bella, beginning to lose interest. "What does he do for a living? Has he got a job?"
"He's a carpenter."
Ye gods, a carpenter! Terminally boring. Bella looks at her a little shyly; you don't lightly ask Pat about intimate things. "Do you, er, like him, then? I mean . . ."
"Oh, everybody likes Thurston," says Pat. She glances in the wing mirror. "Hello, the police are going. Thank goodness for that."
Everyone cheers as they pass the leading police car at the side of the road and McNab strikes up a merry tune. Moments later they pass a sign welcoming them to Dorset. Ahead of them Shangri-la immediately leaves the convoy, turning left into a convenient layby. Pat follows.
It is the kind of layby formed when a straight new road replaces a meandering old one, an oxbow crescent of tree-shaded lane. Halfway along is a low, white-brick building. "Real loos!" cries Bluebell from the back, and they all pile out.
McNab follows unsteadily, looking sour. "Whit d'y'mean, real loosh? Whasae real aboot 'em? Nashty, washteful, inshanitary things, pollutin the yird."
"Well at least they don't pull half your insides out," says Bluebell nastily.
The Shangri-las come to confer with Pat. "We don't know where to go," says Sandy. "No-one's told us."
"Thurston was supposed to be checking a site near Bristol," says Pat. "We thought we'd try there first. We might find him."
"Can we follow you?" asks Crystal, plaintively. "We might get lost else."
Jason looks indignant. "No, we won't. Got a map, ain't I?"
"Pleeese," begs Crystal, who clearly has no faith in him. "I don't want us to split up."
Pat turns to Bella, looking embarrassed. "We usually travel together, you see."
Bella hardens her heart. There are limits even to her aunt's hospitality, and anyway she doesn't much care for the Shangri-las; they're dirty and thick. "Why don't you wait here?" she suggests. "There's no mud and you've got loos and running water. It'll be like a holiday. Pat could come back for you in a few days."
At that moment McNab passes out, falling quite heavily to the ground.
"Honestly, it's a wonder he doesn't break something," says Pat.
For the last few miles, the afternoon sun, striking in through Roz's split windscreen, has begun to feel almost hot, and the light itself seems somehow brighter and clearer, as if influenced by the not-so-far-off sea. Bella squirms with impatience, the urge to be among the Tenstones now almost uncontrollable. She longs to touch them, to embrace them one by one, to feel that cool, lichenous surface against her body. Or at any rate, her mother does; for herself, she is not so sure.
Pat hesitates at a busy roundabout. "Town Centre," she reads. "Is that us?"
"No, we don't actually want Bradport. Take the right turn for Wimbleford, by that garage."
They chunter slowly along an elevated section of dual carriageway, Roz's speed
ometer swinging wildly, as always, between twenty and forty. Curious motorists turn to stare. Below them on one side is a large trading estate and on the other a broad vista of houses and blocks of flats, dotted with pines.
"It's quite built-up round here, isn't it," observes Pat. "I thought Dorset was all lovely countryside."
Bella shakes her head. "Not this bit. You've got Bradport, which is quite big, and Pinebourne, which is even bigger, and Wimbleford and lots of other smaller places, all more or less joined together. It's just one big town, really, right along the coast. About the only bit of proper countryside left round here is Tenstone, and that's where we're going."
"Tenstone?"
"Tenstone Heath."
Bluebell, McNab and the twins scramble forward to join them.
"I've been sick again, Mum," says Primrose.
"No she hasn't," says Bluebell. "Nothing came up."
"Yes it did, water stuff came up."
"Not far now," says Bella, encouragingly. "It's actually only about two miles as the crow flies but we have to drive all round the edge of the heath to get there because there's only one road in."
"I can see the sea!" cries Narcissus excitedly.
"No, that's the harbour," says Bella. "You'll see a lot more of it soon."
At length they leave sprawling Bradport behind them and speed up a little, passing a garden-centre, some fields with horses in them, a new development of 'Executive Homes' (with a large hoarding illustrating same), a country pub with tables and hanging baskets, and more fields. Then, ahead, there is a humpbacked stone bridge and beyond it is another town.
"Ah, Wimbleford," says Pat.
"Okay. Now take the next left," instructs Bella.
Pat frowns. "What, before the bridge? I don't see a turning."
"By that big oak tree, where it says: 'Beware, cattle crossing for Dunnock's Feeds.'"
Pulling well out, Pat swings the wheel briskly and turns down a country lane so narrow that the hedges brush both of Roz's flanks simultaneously. A small sign says, 'Village and manor house only. Private road,' and nailed beneath it, hand-painted on a scrap of plywood, is the legend, 'Windy Point. 2½ miles.' "Suppose we meet someone?" she says.
Bella shrugs. "They'll just have to back up."
The next few miles offer almost a tour of old Dorset in microcosm, the Tenstone Estate a rare rural jewel set in the heart of the coastal conurbation. At first they pass through rich water-meadows, the nearby river Wimble a silver ribbon marked by stumpy willows. But soon the road turns away and rises steeply into a long, hillside wood, the mossy banks on either side sprinkled with violets and anemones, and the grey trunks of ancient beeches towering over them. Then, in a trice, the scene changes again as they emerge onto open heathland, all yellow-flowered furze and wind-stunted heather with dark pinewoods in the distance. After only a half mile or so they leave the heath behind and descend into a sheltered, gently sloping valley, a place of small fields and peaceful-looking farms. Black and white cows gaze over gates at them as they pass. There are no other vehicles save a solitary tractor and trailer, which pulls into a farm entrance to let them pass by.
"Slow down," warns Bella.
Pat brakes hard as they come to an un-signposted T-junction. Facing them is a pair of ornate, cast-iron gates set within a curious, castellated gatehouse of weathered grey brick. It is incorporated into an imposing brick wall which stretches away in both directions as far as the eye can see.
"That's where my sister Miranda lives," says Bella. "And Mummy of course. Well, she did."
"Oh, isn't it lovely!" exclaims Bluebell. "Is that a bedroom over the gates? I wish it was mine."
Bella laughs. "Not that! That's just the lodge. No-one lives there now except spiders. If we pull in, you'll be able to see the house."
Pat does so, revealing acres of lawn and a broad sweep of gravel drive, lined with neat pyramids of clipped yew. Some distance away is a many-gabled Jacobean manor house, its stone mullioned windows and ornate chimneys half covered with ivy and Virginia Creeper.
"Nice wee place," mutters McNab.
"I prefer the lodge," says Bluebell.
"Are you quite sure they won't mind?" asks Pat, anxiously.
"Oh goodness, we're not going in there!" says Bella. "I just wanted to show it to you, that's all."
They back and turn, following the wall as it passes through another patch of sun-dappled woodland. Then the narrow lane opens out and they are in the picturesque village of Tenstones: an ancient church, a rectory, a tiny post office store and a row of cottages, mostly thatched and all painted in the same bottle-green livery. For much of its short length the single village street seems to double as a farmyard, complete with strutting fowls, while all around are tumbled agricultural buildings that seem to have grown up out of the earth, or are in the process of returning to it.
"It's Brigabluidydoon!" cries McNab, amazed.
"Quaint, isn't it?" says Bella complacently.
"It's like something out of Thomas Hardy," enthuses Bluebell.
"That's very good, Bluebell," says Pat. "Can you tell me anything he wrote?"
"Tess of the d'Urbervilles, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Mayor of Casterbridge and Return of the Native," recites Bluebell instantly. "I think there are others, but I haven't read them yet. I liked Tess best. It was ever so sad."
"Mind that chicken!" warns Narcissus.
As soon as they pass the last cottage the heathland reappears, becoming ever wilder and with no further sign of human habitation save for the great wall which continues, seemingly endlessly, on their left.
"What's it for, exactly?" asks Pat, nodding at it.
"The wall? I've never really thought about it. To keep the deer and peacocks in, I suppose. Except there aren't any deer now. Miranda got fed up with them eating her roses.
"Humph," says McNab.
"You don't talk about her much," says Pat. "You've only once mentioned her."
Bella shrugs. "We're not particularly close. I don't have a lot to do with her really."
"Is she like you?" asks Bluebell.
"Goodness no! She's fat and boring and horsey and sounds like Princess Anne."
"So do you."
"No, I don't!"
"Yes you do," says Pat.
"Thanks, pal."
At length the wall makes a right-angled turn, plunging away into tangled woodland, and the road surface changes abruptly to a potholed cinder track. A cantilevered red and white pole bars their way and a faded sign, pitted with rust, forbids them entry to 'Tenstones Ball Clay and Minerals Ltd.' Beneath it, another hand-painted piece of plywood reads: 'Windy Point 1 mile'.
McNab obligingly gets out to raise the pole and they grind slowly up a short rise, pausing at the top to gaze about them in wonderment. Here the breeze is suddenly stronger, buffeting Roz's sides with a low thudding sound and bringing with it a faint redolence of salt spray and tidewrack. The ground falls away and spread beneath them, against a backdrop of misty hills, is the great, grey-green glittering harbour, dotted with dark islands and the sails of yachts. In the distance the towers and steeples of Bradport can just be seen and, further still, a glimpse of blue sea, with a high, chalk headland, brilliant white where it catches the afternoon sun.
"Wow!" says Bluebell, for all of them. "Isn't that fantastic!"
It is a perfect view, marred only by a double row of towering pylons and a great curve of partially embanked railway track, long abandoned. The pylons march down across the heath, disdainful of its wild beauty, heading for the broad estuary of the Wimble. Here, where the river meets the harbour, a flat, windswept peninsula curves, like a beckoning finger, out into the shallow waters, and almost at its marshy tip, sheltered only by a bank of shingle, is a lonely cluster of buildings and a long, black jetty.
"Home," says Bella, pointing, and begins to feel excited despite herself.
As they come closer, bumping and rolling over the rough surface of the track, the distant buildings res
olve themselves into a half-dozen immense, corrugated-iron sheds, almost all in the last stages of disrepair. Some lean drunkenly together while others are broken-backed and skeletal with rust. Only one is in reasonably good order, smartly painted the same dark green as the cottages in the village, with wide, sliding doors giving onto a concrete slipway. On the other side of the slipway is a low, rambling, timber bungalow, so close to the water's edge that one end of it projects out over the muddy foreshore on piles. Nearby, some dozen small dinghies sit in a fenced compound and on a tall flagpole a triangular burgee shows the direction of the wind. The cinder track ends at the bungalow, but the pylons march on, crossing the Wimble in a single contemptuous stride.
The place looks deserted, but at their approach a heavily tanned man in late middle age saunters out of the shed and stares towards them. He is wearing a faded blue yachting cap and a paint-stained mechanic's overall and is in the process of lighting a pipe.
"Uncle, it's me!" cries Bella, and is out of the door and into his arms before Roz has properly stopped.
"Hey, steady on! Are you going to eat me alive?" He holds her away from him, smiling broadly, his pipe clamped between his teeth. "Now then, let's have a proper look at you. Hmm, everything in its place, no arms or legs missing. Seems healthy enough. Not that you will be when your aunt gets hold of you. I hope you've got a good excuse. Who are this lot? Has the circus come to town?"
The others stand in a shy huddle, waiting to be introduced. "This is my friend Pat," says Bella. "And this is Narcissus and Primrose. This is my uncle, Commander Aubrey-Hole."
"Just call me Rat," says the Commander affably. "Everyone else does."
"And this is McNab," says Bella, "He and Pat saved my life."
"Did they by golly! Then I'm very pleased to meet you," says Rat, pumping each of them by the hand.
"This is Carol," says McNab, thrusting her forward. "She's ma girl."
"Is she? Oh, right, jolly good. Hello, and who's this then, Florence Nightingale?"
Bluebell stands holding the little cat in his cardboard box. "Please, can you do anything for him? He seemed to be getting so much better, but now I'm not even sure he's still alive." Her blue eyes begin to fill with tears. "No-one seems to care except me."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 9
