"If it gets blocked again, we should make them pay," says Miranda. "We can't keep on stumping up."
"Fair enough."
"And last but not least, what about Coldharbour?"
"To be honest, I think we're going to have to give them another month or two."
"Doesn't that establish rather a dangerous precedent?"
"Well you can't get blood out of a stone. And I don't see what else we can do, short of legal action."
"Let me talk to him," says Rat. "He's a good sort. His father was in the Rodney you know. We can probably thrash something out, man-to-man."
"Fine, we'll leave it to you then," says Veronica briskly. Tossing the remaining papers aside she pushes herself backwards from the desk and twirls her wheelchair to face them. "Right, I think that about ties it up for now. Any other business? No? Good. Then let's get down to the big issue shall we? Inheritance tax — approximately one hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds. Ideas please."
No-one hurries to speak. Rat takes his pipe from his pocket, stares at it wistfully and puts it back. A fly buzzes in the window, and across the yard a horse can be heard moving restlessly in its stall.
"Any ideas, Bella?" says Miranda brightly, breaking the silence. "Does my fellow director have anything to contribute to this discussion?"
Or he comes for me at the Stones, muses Bella. I run from him naked into the heather but suddenly I trip. There's a token struggle and he's on me, savagely thrusting.
"Bella, dear," says Veronica, tapping the desk. "Is there anyone at home?"
Bella jumps. "Pardon?"
"Death duties, dear," says Veronica gently. "We have to find a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds."
"Gosh, really? That's quite a lot of money isn't it?"
"Yes, dear, it's a great deal of money."
Miranda looks at Bella with theatrical disbelief and slowly shakes her head "You just don't know what we're talking about, do you? You haven't been listening to anything we've been saying."
"Er, I expect you'll be wanting to get on now, John, won't you?" says Rat. "We don't need John any more, do we?"
"No, that's all right. You go, John," agrees Veronica.
"Yes, you go, John," says Michael, simultaneously. "Thanks for your time."
They all watch as the manager sets off gratefully across the yard, whistling up his dogs as he does so.
"Well?" says Miranda, when he's gone. "What are we going to do, Bella? How are we going to raise a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds?"
"Why ask me? says Bella, indignantly. "How am I supposed to know?"
"Oh, I thought you might, as you've such strong ideas about the running of the estate. Some clever contingency plan you haven't told us about, perhaps?"
"We don't actually know what Bella thinks, at this moment in time," says Michael. "We haven't asked her."
"Oh, you think she might have forgotten all that nonsense? Well, perhaps you're right. It has been two years since she deigned to set foot on the place."
"What do you mean, strong ideas?" says Bella. "I don't care how the estate's run. We've always left that to you and Aunty."
"We?"
"Me and Mummy."
"Oh, you're speaking for her as well now, are you?"
"Um," says Rat, lifting a hand. "He has taken out his pipe again and, ignoring Veronica's disapproving frown, is in the process of lighting it. They are obliged to wait while he draws on the crackling tobacco, shakes out the match and flips it out of the door. "Do we have to be so confrontational about this, Miranda? I don't see how it's supposed to help."
"I'm not being confrontational. I'm just trying to establish whether Bella has any ideas about raising this money, because if she hasn't, she can hardly complain if we all agree on something she doesn't like, can she?"
"What sort of something?" says Bella, suspiciously.
Michael and Miranda glance at each other. "Are you going to do it?" asks Michael.
Miranda throws herself back on the sofa and folds her arms. "No, you do it. Apparently I'm too confrontational."
"Right. Okay then," says Michael, clearing his throat. "Well, we've obviously given this a great deal of thought, as I'm sure you all have." He opens one of his files at a page of charts and figures. "And it seems clear to us that raising this money is just part of a much larger problem, which is to say, the overall profitability of the estate."
"Or the lack of it," says Miranda.
"Or rather the lack of it," agrees Michael. "And we don't think there's much point discussing the one without the other." He pauses, looking around for approval.
"Go on," says Veronica, noncommittally.
"Yes, well, as you know – well, obviously you know, but it's worth reiterating – that over the last five years we've barely broken even, and in eighty-two we actually made a loss."
"Only nine hundred pounds," says Veronica.
"Which Michael had to pay," points out Miranda.
Michael dismisses this trifle with a wave of the hand. "The thing is, we've only really managed to get by at all by more or less ignoring the state of the infrastructure. We can't go on doing that indefinitely."
"Look at the lane," says Miranda. "All we ever do is patch the patches. It needs properly resurfacing from one end to the other. On top of that there isn't a property on the estate that doesn't need work. At least half the cottages want re-thatching for a start. Myrtle's been under that tarpaulin for nearly eighteen months. And as for the fences, they're a disgrace. It's getting to the point where I'm embarrassed to host the Hunt."
"We can't charge realistic rents," says Michael, "because no-one is going to pay more to live in a damp cottage with dodgy electrics and a septic tank. Yes, we can try putting them up a little, but it isn't going to be enough. As for the farms, even a few more pounds a year could wipe some of them out. As things stand, all we're left with is selling something or mortgaging something, which I suppose I can assume none of us wants to do. Frankly, if this was a game of monopoly it would be about time to kick the board over and say you never wanted to play anyway." He sits back and smiles, clearly pleased with his punch-line.
"Is that what you do?" asks Bella, suddenly interested.
"Oh you are listening then," says Miranda sarcastically.
"Of course I'm listening."
"So you understand the problem?"
"Yes, of course I do. I'm not stupid."
"We all know what the problem is," says Veronica, a little impatiently. "But what's your solution?"
"We just wanted to make sure everybody understands," says Miranda, looking meaningfully at Bella. We want you to see that there are not that many alternatives to what we are going to propose. In fact, we don't think there are any. She nods at Michael. "You might as well get to the point."
Michael takes a breath. "Right. Okay. What would you say if I told you that we are, even now, sitting on an asset that will solve all our problems?"
Rat draws on his pipe and looking up into the rafters blows a small smoke ring. "Not that sofa, surely?"
Michael looks momentarily at a loss. "Er, no, a little further down, actually."
"Ball clay," says Miranda.
"Simple as that, eh?" says Rat.
"Yes, simple as that."
"We all knew there would be some left of course," says Michael. "But what we didn't know was how much. Now, however, I can give you a figure: two hundred and thirty thousand tons." He looks brightly around the room, awaiting their reaction.
Veronica sighs. "And where exactly is this bonanza? As if I didn't know."
"Ah," says Michael, raising a finger, and from his folder takes a printed map which he spreads out on his knees. "As it happens, it's literally under our feet. In fact, the village is almost at the western end of the main lens – they call it a lens you know, although it's just a stratum really – which, as you can see, stretches away to the south and east. In fact it goes right out under the harbour. The thing is, it's quite a long w
ay down, twenty-five metres on average, which, no doubt, is why they didn't bother with it before. But that's no problem these days, of course, because they —"
"But, that's the Heath, isn't it?" cries Bella in sudden horror. She jumps up and stabs at the map with her finger. "This . . . lens thing goes right under my heath. Nobody digs anything out of my heath ever!" She turns to Veronica. "Tell them they can't do it. They know they can't do it."
"You see," says Miranda, wearily. "Just what I expected — a totally closed mind. I don't know why she bothered to come."
"Just as well I bloody did!"
Veronica purses her lips. "Honestly, Miranda, what did you expect?"
"I expected we'd be heard out! And if she doesn't like our idea, where's hers?"
"You might at least listen to what we've got to say, Bella," says Michael.
"There's absolutely no point," says Bella. If it's digging holes in the ground, it's out. I just don't know what you're thinking of. Don't you realise, the Stones —"
"Oh for Christ's sake, it's nowhere near your precious Stones," snaps Miranda. "Look at the bloody map will you?"
"The point is, Bella, it'll hardly affect the Heath," explains Michael. "It won't be opencast, like last time. The clay will be taken out of long, sloping mine-shafts. There'll be just two or three pithead areas at any one time, which will be reinstated afterwards, and everything else goes on underground. I promise you, you'll hardly know they're there. There is some surface clay left as it happens – a surprisingly large amount, actually – but we've deliberately left it out of our plan in deference to your particular sensibilities. The environmental impact will be minimal."
"Compare that with building houses," says Miranda, "which, naturally, we considered, and there's, well, no comparison."
"Well, there is," begins Michael.
"No, there isn't."
"No all right, there isn't."
Bella shakes her head incredulously. "You talk to me about not listening. You don't listen. It wouldn't matter if it was houses or clay or what it was. I've told you I don't know how many times, digging near the Stones disrupts the lines of earth energy. We're talking about a global nexus here, not just some little local intersection. Anywhere within a half mile radius is absolutely critical. Do you really want to bugger up world history again? Look what happened the last time. Do you want to start another world war?"
"Global nexus," groans Miranda. "Earth energies. World wars now! Do we have to listen to this . . . crap?"
Veronica peers at her over her glasses. "Language, Miranda."
"Sorry. I'm sorry. It just makes me so bloody angry."
"How do you know there are two hundred and thirty thousand tons anyway?" asks Rat. "That's a very precise figure."
"Because we've just spent twelve thousand pounds of our own money having it surveyed," says Miranda.
"Thirty test bores," says Michael, looking pleased with himself. "You can see the cores if you like — solid clay, metres of it."
Miranda glares at him. "Thank you, Michael."
"What? Oh, sorry."
Bella looks from one to the other, frowning. "What do you mean, test bores?"
"They dig holes, if you must know," says Miranda, brutally, "to see what's down there."
"No, no, not exactly holes," says Michael hastily. "I wouldn't call them holes, darling, not really. They just bore a very small, well, bore really. About this wide." He holds his fingers a couple of inches apart, then brings them together somewhat. "It's a bit like coring an apple, only longer of course."
"How much longer?" demands Bella, her eyes narrowing.
"Forty metres in places," says Miranda, insouciantly.
Bella takes a threatening step towards her seated sister. "Forty metres!"
"Now wait a minute, Bella," says Michael, nervously intervening. "It's perfectly all right because we got the drill crew to fill them in afterwards. We made a particular point of it, didn't we, darling?"
"You did."
"And that's supposed to make it all right?" cries Bella. "Have you any idea of how much trouble you've put me to? I'm going to have to isolate every one of them with copper wire and —"
"I think you should have discussed this survey with us first, dear," says Veronica. "We should have voted on it."
"And would you have agreed to it?" asks Miranda.
Veronica sighs. "Well I must say, I really don't see what the point —"
"No, you wouldn't," says Miranda, standing up. "Shall I tell you why? Because all you can think of is protecting her. Poor, weak-minded Bella with her crackpot ideas. Never mind me! Never mind the future of the estate! Just so long as she can go on playing her stupid, childish games. How much longer do we have to put up with this bloody nonsense? Tell me that. She's mad, that's what she is. She wants certifying. She wants putting away. Come on Michael, I'm sick of this. It's a complete waste of time." She turns to Bella. "I'm surprised you let us bury your mother. That's a hole isn't it? Or doesn't that count?"
"Miranda, really!" cries Veronica.
Rat gets up stiffly from his perch on the desk. "I move we adjourn the meeting," he mutters, as Miranda storms out.
"I just don't know why we bother," says Veronica, wheeling herself to the door. "Push me across the yard, will you Bella dear. I don't want manure all over my hands on top of everything else."
But Bella doesn't answer. She is slumped on the sofa, weeping as if her heart might break.
*
Bella lies on her little narrow bed, the bed of her childhood, and gazes morosely at the lilac-painted ceiling. The whole room – bed, curtains, carpet, walls – is in various lovely shades of purple, lilac and mauve. She chose them herself, even painted the bed's heart-shaped headboard. Up on the shelf sits a large collection of soft toys, including, of course, Mr Grumpy. She feels she would rather like to cuddle Mr Grumpy at this moment. "I'm sorry," she says at last. "I shouldn't have let her get to me like that."
"You always did."
"I'm out of practice, that's all. I need to grow an extra 'at home' skin."
Veronica adjusts the left-hand wheel of her chair, the better to look out of the window. On the slipway Primrose is furiously lashing Narcissus with a leathery piece of seaweed. She raps the glass and puts on her cross face. "You're as bad as each other," she says. "I've known you say some very cruel things."
"When?"
"In the past."
"Oh come on! I can't be blamed for what I said when I was a teenager or whatever."
"It was a good deal more recent than that. I'm not defending her; I'm just saying you should try to understand. She's lost her mother too, you know."
"You'd hardly know it. Business as usual, it seems to me."
"I could say the same about you. You've hardly mentioned her at all since you got home."
"That's different."
"Why?"
Bella does not answer. Given the circumstances, talking about her mother in the past tense feels awkward to say the least. Does she hear everything? What on earth must she have thought of Miranda's outburst?
"Your sister's been under a lot of strain," says Veronica. "She's had to cope with all this, plus having to run the estate more or less single handed, plus the Hunt. She's Joint Master now, you know, and that's on top of everything else.
"What do you mean, everything else? What everything else?"
"You know what else."
"Oh for goodness sake, not still that!"
"It's very upsetting for her, Bella. They've been trying for five years now. That's a long time."
"So what's she doing about it?"
"They've had all sorts of tests. She always seems to be going for some test or other."
"And?"
"They can't find anything wrong."
"What, with either of them?"
Veronica looks embarrassed. "No."
"Well there you are then. All they have to do is keep on plugging away. After all, it's not as if it's any hardshi
p, is it? Well, it might be for her I suppose. I don't get the impression Miranda's really into sex, unless it's horse-sex." Bella sits up and swings her long legs over the edge of the bed. "Anyway, she doesn't have to take it out on me, it's not my fault. I've been given a job to do and I'm jolly well going to do it. She can say nasty things to me if she wants, but she's not touching my heath. Nobody touches my heath."
"I think you're being very unkind about your sister; and it's not your heath, Bella."
"Yes it is. I don't want any of the other stuff. She can have the whole estate for all I care, but the heath and the Stones are mine."
Veronica appears about to speak, then apparently thinks better of it. Instead she makes for the door. "Yes, well, if you're all right now, I think I'd better go and get the dinner on."
Bella sighs. She puts her knees together and stares thoughtfully at the swirly patterned carpet through the gap between her thighs. "Aunty."
"Yes?"
"What was she shooting at, exactly? It's just that I've got this blank."
"What do you mean, blank?"
"I mean," Bella shakes her head crossly. "I didn't mean that. What I mean is, no-one has told me what she was shooting at, that's all."
Veronica sighs and comes back into the room. "We don't know. Nobody knows. Whatever it was, it wasn't there when they found her. There were fifteen cartridges, the police said. They were all crawling about, looking for them. God knows why. In case it was murder, I suppose." Quite unexpectedly her aunt's face crumples and she begins to weep. "We thought it was John, after rabbits. How could we know it was her? That last shot, I keep thinking about it. It must have been . . . We didn't know you see. We just thought it was John."
Bella mentally kicks herself for asking such a stupid question. What does it matter anyway? She has never seen her aunt cry and doesn't know what to do. She moves along the bed and puts an arm awkwardly round her.
"She didn't kill herself, aunty, if that's what you're thinking. I mean, not on purpose. It was an accident."
Actually, of course, she doesn't know that. She can now remember most of her predecessors' two hundred and twenty-one deaths, including numerous drownings, burnings, beheadings and buryings-alive, but she still can't remember this one, presumably because it is part of her mother's thoughts, and therefore forbidden to her. She has tried asking of course, but got nothing for her pains but a stubborn silence. Her mother is certainly sticking to her promise not to talk; more firmly, in fact, than is necessary or desirable. One thing she does know; no Priestess has ever topped herself. They are made of sterner stuff.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 13
