Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "Yes. Yes it is," agrees Bella.

  Julius sighs theatrically. "I always think . . . How shall I put this? I always think that this is the time when our faith is tested most. Bereavement, I mean."

  "Er, yes," agrees Bella. "I'm sure that's true."

  "So many people come to me and say, 'Why? Why, if He is a God of love, has He made me suffer? Why has He taken my wife, my husband, my mother?' And yet, you know, in a sense, in a very real sense, death – or perhaps one should say, mortality – defines our relationship with God. For without the death of the body," (here his eyes drift briefly to the mole on the desk) "how can there be everlasting life? And without everlasting life . . ." He shrugs and smiles sadly, as if that surely clinches the matter.

  "Er, quite so, yes," agrees Bella. "Absolutely."

  Now he sits back and appears to be gazing thoughtfully at Bella's chest. She puts down her tea and sits more upright. At length he says, "This may sound a little hackneyed." He smiles, nods and blinks, all at once. "Well, a lot hackneyed, I daresay. Nevertheless, the truth is, and I always find this a great comfort, the truth is, one should never forget, even in the midst of one's grief – one's very real, very valid grief I might say – that she at least is at peace now, at peace in the arms of Jesus; a peace, of course, that passes, for us mere mortals, all understanding. The pain, the very real pain – and, goodness, I know how real it is – is all here, below."

  Bella seizes her opportunity. "I'm afraid that's just the trouble," she says, shaking her head sadly. "She's not."

  "Not?"

  "At peace. Or at any rate, not in the arms of Jesus. You see, like me, she wasn't a churchgoer."

  "Ah!" cries Julius, galvanized. "Ah, but that's the thing, Bella. I never had the privilege of meeting your dear mother, but God's wonderful message is that though she may have been, as the parable has it, a lost sheep – or, perhaps one should say, a temporarily mislaid sheep – she is nevertheless saved!"

  "No, no," says Bella, desperate to stem the flow. "What I mean is, she wasn't even a Christian; she was a practising Pagan, a follower of the Old Beliefs. In your terms — a witch."

  "A witch!"

  "Yes, and so am I. It's passed down, you know, from mother to daughter."

  "Julius raises his eyebrows. "You're a witch too!"

  "Yes."

  "Goodness! I've never met a witch before."

  "Oh, I'm sure you have. We don't care to draw attention to ourselves, under normal circumstances."

  The vicar of St Ethelfleda absorbs this silently, nodding and blinking. "Well I must say, you don't look like one."

  "The nose and chin come later, I expect."

  "Much later, I'm sure," says Julius, putting his head on one side.

  Bella looks down modestly. "I hope I'm not making you uncomfortable."

  Julius smiles. "Just so long as you don't turn me into a frog or something."

  "Not if you do as I ask," counters Bella, smiling back. "You see, it's like this, Julius, it's not really appropriate for my mother to lie in a churchyard. Consecrated ground and all that. It's just not suitable. I wouldn't even be surprised if there were some ancient law against it."

  "Oh I see. It's the burial you're worried about. So are you saying you want to . . ."

  "Take her away, yes, and scatter her at the Tenstones, with all the right rituals and everything."

  Julius considers this, distractedly smoothing his remaining hair over his balding pate. "Scatter her at the Tenstones. Hmm."

  "It's a place of great mystical power for us, you see, sort of like a church."

  "Yes I see." He nods and blinks several times. "My goodness! Well I don't know, I really don't. I do try to understand other faiths, of course. Indeed, I've no doubt that whether we realise it or not we all worship the same God, in one of His many guises. Although I don't know much about . . . Wicca, is it?"

  "You can call it that, if you like," says Bella. She has noticed that since her revelation, his interest in her appears to have quickened considerably, his gaze now oscillating steadily between her chest and her legs.

  "Er yes, hmm," he says, "magic potions, covens, the dark arts and all that. Alastair Crowley! Dear, dear. Tell me Bella, can I assume – well, I'm sure I can – that you're, what shall we call it, a white witch?"

  "We believe that evil is merely the absence of good," says Bella sagely.

  Julius leans eagerly forward. "Yes, yes indeed. Well said! You know, I wouldn't mind betting that, when it comes right down to it, there's not so very much difference between our two faiths. In my Father's house there are many mansions, and all that. I should certainly like to learn more about your, er, rituals and things. This is an ecumenical age, after all. Tell me, Bella, do you know much about Christianity?"

  "Well, I have to admit, not very much," lies Bella. "About as much as you know about Wicca, I expect."

  Julius blinks twice, very hard. "Well then, perhaps we should get together sometime and, er, compare notes?" There is the slightest tremor in his voice as he says this.

  Bella smiles warmly. "Yes, I'd like that."

  "Great! Splendid. It's a date then." Julius sits back, evidently well pleased with himself. There is a pause while they gaze amiably at each other. "As to this matter of your mother . . ." He takes a deep breath and blows out his cheeks. "I'm very inclined to say yes. I certainly believe in your sincerity."

  "Thank you very much, Julius," says Bella, with great relief. "I'm so glad you understand."

  "The trouble is, it's not really up to me." He shakes his head doubtfully. "I'd have to take advice, probably from the bishop. I really can't be sure what the response would be. And then there's your family. Have you discussed this with them?"

  "Good God, no! I mean, goodness no," says Bella. "It'd only end in a row. I've enough to worry about without that."

  "I really think you should."

  "No, I can't possibly. You don't know my family like I do. It would be a complete waste of time."

  "But you do see that it has to be a decision by all of you?"

  "No I don't, frankly. I don't see that it needs to concern them at all."

  "Then I don't see how . . ." begins the vicar, then lapses into disappointed silence.

  "You see, Julius," says Bella earnestly. "This is particularly important for me personally, for my well-being. Mummy's not dead, you see, not really dead." She holds up her hand. "No, no, she hasn't gone to heaven; I don't mean that. I don't expect you to believe this of course, but she's actually right here, in this room. Her soul has passed to me now. We share a body. And it's not just us, because she's got Grandma's soul and Grandma's got my great-grandma's soul and so on, right the way back. It gets a bit crowded, I can tell you. They all have to be kept happy or it's chaos. We're talking about my sanity here. Do you understand? The rituals have to be observed." The tears begin to trickle down Bella's cheeks and she knuckles them away crossly. "I'm stressed enough as it is, what with the vultures gathering, people trying to change everything she worked so hard to protect. I'm having to fight for everything I believe in, and now I've got this mess to sort out as well. Oh dear, I'm sorry. What must you think of me?"

  Julius blinks seismically and reaches for a box of tissues. "Here, um, please, er . . . oh, you've got your own. Look, I'm terribly sorry. I do understand. That is, I'm trying very hard to understand. But, look here, my hands are tied. I don't see what I can do."

  "Then I don't like you!" cries Bella, jumping up. "And I certainly won't be coming to discuss anything with you."

  "That is, to some extent tied," says Julius, desperately. I mean, I suppose I do have a certain amount of discretion." He walks over to the window and for a while gazes silently across at the old lychgate and the churchyard beyond. "I mean, naturally one has to consider people's sensitivities, especially at this time. One has to preserve the er, um, appearances, but . . ." Here he turns and pauses in confusion, for Bella, having slumped tearfully in his chair, is absently stroking the dead
mole, running the tips of her long fingers slowly and repeatedly over the velvety fur. Julius swallows. "Actually, er, Bella, I'm sorry to say I'm going away tomorrow, to a conference. I'm going tomorrow morning and I shan't be back until Wednesday afternoon. That's a day or two for you . . . I mean for me to, er, think about what you've asked." He turns back to the window. "It worries me a bit sometimes that we're so lax about security here. The church is just about deserted most of the time and there's never anyone around after dark. Mrs Dunnock does the flowers on Tuesday afternoons, but she's usually away by five. Apart from that, why, someone could rob the place and be halfway up the country before anyone even noticed. But there it is, I don't believe in locking God's house."

  He looks at his watch. "Goodness, is that the time? I have to address St Agnes' Natural Amenities Group tonight: 'Songbirds of Wessex, illustrated with tapes and slides.' Er, perhaps you'd like to call in again next week? Who knows, perhaps by then our little problem will have been resolved to everyone's satisfaction? I'd truly love to have you tell me all about Wicca. I'm sure it's fascinating."

  This is important, Best Beloved

  "Morning Fieldfare," booms Rat.

  Fieldfare lowers his newspaper with a snap and attempts to struggle to his feet, or rather foot, his starboard leg being inconveniently propped against the ride-on mower, just out of reach. "Sorry, sir. Caught me on the 'op, sir. Just takin' five, like."

  "No no, don't let me disturb your break," says Rat, waving him back down. "How are things? Don't see you very often nowadays."

  "Can't complain sir. Not gettin' any younger, unfortunately."

  "I know what you mean," agrees Rat. He looks around the place, surprised at how cosy it seems: the deckchair, the picnic table, the camping stove. Trust an old seaman to make himself at home.

  "Fieldfare."

  "Sir?"

  "Cast your mind back to when you first came here. Must be, what, thirty years?"

  "Thirty-four last January, sir. Remember it like yesterday."

  "Good, then you'll also remember a certain cat, no doubt."

  "Indeed I do, sir: scruffy little beggar with a kink in 'is tail."

  "Quite so. And do you remember me asking you to get rid of it?"

  "Yes sir, and I did."

  "Where? Where did you get rid of it?"

  "You said you didn't want to know, sir. Beggin' your pardon, sir."

  "Quite right, I did say that. But I want to know now."

  "I give it to a mate of mine, sir. He was a lorry driver for the MOD. Poor old Alf Scoter. Dead now, rest 'is soul. You said it weren't to be 'armed so I 'ad 'im dump it on Salisbury Plain, the firin' range, sir."

  "That was your idea of somewhere safe?"

  "You didn't say it 'ad to be safe," says Fieldfare, looking uncomfortable. "You just said not to 'arm it. I assumed you didn't want ter see it again, so Salisbury Plain seemed the place."

  Rat nods, finding a certain affinity with this line of reasoning. "Not much chance of it surviving then?"

  "Wouldn't think so, sir. Long walk 'ome if it did." A thought strikes him. "Be dead now anyway, sir — thirty years."

  "Quite," says Rat.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  By good fortune Tuesday night is moonless. There are no street lamps in Tenstones village and to venture beyond the dim glow of a few curtained windows is to plunge into velvety blackness. Nowhere is it darker than in the churchyard, where only the occasional flicker of summer lightning reveals, like a rare nocturnal creature caught on camera, a tall, graceful figure, moving warily among the ancient yews.

  Navigating largely by touch and memory, Bella picks her way along the gravel path that follows the church wall. Only when she feels she is in the vicinity of her mother's grave does she risk using the carefully shaded beam of her torch. The fashion here is for all cremations to be buried promiscuously together beneath a long, featureless rectangle of lawn, each identified only by a small memorial plaque on a stick. Fortunately her mother's still has its flowers and wreaths. No doubt, she supposes, a section of turf is stripped off before the grave is dug and put back neatly afterwards. It won't have had time to root in, so it should still be loose. Stooping down she shoves aside the wilted tributes and searches for the join. It is, in fact, quite easy to find, the turf having shrunk somewhat in the heat, and getting her fingers under a corner she pulls it back, revealing bare, slightly moist earth.

  Bella stops and glances nervously about, her ears almost twitching in their effort to pick up the slightest sound, but apart from a far-off rumble of thunder, the silence is as absolute as the darkness. Beyond the lychgate, the rectory stands empty, but only for tonight. Tomorrow the vicar returns. Still she hesitates. Suppose she is caught? Can you be prosecuted for digging up your own mother's ashes? Well, she'll have to take that chance.

  Screwing up her courage she spits professionally on both hands, takes up her spade, and drives it vigorously into the ground. There is a loud 'chink' as the blade strikes a stone and Bella freezes in terror. For a good while she stands, half bent, listening with bated breath to the noisy pounding of her heart, but no challenge comes and no lights appear in the black shapes of the nearest cottages. Probably, she tells herself, she is worrying unduly. Probably they are all watching Coronation Street or something. Probably they wouldn't notice if she was using a JCB and a gang of navvies.

  Proceeding more confidently but with due care, Bella uses her foot to work the spade gently into what proves to be relatively loose earth. It is only now that a number of hitherto unconsidered problems occur to her. The first is where to put the spoil. Eventually, of course, it will go back into the hole, but in the meantime it is essential that it does not stray onto the surrounding grass, or worse, stain the gravel path. Damn! She should have brought some newspaper to put it on. A rainstorm seems likely, judging by the approaching thunder, but can it be relied upon to wash away the evidence?

  The second problem is where, exactly, to dig. The area of uncovered soil is quite large and decidedly oblong in shape. Should she excavate all of it, or the middle, or just one end? If so, which? Furthermore, she now realises she has no idea how far down the ashes might be. Not a full six feet surely? One or two would seem more likely. Will they be in some sort of casket, or an urn? She had imagined a little wooden box, like the one Simon's mother keeps her poodle in, but perhaps it might be an urn; some sort of vase thing, she supposes, with a lid. What if it breaks? And when she finally removes it from its resting place, will she need to put an extra volume of soil back in to compensate, thus avoiding an embarrassing dent in the ground? If so, where is it to come from? Perhaps she could scrape some loose stones off the path. No, the noise! Even as she anxiously deliberates, a particularly brilliant flash of lightning is followed almost instantly by a crash of thunder and a few fat drops of rain. In moments it is bucketing down and she bolts for the shelter of the church porch.

  For a long hour she huddles, damp and windswept, on the narrow bench beneath the parish notice board, a reluctant audience of one, as nature, or perhaps a vengeful God, puts on a stunning son et lumière. Each jagged fork of lightning is followed swiftly by another while the unremitting thunder slams and rackets about overhead. The rain is so heavy that for a time it almost blots out the glistening stroboscopic images of tombs, gravestones and prayerful angels and even drives into the porch itself, gradually forcing her back against the church door, though not even the crack of doom would induce her to go inside.

  At last, when the rumbles of thunder become slowly more distant and the blackness returns, she senses rather than sees that the rain has stopped, and taking up her spade she ventures into a world transformed.

  All around is the sound of water: dripping in a steady patter off the invisible yew trees, rushing along the gutters, and hurtling out through the mouths of a dozen hideous gargoyles some thirty feet above her head. Hurrying back along the gravel path she neatly sidesteps one of these gushing torrents, only to find herself plunged into a s
wirling flood, well over the tops of her trainers.

  Cursing, Bella throws all caution to the wind and switches on her torch, revealing several wreaths, a few soggy messages of condolence and a great raft of flowers, all floating on a rising black tide which fed by the incontinent gargoyle has entirely inundated the cremation lawn. Nothing remains to be seen but the line of plaques, standing above the water like little 'No Fishing' signs.

  A fainter heart might have given up at this point, but Bella is a Hauteville, not to mention the Priestess of the Stones. Is she not an immortal, who has faced danger and privation many times in her countless lives? Pushing aside the now half-floating lump of turf, she once again shoves her spade into the ground. Lubricated by the flood water it immediately disappears almost up to the handle. Bella pokes carefully about until she feels the resistance of a large object, then falling to her knees with a splash among the bobbing flotsam she thrusts her arm deep into the near-liquid mud. "Oh yuk," she mutters, gritting her teeth. "Yuk, yuk, yuk."

  At first she can feel nothing but small, sharp stones and nasty wriggling things. It is only when she is almost lying in the water that her questing fingers finally make contact with a smooth, rounded object. "Gotcha!" says Bella, and eases it triumphantly out of the ground. It is, indeed, an urn, probably of some sort of metal. Dropping it, dripping, into a Tesco bag, brought along for the purpose, she is just about to stand up when the beam of a powerful flashlight and a watery crunch of gravel make her jump half out of her skin.

  "Oh my goodness!" cries an equally shocked Mrs Dunnock. "Why it's Bella. Whatever are you doing, dear?"

  Bella swiftly arranges herself in an attitude of the utmost misery and dejection. "It's all ruined," she sobs. "Look at it; the grave, my flowers, ruined." She gestures angrily at the unremitting torrent from on high. "Look at it, pouring down!"