Bella pauses at the entrance to the boatshed, waiting for her eyes to adapt to its shadowy interior. There are salt-stained, cobwebby windows high under the eaves, but what light there is comes mostly from the open doors and from the sunbeams that spring from every chink and hole in the rusty corrugated-iron walls. Scattered about the floor and stretching away into the darkness are great baulks of timber, coils of rope, red and green buoys, and fenders of all shapes and sizes, while dominating the great space and towering almost to the rafters is the unpainted hull of a large wooden vessel. From somewhere near her stern comes the sound of voices and the ring of a hammer on steel.
"What you have to do," shouts Rat, above the banging, "is tack it into the seam every couple of feet, then come back and work your way along, like this, driving it home. It's quite satisfying really."
"An' that hauds the watter oot?" says McNab, doubtfully.
"Oh certainly. When she takes up she'll be tight as a drum. Want to try?"
"He's supposed to be meeting me," says Bella, creeping up behind them.
"Awch, is that the time?" says McNab. "Rat wis jist showin me hou tae caulk."
"Perhaps another day then," says Rat, rather regretfully. "It's nice to meet someone who's so interested."
"Och ay, it's fascinatin," agrees McNab, "a nou technology. Nou tae me, onyweys." He turns to Bella. "Did ye ken this is a genuine Edwardian gentleman's yacht? A gaff cutter, buildit in nineteen-ten. There are no many left."
"Bella smiles wryly. "I couldn't be off knowing it. I've lived with the blessed thing since I was a teenager. We call it Rat's Folly."
"It has been rather a lengthy project," agrees Rat, fishing out his pipe and tobacco, "I just don't seem to get the time. And I've had to teach myself as I've gone along."
"Lengthy!" laughs Bella. "It's nearly fifteen years."
"Not that long, surely? More like ten."
"It is. I remember the day it came. It was Miranda's eleventh birthday. She went into a rage because you missed half her party. Mind you, she was always going into a rage about something or other."
Rat pauses to strike a match, sucking the flame vigorously into the bowl of the pipe. "Hmm, you're right, I did. Perhaps I should get some help, if I want to see it finished in my lifetime."
"Hmm, er, ah coud help ye, Rat, if ye wantit," says McNab, diffidently.
"But you're going away in a couple of days," says Bella. "Aunty's just told me."
"Och ay, that's true." He hangs his head sadly. "But we'll be comin back for Pat an' the bairns. We could mebbe bide awhile. Thurston's a jyner ye ken, a verra guid yin."
"Is he now?" says Rat. "That could be useful."
They are standing on the 'hard,' a broad, concrete extension to the slipway. Both are holding two pieces of stout wire, bent to form a right-angle.
"Nou whit are we daein, Bella?" says McNab, amiably.
"It's quite simple. I wanted to give you a present to thank you for everything, but I haven't any money, so I've decided to share a little of my esoteric wisdom with you. First of all, I'm going to teach you to dowse. These are dowsing rods, entry level."
McNab looks doubtfully at them. "Och, ah dinna ken aboot that, Bella. It's a guidly thocht, but . . ."
"It's quite easy, honestly; you'll be amazed. If you can learn to caulk, you can learn to dowse; it'll be heck of a lot more useful, I can tell you. This could change your life, or save it even."
McNab shakes his head, looks embarrassed. "It's no that. It's jist . . ."
Bella puts her hands on her hips and frowns. "McNab, surely you believe the evidence of your own eyes? I found the fault in Roz's engine didn't I? And I found us that fifty-pound note."
"Och, ye ne'er did," protests McNab indignantly. "He haed it in his wallet; ah see'd him tak it oot. He gaed it tae us tae mak us gang awa."
"So?" says Bella. "I didn't say where the money was coming from, did I? I just said it would be in Tesco's car park; and it was."
McNab considers this. "Hmm, ah ken what ye mean, but . . . Och, it's no scientific, dammit. I canna be doin' wi a laid o supersteetion."
"Look," says Bella. "Stay sceptical, okay? I don't mind that at all; it'll be more of a challenge. I like a challenge. Just give it a try, that's all I ask."
They start adjacent to the boatshed, facing away from the water. Ahead of them the narrow neck of land that is Windy Point gradually opens out to become the broad heath, a heat haze shimmering over its dusty vegetation. "You hold them like this," says Bella, brandishing her dowsing rods. "Like a brace of pistols."
"Er, like this?"
"Yes, but not so tight. Hold them so they can sort of swing freely, but not quite."
McNab looks curiously around him. "For whit are we dowsing, Bella?"
"A mains water pipe. I happen to know there's one under the hard, and you are going to find it. Just walk forwards slowly, think water pipe and watch the rods."
"Watter pipe," mutters McNab, walking a few paces. "Watter pipe, watter pipe, watter pipe. Ach, this is nae guid, they're jist weiglin awplace."
"You're not quite holding them right, that's all. Let them sort of rest on your fingers, but lightly."
"Ay aaricht," sighs McNab. "Watter pipe, watter pipe, watter pipe, watter . . . Ach, nou they're cawin taewart ilk ither."
"Great! That means you've found the pipe. Look, mine are going too. Keep walking."
"Nou they're sweein apairt agin."
"That's because we're leaving the pipe behind."
McNab stops and walks slowly backwards. The wires swing towards each other. He walks forwards. They open out again. "Ay weel, they're conseestent, ah'll gie ye that."
"You see!" says Bella triumphantly. "You can dowse."
"It's an interestin' pheenomenon," admits McNab as he walks repeatedly back and forth. "They amaist seem tae hae a mind o their ain."
"No, it's you that's doing it, you're just not aware of it. Eventually you won't even need the rods, you'll be able to feel it in your hands."
"But bide a wee. Hou d'ye ken the pipe's jist here?"
"Simple: we're opposite the kitchen. Look, there's the outside tap. And over there is the standpipe that Pat's using."
McNab swings round and peers at the standpipe, poking up out of the concrete. A long yellow hose snakes away towards Roz, parked behind the sheds. "Och ay, sae it is. A magnetic field wad it be? Some sort o field onyweys." He stares down at the bent wires and frowns. "But mebbe it'd wirk e'en if a robot wis carryin 'em. That wadna be dowsin, wad it?"
Bella smiles knowingly. "I'm way ahead of you, McNab, because now we're going to do the same thing with this."
"A chuckie on a string?"
"A completely ordinary, no frills, pendulum. Try getting that to respond to a magnetic field. And after you've found the other pipe, the one that runs from the house to the boatshed, we'll go looking for buried treasure."
"Really, Bella?" enquires McNab, peering cynically up at her. "A Norse buirial, wad it be? Pirate doubloons?"
"No, half a bottle of whisky. I pinched it off Uncle. If you can find it, it's yours."
*
"Bella, I'd like a word with you," says Rat.
Bella puts down the book she is reading. "Yes, Uncle?"
"In my study, if you don't mind."
"Oh, right."
She dutifully follows him into his sanctum sanctorum and sits rather stiffly at one end of the leather chesterfield while Rat, leaning against the window sill, proceeds to fill and light his pipe. Nothing has changed in the room since she was a little girl: the high, corniced bookcases, the roll-top desk with its glass inkstand and gold-tooled leather blotter, the reek of stale tobacco. Even the slight feeling of trepidation is still there. If you were summoned to the study, it usually meant trouble.
"Whatever it is," she says, "I didn't do it."
Rat smiles wryly. "I'm very glad to hear it. You're getting a bit big to go across my knee."
"So, what is this about then?"
But her uncle will not continue until comfortably enveloped in a cloud of blue smoke. "Julius Hawksmoor," he says at last.
Bella's blood freezes in her veins. He wouldn't dare! she thinks. He wouldn't dare put me across his knee. "Julius Hawksmoor?" she enquires, innocently.
"Our new vicar."
"Yes, I do know who he is, Uncle."
"Who, incidentally, seems very taken with you."
"He is?"
Rat draws strongly on his pipe, repeatedly placing his yellowed thumb over the bowl and then removing it. "Um, yes, quite fulsome in his praise. I think you've made a hit there."
Then he hasn't noticed anything! thinks Bella, greatly relieved. Or if he has, he isn't going to split. She raises a cool eyebrow. "What about him, exactly?"
"Ah, well, you probably won't know this, but there's a bit more to the Reverend Hawksmoor than meets the eye. In addition to his pastoral duties he's actually something of a naturalist. Quite a leader in his field, by all accounts."
Bella nods and wrinkles her nose. "He stuffs things."
"Oh, you know about that?"
"He asked me in to tea."
"Did he by golly? Fast worker eh? Well in that case you're probably way ahead of me. Incidentally, you were a good girl to go and see the grave. Your aunt was pleased."
"She didn't say."
Rat shakes his head. "This has all been very difficult for her you know. Me too, come to that." He puffs contemplatively for a few moments in silence. "So anyway, young Julius. Did he, er, tell you anything about this hobby of his?"
"Not really," says Bella.
"Oh I see. Thought he might have. Thing is, I happen to know he's extremely interested in your particular line of country."
"Line of country?"
"Yes, you know, heathland flora and fauna: Dartford warblers, sand lizards, natterjack toads, that sort of thing."
Bella, frowns. "I'm sorry, I don't . . ."
"Conservation," says Rat, meaningfully. He leans forward. "Preservation of natural habitats. Yes?"
"Yes?" says Bella.
Rat sighs. "I just thought it might pay you to cultivate him, that's all."
Bella continues to look puzzled. "You want me to get involved with Julius Hawksmoor?"
"No, not involved, for goodness' sake! Well, that's up to you of course." He glances slightly warily towards the door. "Damn it, Bella! Do I have to spell it out? What I'm saying is, if it's the bloody heath you're interested in . . ."
"Suddenly Bella sees the light. "Oh! You mean . . ."
Rat registers his thanks with the ceiling. "Yes!"
"Gosh, that's a very good idea. Thank you, Uncle."
"Don't mention it," says Rat. "And another thing: don't be too hard on your sister. She loves the heath just as much as you, you know."
"She's got a funny way of showing it," says Bella crossly.
"Yes, well I think you'll find that Michael is the driving force behind all that. You have to give it to him; he's chosen his time rather well, while everyone's in disarray. Still, I don't suppose you make his sort of money by being sentimental. He rather reminds me of your grandfather in some ways: not ruthless exactly, but seriously dedicated to profit. You'd have got short shrift from him with your esoteric ideas, I can tell you. He was a law unto himself, a real Victorian squire. Michael's got Miranda to contend with, fortunately; keep him in control a bit. She's a tough young woman, your sister, but she's been hit hard. You're both on the same side, if you did but know it."
Bella, who knows better, lets this pass. "Did you know him then, Grandpa Ernest? I thought he died before you met Aunty."
"Yes he did, But I came across him a few times before the war, at the Army and Navy mostly. Naturally I didn't know I'd end up marrying the daughter. Didn't even know he had a daughter. Daughters, rather."
Rat now appears to drift into a brown study which Bella, with her adept's deep empathy, forebears to interrupt. It suddenly occurs to her that he must have been quite fond of her mother, in his own way. After all, they shared a house for years, and then, when Mummy and Aunty weren't speaking, he was their sort of go-between, always up and down to the Manor with some message or query or other. He does seem to have grown terribly old and saggy the last week or two, and inclined to lose the thread a bit. She wonders if anyone else has noticed. Probably not.
"Anyway," he says, jerking himself back to the present, "that's all by the bye. I'm not exactly helping you, mind. It's just a suggestion. Something to get you started. The rest is up to you. If anyone says anything, this conversation never took place."
Bella stands up, smiling. "What conversation?"
"I know I can rely on you for that. Er, just one other thing." Rat rests his hand momentarily on Bella's shoulder. "If you'll take an old man's advice, you won't ask him to demonstrate his stuffing techniques." He shakes his head so that his jowls briefly wobble. "Not very nice."
Bella searches her uncle's face for any hint of irony. None is apparent. "I'll bear that in mind," she says.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Just as well he's leaving, if you ask me," says Veronica, buttering herself some toast. "He's becoming impossible."
"Is it certain?" asks Rat.
"Doris says he's had his offer accepted, so I suppose he'll be giving notice."
"Who's that?" asks Bella, not looking up from her magazine.
"John Rook," says Rat. "He's buying a place over Bell Wood way. 'Woodpeckers,' it's called. Have you finished with the marmalade?"
"I don't know what George is thinking of," says Veronica, taking it off Bella and passing it to him. "It's his money they're using, presumably. The deposit anyway. I doubt those two have tuppence between them."
"It does seem a bit foolhardy in the present climate," agrees Rat, "although it was going very cheap apparently."
"It would need to be."
"Unless, of course, they've other plans for it."
"My understanding is they want to carry on. The idea is that Avril looks after them while he gets a part-time job, at least initially."
Listening with disbelief to this cryptic exchange, Bella opens and closes her mouth several times before speaking. "But he can't!" she says. It comes out as a squeak.
"Who can't what, dear?"
"John! Leave! He can't leave Tenstones! He . . . just can't!"
"Well, that's what he's going to do. Apparently they've been looking for somewhere for months."
"But I need him! I mean, what I mean is, we've always had Rooks managing the estate. It's traditional!"
"They've been around a long time, certainly," agrees Veronica. Your grandfather used to rely on Old John a great deal, and his father too, whom I can just remember as a very old man. "
"Also a John," says Rat.
"Also a John, they're always Johns, and Young John was a good honest worker, though none too bright, but this John is a different sort altogether. He was always one on his own, even as a boy."
"I can't see Avril making a farmer out of him, any more than an estate manager," says Rat. "He's only happy with a gun under his arm."
"Nor can I. I can't see how he'll be any better off frankly. He's still going to have paperwork to do, probably more, and he won't have anyone to sort out his mistakes; unless Avril's planning to take all that on as well."
"Well of course she's a Dunnock," muses Rat. "She's bound to be ambitious; they all are. I expect she thinks she could run the whole thing, at a pinch. It's quite a compact sort of operation, I suppose."
"But . . . but . . ." stammers Bella. "What about Miranda? She can't manage without him, can she?"
"She isn't best pleased, obviously," agrees Veronica. "It means we've got the trouble of finding someone else for one thing, which won't be easy, and I daresay whoever it is will want more money."
"Well then! Can't someone talk him out of it? Can't you?"
"I doubt it. I'm not sure I'd want to, frankly."
"But if he's going to get a part-time job, why can't
he just carry on here?"
"Too far. It must be twenty miles. He'd want something local. Anyway, what use is a part-time manager? Which, if you ask me, is all he ever was."
"Why are you so concerned anyway, Bella?" asks Rat.
Bella finds herself colouring. She can hardly tell them the real reason. They might, of course, know all about it, but suppose they don't? "It just seems wrong," she says lamely. "We've always had Rooks, for ever and ever. Why does everything have to change all the time?"
For most of the morning, Bella wanders distractedly about the heath. She's only been in this business a couple of weeks and already everything is going wrong. First the heath itself is threatened – by her own flesh and blood, no less – and now this! Is it all somehow her fault? Has she, perhaps, neglected some essential rite that keeps everyone in line? Why does it all have to happen now?
It's true that Bell Wood isn't so very far away – she can always get on a bus – but once John is off the estate, will he any longer feel it incumbent on him to perform his hereditary duty? She supposes she could corner him before he leaves, get the ghastly business over with once and for all, but she doesn't see why she should. She had hoped for a few more years of relative freedom first, a few more years without nappies to change and stretch marks, and stress incontinence, and breasts round her ankles. And even if she did make that sacrifice, what about all those future Johns as yet unborn? Once they have left the influence of the Stones who knows where they might be in a hundred years, or a thousand? In time, it might not even be possible to trace them. They should be here, in their appointed place, not scattered about the world. If there are to be more identical Priestesses then that brief but essential transaction, that tiny input of the male principle, has to be maintained, no matter what. It's a crisis, and she doesn't have the first idea how to deal with it.
If ever she needed her mother's advice and guidance it is now, but since that first morning she has perversely refused to appear. Normally she would be relieved, but for once it's a damned nuisance. Is she sulking because of the ash-scattering fiasco? She did her best, and it's not as if she can't try again.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 17
