"Mr Grumpy isn't seven feet tall, with teeth. Why the Bishop, anyway?"
"Bishop of Penchester, my boss. Quite a marked resemblance, actually. As soon as I clapped eyes on him I thought, hello, that's Geoffrey. Heck of a job getting him home on the bus."
"I can imagine. And do you think he approves of you bonking your parishioners?"
"If he didn't," says Julius, pouncing playfully, "he'd growl."
"I wish I hadn't asked," sighs Bella, fending him off. "Anyway I don't like him. Can't we put a sheet over his head or something?"
"Why don't you turn over? Then you won't be able to see him."
"Turn over?"
Julius hesitates. "Actually I was wondering if you'd care to try something a bit different this time, a little game, quite harmless."
"Oh yes?" says Bella, suspiciously. "What?"
"Half a tick and I'll show you." Julius jumps eagerly out of bed and opening a heavy old chest begins rummaging through the contents. "Hmm, let me see. For your size and colouring. . . Ah, here we are, just the job. Now, if you would kindly slip this on."
"A fur coat in June?"
"It's not actually a fur coat."
"What is it then?"
"Just a fur. If you could . . . Yes, that's right. Oh, yes, very fetching! Now if you could just sort of kneel? No, on all fours. Actually it might be better on the carpet if you wouldn't mind. Less bounce. Oh yes, perfect! Absolutely perfect! Just hold it right . . . there."
"Julius, I'm seriously beginning to wonder about you!"
"Shush, you're not allowed to talk. You're a wolf bitch on heat and I'm top dog. I've just fought a bloody battle for you and now you're mine. Aooooooow."
But we'll draw the veil of decency over that, Best Beloved. It's not remotely relevant.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
An Atlantic low comes sweeping in, making life hard for the outdoor mystic and sage. But Bella is no fair-weather Priestess. Careless of her poor, mortified flesh (the wind-knotted hair, the ruined skin, the nipples like purple coat-hooks) she once more soars skywards, seeking the answers that still so annoyingly elude her. What were they made for, these ten lonely sentinels of stone? What is their special purpose? What would happen if she chose no longer to serve them? Would she be punished? How?
Since that first wonderful revelation there has been no further enlightenment, no filling in of the gaps, no ascent to a higher plane of understanding. Everything she has learned she has had to learn for herself the hard way. It's as if she has hit an invisible ceiling, has gone as far as she is permitted to go. Why? Why is it not given to her to know these things?
Mummy, where are you? I want this explained. Why won't you explain?
Far beneath her the wild heath is dark and deserted in this foul weather. No dog walkers or brightly track-suited joggers dot the unrelieved dun of the heather. Then, in the direction of the village, she sees a mounted figure, tiny at first, but quickly resolving itself into Miranda, cantering briskly towards Windy Point.
With her adept's highly tuned sensitivity Bella senses trouble. There is something about the way her sister is riding today, a certain urgency and firmness of purpose. How very like her it would be to choose this moment to bend the ear of their aunt, just when her innocent rival is suspended, helpless, between heaven and earth.
"Go on then!" cries Hester, suddenly. "What are you waiting for? Go after her."
"Oh, you're still here then," says Bella sarcastically. "I thought perhaps you were on one of your little holidays."
"Never mind that! Go and see what she's up to. Nothing good, I'll be bound."
"How? It'll take me at least ten minutes, even if I run all the way."
"Go as you are, stupid! You're disembodied, aren't you? 'How to leave your body and fly wherever you want,' remember?"
But of course! thinks Bella. Why didn't I think of that? For if her soul can rise and hover like a kestrel over the heath, if she can climb to these giddy heights by the power of mind alone, where can she not go? What is to stop her setting out after Miranda right now, unseen and undetected? She wouldn't be able to do or say anything of course, but she would know. She would know what, if anything, Miranda is up to.
Gingerly, expecting momently to be set back upon the altar stone, she attempts a simple manoeuvre, consciously making herself sink a little, move sideways a few yards and slowly rise again. It works! She thinks. It really works!
For a few wild moments Bella swoops and soars and turns and turns again until – having satisfied herself that she is, indeed, as free and in control as any bird – she plunges away and down in an exhilarating blur of speed to take up station just above and behind her earthbound sister as she urges on the big bay.
My God, she thinks, the size of your bum in those jods!
As Miranda reaches Windy Point, the clatter of hooves on concrete attracts the attention of Rat who appears, as usual, from the boatshed. "Hello stranger," he says, taking the reins, "Where have you been hiding?"
"Stranger yourself," retorts Miranda, dismounting. "You can always come up to the house you know."
They air-kiss dispassionately, a mere feint at each other's cheek.
As a fellow adept, Best Beloved, you will, no doubt, have noticed that Uncle doesn't much care for Miranda, although, of course, he would vehemently deny it.
"I was there the other day as a matter of fact," says Rat. "Had to see Fieldfare about something."
"Then you should have called in."
"I did. Saw that girl of yours; Concepción is it? Had a bit of trouble communicating but I got the drift you were out."
Miranda rolls her eyes. "No, I was home all day yesterday. She really is the most stupid creature. What did you want Fieldfare for?"
They are interrupted by a storm of banging from the boatshed, followed by a tinkle and a muffled curse. Rat winces. "Look, I'm sorry, Miranda, but I think I'd better get back in there. You staying a while?"
"Only an hour or so."
"Might see you later then. Where do I moor the gee-gee?"
"Just let him wander. He won't go far. Where's Aunty?"
"Kitchen, I think."
Bella, anticipating this, has already taken up station by the kitchen door. How exciting it is! And how she wishes she had thought of it before.
"Phew, warm in here," says Miranda, casting off her hat and jacket. "Oh, you're baking."
"Fairy cakes," says Veronica. She has a mixing bowl on her knees and is pressing in the butter. "You don't mind if I carry on?"
"No, of course not; you go ahead. What happened to your ceiling?"
"Ceiling?"
"Over the Aga."
"Oh, that. Just a little accident. How's Michael?"
"He's in Milan."
"Staying to tea then?"
"No, I can't. I've got a hunt meeting at four."
Veronica glances at the clock. "It's gone two now."
"Sorry, bit of a flying visit."
"Coffee?"
"No thanks, Aunty."
"Not even time for a coffee?"
"I can't, I'm detoxing."
"Goodness! That doesn't sound like your sort of thing."
"It isn't. Doctor's orders. Michael as well."
"Oh dear, poor Michael. How long does this go on for?"
Miranda shrugs. "As long as it takes. Where's Bella?"
"Need you ask?"
"She must be barmy. It's blowing half a gale out there."
"I daresay she'll come in when she's had enough. It was quite nice first thing but it looks like rain now. Aren't you going to sit down?"
"Er, yes, all right."
Miranda settles herself in the window seat, her usual place, and turns to looks out. The bay is standing close by, his ears pricked towards her, his mane ruffled by the wind.
"Will he be all right?" says Veronica, following her gaze.
"Yes. He's a good boy." Miranda blows him a kiss through the glass.
"We were wondering where you'd got to, s
ince the meeting," says Veronica, her tone studiedly neutral.
Miranda continues to watch the bay as he ambles the few yards to the edge of the heath and begins to dine on a patch of heather. "Oh, you know," she says distractedly, "things to do, people to see. Is that your visitors' bus thing over there?"
"Roz? Yes."
"Roz?"
"The bus is called Roz."
"Oh, right," says Miranda, nodding slowly. "There were a couple of scruffy-looking children gawping at me as I came in. They're connected with it presumably."
"That's the twins, Primrose and Narcissus."
"They appear to be covered in mud."
Veronica smiles fondly. "I expect they've been beachcombing."
"Oh, right," says Miranda again. She picks up a magazine, riffles through it, frowns and looks at the cover. "'Myth, Mystery and Magic,'" she declaims "'The pentagram explained. Five fantastic spells that really work. Love and the stars: discover your occult sexuality.' For this she went to Bendingdon?"
"It's your uncle's."
"Ha de ha." She sighs and tosses the magazine aside. "I suppose I'll have to apologise, won't I?"
"You can apologise to each other. She's just as bad; I told her so."
"It's just that she makes me so angry."
Bent over her bowl, Veronica begins to stir vigorously. "I thought you might like to meet them, actually."
"Sorry?"
"Meet them: the twins."
Miranda frowns. "Whatever for?"
"I just thought you'd like to, dear."
"I can't imagine why."
"Really? I should have thought the more you were around children the better." Miranda gravely considers this. "Oh, you mean hormones and things. That only works with babies doesn't it?"
"Well they're not much more than babies. Anyway, I'd like you to meet Pat and Bluebell as well. They're nice. You'll like them."
Miranda looks pained. "Perhaps not just now, Aunty."
"All right, dear, there's plenty of time." Veronica begins to spoon cake mix into the greased tins, pushing off each blob with her finger.
Miranda returns to the magazine. She looks up her star sign, reads intently for a few moments and grimaces. Leaning back, she again checks the progress of the bay, now somewhat further off, then tapping the magazine absently against her nose, she falls to gazing silently over it at her aunt. "You put me to shame," she says at last.
"What, these? I've nothing much else to do. I've run out of books."
"Oh, right," suddenly bright and businesslike. "Would you like me to take you to the library then?"
"Why yes, that would be very nice, dear."
"Tomorrow suit you?"
"Yes, fine."
"Okay. It's a date then."
"I wouldn't mind going to Boots as well, if you can spare the time. You know what your uncle's like about shopping. Pat offered to take me in Roz, but I don't like to bother her and it's a bit tricky getting in and out."
Miranda gives a little shrug. "Sure. Anywhere you like." A thought seems to strike her. "How long are they staying then? I mean, if I've plenty of time to meet them."
Veronica crosses the kitchen to the Aga and peers at the thermometer. "I was thinking of asking them to stay the winter actually."
"The winter!"
"Yes dear, the winter."
"I suppose that's Bella's idea."
"No, it's mine. They've nowhere definite to go so I thought they might as well stay here. It's not ideal for them, but they'll be fairly snug behind the sheds, and at least they'll have fresh running water and a telephone if they need it."
Miranda frowns. "But they're travellers, aren't they?"
"Are they? I don't know. That's what they call the diddies now isn't it?"
"Not that sort of travellers, Aunty. New-age travellers. Hippies."
"Oh I don't think they're hippies, dear. Pat's an educated woman and the children are bright and interesting; a bit wild perhaps, but a breath of fresh air in many ways. I've grown quite fond of them."
"But aren't you afraid they'll, you know, attract others?"
"Good heavens, I shouldn't think so."
"People get them and can't get rid of them. They're an absolute menace, especially their dogs. Cameron Jay had to get a court order to get them off and it took weeks. He lost umpteen sheep and had to cancel a shoot. The mess was disgusting."
"I'm sure that won't happen here, dear. They haven't got a dog."
"But it's not a fit place for children, surely," persists Miranda. "Those sheds are unsafe. And what about toilets?"
Veronica smiles. "Toilets we're not short of. At the last count there were seven."
"Seven!"
"Portables. Pat's friend McNab builds them. He's an obsessive builder of toilets; every one a unique work of art. Isn't that amazing? He even wanted to build a special one for me in case I was caught short while visiting Roz. He was quite insistent. Fortunately your uncle's got him working on the Folly now or we'd probably be overrun with the things."
Miranda looks at her aunt in disbelief. "And you're harbouring these people?"
"I told you, they're fun, a breath of fresh air."
"But . . ." Miranda shakes her head and sighs. "Oh well, it's your funeral I suppose."
There is a brief silence.
"Sorry, Aunty. That wasn't very . . ."
Veronica shakes her head dismissively. "I do it all the time. Everything I say seems to have death or graves or something in it. Your uncle's as bad. That's why it's so nice to have something else to think about. Just hold this door open, will you? While I put the cakes in."
Miranda stands up and holds the oven door away from the wheelchair. "But you're all right now? I mean . . ."
Veronica sighs. "I daresay I'm over the worst. It was just such a shock. Can you pass me those other trays?"
"That's an awful lot of fairy cakes. Are you freezing some?"
"No, they'll soon go, with eight of us."
"You're not feeding them as well, surely?"
"Of course I'm feeding them," says Veronica rather irritably, "they're our guests. Honestly Miranda!"
"All right, all right. I'll say no more." Miranda retreats across the kitchen and leans against a work surface, her arms folded. "I'm only thinking of you, you know. I know what you're like."
"What, a soft touch do you mean?"
"Not a soft touch exactly."
"Well, perhaps I am, but I won't stand for any nonsense. That cat'll have to go for a start."
This is important, Best Beloved.
"What cat?"
"They brought it with them." Veronica pauses and looks awkward. "It gave me quite a turn, actually."
"Oh?"
"Yes. It's the dead spit of one your mother had. Absolutely identical. Same disgusting habits as well."
"I don't remember Mummy having a cat."
"It was before you were born. It caused a lot of trouble, a lot of bad feeling." She begins briskly to wipe the table. "But of course it's not the same one."
Miranda looks puzzled. "Well it can't be, can it? Not if it was before I was born. It'd be a heck of an old cat."
"No, that's what I'm saying. It's not the same one."
"What sort of bad feeling, anyway?"
"Just bad feeling," says Veronica, closing the subject. Collecting up the dirty utensils, she turns her chair broadside to the sink and begins to wash up.
Miranda glances surreptitiously at her watch. "I was wondering . . ."
"Yes dear?"
"I was wondering if you'd thought any more about our proposition, actually."
"Thought so," says Veronica.
"Thought what?"
"I thought when I saw you riding in: that's Miranda, come to sell me her plan."
"I'm not selling you anything," says Miranda indignantly. "It's you that wanted suggestions."
Veronica sighs wearily. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"Well? Have you thought about it?"
"I
've thought about it, yes."
"And?"
"I'm still thinking about it."
"But you do agree it's the way to go?"
"Do I?"
"Well there isn't really any alternative, is there?"
"I can think of several."
Miranda's eyes narrow. "Yes and I bet they all involve selling off a bit more of the estate."
"A couple of cottages would do; April, perhaps, and Willow. They're very expensive to maintain and —"
"Oh come on Aunty! Sixty each? Tenanted? I don't think so. Thirty, more like. You said yourself Willow is a disaster. And besides —"
"Myrtle as well then. Jim Heron must be almost as old as poor Winnie, so whoever bought it probably wouldn't have long to wait. They'd get the rent, they'd get the capital appreciation and in a few years they'd get vacant possession. Ideal if you're planning to retire soon. Besides, as I said, it'll need completely re-thatching before long and that's another five or six thousand we haven't got."
Miranda, who has begun to restlessly pace the kitchen, vehemently shakes her head. "No! No, no, no! I can't agree to that. Yes, all right, maybe they'd sell, at the right price. Maybe it even makes some sort of short-term economic sense to sell them. But the point is, we cannot go on like this. What did what's-his-name call it? Selling off the family silver? That's just what we've been doing for years: a cottage here, a few acres there, and before you know it you're down to the bloody teaspoons. If it wasn't for me, we wouldn't even have the manor house now. It's crazy!"
"I never liked that house if you want to know" says Veronica. "I'd have been just as glad to see it go."
"I know you would. But I happen to love it. It's my home and it was Mummy's home and it was my umpteenth great grandmother's home, and I want it to be my umpteenth great grandchild's home. Besides, they belong together, the manor house and Tenstone; you can't have one without the other." She waves an arm dismissively around the kitchen, "You can't run a two thousand-acre estate from a shed for goodness' sake!"
"No, dear."
"And what happens when someone else . . . dies? And someone else? Tell me that. In a few more generations there'll be nothing left but a couple of run-down farms that nobody wants and Bella's bloody Stones, a liability instead of an asset. I'm not just talking about inheritance tax here, Aunty, I'm talking about getting something behind us. I want a proper, thriving, viable estate to leave to the children that Bella says I'm not going to have, and that means expanding, not constantly retrenching. I want Tenstones to be something they can take a pride in, something to give them what most people haven't got any longer: some shape, some point to their lives; something bigger than themselves. Okay, probably we could ram through planning permission for a few hundred houses, turn half the heath into another suburb of Bradport and retire to the Costa del whatsit. I daresay that's what Michael would like to do, but that's not what I'm about, I'm rooted in this place."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 19
