She pauses, still pacing. "I don't know, it might sound stupid, but I feel a responsibility. I don't want to break faith with all those others. I want my children's children to be hunting across this land, enjoying this land, a hundred years from now. At the rate we're going our descendants will end up like the Bradports, living on a state pension in some pokey little flat in town. Is that what you really want?"
"She didn't mean it about the children," says Veronica. "She was upset. And anyway that was years ago. I expect she's forgotten she ever said it."
Breathing heavily, Miranda stares momentarily at her aunt. "What? Yes, well I haven't. You don't forget hurtful remarks like that. And now she can apparently just turn up and wreck everything and no-one seems to care. Why the hell couldn't she have stayed in London?"
"Bella cares just as much about the estate as you, Miranda – and I do know how you feel, though you don't seem to think so – and she's got just as much right to say what should happen to it as you. She's your fellow director, remember? You'll just have to reach some sort of compromise."
Miranda looks incredulous. "Compromise! How the devil can I compromise with that nonsense? If she had her way we'd be stuck in some sort of ludicrous time-warp, all mouldering medieval farms and peasants mollocking in the whatsit, where you can't so much as replace a land-drain without the Russians invading somewhere! How am I supposed to run the estate like that? It's utterly absurd. God, you'd think she'd be more concerned with securing her future. What's she got to show for all those years of swanning about? No money, no career, just a lot of weird ideas and a string of squalid temporary jobs. A kiss-o-gram girl, I ask you!"
"Bella's just not interested in money, that's all. I agree it's about time she settled down."
"She doesn't mind spending it though, does she! Every time I see her she's in a new outfit."
"Well that's your uncle for you," says Veronica. "He can't refuse either of you; never could. Anyway, she only had what she stood up in when she came home, and that wasn't much I can tell you."
Miranda is scandalised. "He can't afford to do that! You can hardly manage to keep yourselves for goodness' sake! Before you know it, he'll be having to go to Michael again. I don't see why Michael should pay for my sister's frocks."
Veronica begins to look annoyed. "That's not fair Miranda! We've never asked for anything. We're very grateful to Michael, to both of you, but we've never asked for a penny, and we never would."
"All right, all right, I'm sorry," says Miranda. "I shouldn't have said that. I know you wouldn't ask. But look, if this works out, which it can't fail to do, you'll have a proper income again and Bella will be able to sit on the altar stone in the buff for the rest of her life, and never do a stroke; if she doesn't freeze to death first. It's not as if I'm asking her, or you, to do any of the work. I'm quite happy to handle it all. All I need is a yes."
With a deep sigh, Veronica finally abandons all pretence of washing up and wiping her hands on her apron, turns to face her niece. "Have you thought about the upheaval? The place'll be an ugly mess for five, ten years. There'll be noise, dust, workmen, right on our doorsteps. You won't want to go riding on the heath with all that going on."
"Ten years is not so long. It's a worthwhile sacrifice, surely? Anyway, as we explained, it'll be mostly underground."
"I wish I was able to toss away ten years so lightly. And what about the spoil? If it's to be a mine there'll be spoil. The stuff's got to go somewhere; it doesn't just vanish. And then there are the pithead buildings and the railway tracks and machinery, and the processing sheds. Where are they going to put those? I can remember what it was like the first time. It's not pretty."
"It won't be like last time," says Miranda patiently. "It'll be processed elsewhere. That's part of the deal. And it'll be going out by road, obviously – probably a new one through the back of Coldharbour to avoid the village – so they won't have to rebuild the railway, or the jetty, or the sheds. Nothing's going to change here; though why you insist on living in this draughty, godforsaken place I'll never know. And if there's somewhere we don't want them to dig, we just say so. As long as we're in complete control, which we will be, I don't see a problem."
"And do you really think the planners will let you get away with it? This is nineteen eighty-five. It's not like the twenties when you could do more or less as you liked, there's something called conservation. Bella isn't the only one you know."
"Ah, but that's the thing: they can't stop us!" cries Miranda triumphantly. "There's already a planning consent. It's old, nineteen fifty-two, but it still applies. If you would just read our business plan."
Veronica smiles sardonically. "I know about the planning consent, dear. I applied for it."
Drawing in her chin Miranda stares at her aunt. "You? But it's got someone else's signature on it; one of the trustees, presumably."
"Yes it has, but I did all the work, just like you, dear. Come on, you'd better come through." Abruptly she spins round and makes her way through to the dining room, leaving Miranda to follow.
Bella, kicking off like a swimmer from a pool edge, follows too, drifting through the partition wall as if it wasn't there, which for her it isn't. She has a nasty feeling that something significant is going to be revealed, something she won't like.
"Right," says Veronica. "Close that door, will you? And don't talk too loudly. If Bella comes in, I don't want her to hear." She goes to a little Georgian bureau in the corner and gets out a sheath of papers.
"Here we are, one planning application, one refusal, one revised application, one consent letter various forms, map, and, of course, the original survey. That's the green folder. I think you'll find it's almost identical to yours. There's a copy in the estate office by the way. You could have looked at it at any time."
Miranda peers at them, frowning. "Then you've read my plan?"
"Yes."
"And you had all this ready for me?"
"Yes, I knew you'd be along eventually."
Miranda leafs disbelievingly through the yellowed pages. "But why didn't you tell me?" she says finally. "That survey cost us an arm and a leg. Michael'll be wild."
"You didn't ask. How was I supposed to know what you were up to? That was the whole idea, wasn't it?"
Miranda sits down heavily at the dining table. "All right, why didn't you go ahead with it, if you'd done all this work?"
"Events, dear girl, events. Don't forget, it wasn't just up to me. Until I was twenty-five the trustees had the last word. We had no notion of what they were doing to us. We assumed they were representing our interests, not bleeding us white."
"But they signed the application, they must have agreed to it."
"Oh, they seemed happy enough to indulge me while it was just plans and surveys, but it never seemed to get any further. I suppose they were just keeping me sweet until their job was over. They were very clever. They made sure we were very comfortable, never wanting for anything, and I was quite happy to wait until I inherited and didn't have to defer to them any more. We didn't actually need the money, or so I thought, and I didn't know then what I know now. I married your uncle, the man of my dreams, and nothing else seemed to matter. Then, just when things started to settle down, there was the accident. I was in hospital for months. Everything got shoved in a drawer and forgotten. I regretted it later, and I regret it even more now, but there you are, you can't live your life twice."
"What do you mean, regret it now?" demands Miranda. "You've just been telling me at great length how much you're against it."
"It's true I don't relish the disruption," says Veronica hesitantly, "and your uncle will never approve, I might as well tell you that, but . . ."
For a moment she pauses, during which time Miranda, taking one of her occasional glances out of the window, suddenly leaps up. "Oh my God, Someone's taken Boo!"
"Surely not."
But Miranda is already out of the room and half way to the back door.
With wi
ldly pumping arms Veronica follows, even making up some distance on the long ramp down from the porch. "It's all right, don't panic!"
"I'm not panicking!"
"Well don't lose your temper. Let me handle it."
"I am not losing my temper!"
The bay is some distance away, his youthful abductor rising and falling in the saddle as they trot steadily along a heathland path. Her bare legs are pale against the horse's red-brown flanks and her blue gingham dress flutters in the chill breeze. Behind them stumble the twins, trying to keep up.
"Bluebell!" cries Veronica. "Come here this instant." At the sound of her surprisingly powerful voice Bluebell immediately turns back towards them, slowing to a walk as she traverses the last few yards. The twins follow at a prudent distance, clearly ready to flee at the first harsh word.
"What on earth do you think you're doing, young lady?"
"He was wandering farther and farther away so I thought I'd better bring him back, that's all."
"You're lucky he didn't have you off," says Miranda severely. "He doesn't like other people riding him."
"Really?" says Bluebell, patting the horse's neck. "He seems quite gentle."
"Well you'd better get down," says Veronica. Bluebell slides obediently to the ground, ignoring the stirrups.
"Where did you learn to ride like that?" says Miranda, taking the reins. The bay nods his head and nickers good-humouredly, as if to say, 'What a jolly jape!'
Bluebell shrugs. "We often stay near horses. People leave them alone all day so I ride them."
"What, without a saddle or bridle?"
"I just sort of hang on. I don't do jumps or anything."
"I'm very glad to hear it!"
Veronica turns to the twins, who have crept up beside her and are each clinging to an arm of her chair. "Children, this is Bella's sister Miranda. This is Primrose and this is Narcissus, and this, of course, is Bluebell."
"Hello Miranda," say the twins, shyly.
"Hello," says Miranda, unsmiling.
"What's your horse's name?" asks Bluebell.
"Bucephalus," says Miranda.
"That was Alexander the Great's horse, wasn't it?" says Bluebell.
Miranda looks surprised. "Yes, that's right."
"He named an Indian city after him, where he died."
"Yes, that's right, he did."
"It's rather a long name though."
"I mostly call him Boo," confides Miranda, unbending a little.
"I'm nearly six," announces Narcissus. "I'm ten minutes older than her."
"No, you're not."
"Yes I am."
Veronica watches Miranda at the looking glass, tucking her shirt into her jodhpurs and buttoning her jacket. "Look," she says, "I might be prepared to agree, in principle, but there are conditions."
"What conditions?"
"First, that we don't tell Bella, or your uncle. Not yet, anyway."
"No problem," says Miranda, casually.
"And I don't want you to do anything just yet. This may be a nine day's wonder with Bella. I want to give her some time. It'll be a lot easier if we're not fighting her."
"Have we got that long? Don't we have to pay some of the tax money before we can even get probate?"
"Yes, but we'll have to borrow it initially anyway. It could take months just to set up the lease. It's not going to happen overnight."
"No, I suppose not," admits Miranda. "To be honest, I hadn't thought much beyond getting your agreement." She gazes curiously at her aunt. "What made you change your mind? Or is it tempting fate to ask?"
Veronica shakes her head. "I haven't changed my mind. I was acting devil's advocate. If we're going to do this, it's essential there are no regrets. That's not to say I'm looking forward to it, because I'm not."
Miranda looks at her watch. "God, I must fly! There'll be the Hunt Committee on my doorstep and only that stupid girl to let them in. Thanks for agreeing, Aunty. You won't regret it."
"See you tomorrow then," says Veronica, brightly.
"Tomorrow?"
"The library."
"Oh yes, right." Miranda turns at the door. "That girl, Bluebell. Tell her to come up to the stables and see Frank. He can always use some help. She can ride Percy if she likes — preferably with a saddle."
*
By the time Bella returns to her longsuffering body the cloud has thickened and it has begun to rain, but she scarcely notices. She would never have believed that her aunt would betray her. It is almost too much to bear. How can she be so two-faced? How can she appear so kind and supportive when secretly she is prepared to sanction the rape of the heath? It's almost as if there are two quite separate people, a good Aunty and a bad Aunty. Stunned, miserable and dripping-wet she continues to sit cross-legged on the altar stone, trying to make sense of it all.
At last she decides, since anything else would be unthinkable, to go on loving the good Aunty while working to somehow defeat the bad. For now, she can only cling to that single phrase, 'might be prepared to agree.' That's not quite a yes, though Miranda took it as such. Why did her aunt want to reopen the pit all those years ago when by her own admission there seemed no financial need? And what didn't she know then that she knows now? Was it just the accursed trustees, quietly syphoning off the family fortune or did she mean something else. Why didn't Miranda ask these things? Because all she cares about is money, that's why. All that stuff about tradition and continuity — hypocritical hogwash!
One thing is certain. She'll never take a brass farthing from any of them, ever again, not even a measly frock or two from Uncle. She will continue to support herself, just as she always has, even if she starves. No-one will ever be able to say she is a drain on the estate's resources.
If only, she sighs, the blasted woman would get pregnant. It would give her something more important to think about.
*
"Mum, Primrose has taken my Plasticine."
"No, I haven't."
"Yes you have. You must have because I can't find it."
"No, I haven't, I've got my own. Why would I want yours? Yours is all mixed up and mucky."
"No, it's not, yours is. Yours is so mixed up it's just basically green, and that's why you've pinched mine."
"I haven't pinched it."
"Yes you have. I'm going to look in your box and prove it."
"Don't you dare! Mum, tell him he's not to go in my box; it's my box."
"Give me my Plasticine then!"
"Oh for goodness' sake you two! Narcissus, I'm sure Primrose hasn't got it. Have you looked in the games' cupboard?"
"Yes."
"Have you looked under your bed?"
"Yes!"
"There's no need to shout, Narcissus; it doesn't help."
"He shouldn't go into my box. It's not fair. I don't go into his box."
"Yes you do. You're always going into my box."
"No I don't. I never go into your box, ever."
"Bluebell, have you had this child's Plasticine?"
"No."
"Are you quite sure? Because we can't find it. Bluebell, will you please put that book down and answer me? Are you sure you haven't got Narcissus's Plasticine?"
"I'm nearly fifteen, Mother; I don't play with Plasticine."
"Well come and help us look, please. And don't sigh like that."
"Mum! There's no Plasticine in my box either. It's gone!"
Settling herself on the altar stone, Bella examines her booty. There is a large, marbled chunk of the stuff, basically green, which she discards, and, wonderful luck, an almost untouched packet of six brightly coloured, fluted strips with only the yellow partially missing. Peeling back the cellophane wrapping she inhales deeply, instantly evoking the art room at prep school. Snakes were her particular forte, she remembers.
Working steadily, the tip of her tongue slightly protruding, she breaks up the pink strip – a bit bright for flesh, but never mind – and rolls out five sausages corresponding to Miranda's ar
ms, legs and torso, plus a lump for her head. Then (this was always the difficult bit) she joins them painstakingly together, ensuring, for the sake of authenticity, that the thighs are fat and corrugated, the bottom suitably large and the face long and equine. Finally, using a piece of heather twig as a tool, she gives her a mouth, eyes, belly-button and, most importantly, a good capacious vagina.
Bella sits back and admires her handiwork. Not bad, if she says so herself. There is, unfortunately, insufficient pink to make two figures, so she decides that Michael will have to be blue; a commonplace symbolism after all. His shape, at least by comparison with Miranda, is long and lean so she rolls her sausages thinner, making his hips narrow and his shoulders broad. When she comes to the most important part of him, however, it becomes clear that the soft Plasticine will not be up to the job. After some consideration she breaks off a piece of the heather twig and uses that instead, setting it between his legs at what seems the correct angle of attack.
The question arises as to how they should do it. Miranda's bedroom preferences are a mystery to her, but she can guess and is minded to make her try something really adventurous for once. For a while she amuses herself creating increasingly exotic variations until, recalling having read somewhere that the boring old missionary position is considered best for conception, she rather regretfully sets her sister down on her back with her knees drawn up and her thighs spread nice and wide apart.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 20
