"You make me look a proper fool, you lot!" says Bella crossly. "Why the hell can't you wait on the doorstep like anyone else's moggy?" The cats stare at her uncomprehendingly, some thirty-and-a-half pairs of eyes moving from her face to the interesting plastic tub and back again, while in the dining room the cat flap bangs repeatedly as the 'indoor' cats crowd in from their wire-mesh compound in the back garden.
Bella relents. "Yes, it's for you, but it wants cooking so you'll jolly well have to wait." Leaning her bike against the wall, she wades through them to the kitchen, placing her shopping in the fridge and on the kitchen table. "No! I said wait. Get off there."
Lifting a battered preserving pan from its hook on the wall she puts in the melts and some of the frozen turkey and sets them to simmer on the greasy, blackened stove. Then filling an old lemonade bottle with water she takes a key from the dresser, climbs the narrow staircase to the first floor, unlocks the front bedroom door, slips inside and closes it carefully behind her.
The room is in shadow, the curtains drawn to keep out the sun. Even so, it is rather warm and there is a pungent smell of urine-soaked sawdust. The original contents – a single wardrobe, a Lloyd-loom chair, a chest of drawers – have been piled onto the bed and pushed tight against the fireplace. In their place, stacked three deep around the walls, are several dozen metal cages containing, singly or in groups, a great number of white laboratory rats. Most are already standing at the bars, clinging with tiny fingers and sniffing the air with their whiskery pink noses.
"Morning all," says Bella brightly and picking up a bag of feed, she immediately sets to work, systematically filling the food hoppers attached to each cage and, with her lemonade bottle, replenishing the glass columns of drinking water.
The rats appear lively enough for the most part, but closer inspection would reveal evidence of recent operations – shaved patches of skin and lines of stitches – while others have strange growths or swellings on their heads and bodies, or are blind, or have wires protruding from callouses on their furry scalps. Some seem demented, twitching or dancing or shaking convulsively, while others forever press imaginary levers, perhaps in the hope of obtaining a reward or to avoid some half-forgotten punishment.
One fat creature appears to be dead, its furry bottom pressed tight against the bars and its long pink tail hanging flaccidly down. Reluctantly, Bella checks for vital signs by giving the rat a sharp prod. Evoking no response she opens the cage and, grimacing, picks up the soft, yielding body, still distinctly warm, and drops it, by way of a shroud, into a black plastic bag. Relieved to find no more corpses she cracks open the window a little and lets herself out, locking the door again behind her.
But you must be wondering what all this is about, Best Beloved. I haven't shown you the GA bit yet, have I? No, I haven't, but never mind, I'll cover that in a minute. The next bit is much more important — seriously important. Please attend.
By the time Bella returns to the kitchen the melts are boiling furiously, filling the room with fragrant steam and sending the cats squirming with anticipation. Draining off the water, she swiftly dices the pallid grey meat with a butcher's cleaver, adds the contents of a dozen tins of cheap cat food, then, piling the unappetizing mess into four large plastic bowls, she places them equidistantly along the length of the hall. That done, she goes to the foot of the stairs and settles herself down to watch.
This is really, really important, Best Beloved.
The cats pile in immediately, pushing and shoving until they all have a place, radiating out from the bowls like the spokes of a wheel. It is not until they are all settled and peacefully eating that six swaggering little toms, identically dressed in black dinner suits, emerge in a leisurely manner from the sitting room and stand for a moment, silently taking in the scene. Always the same, thinks Bella, fascinated, just like a bunch of swells out on the town, or perhaps off-duty nightclub bouncers from the state of them. All they need is a bow-tie each.
The effect of the toms' quiet but strangely menacing presence is impressive. One by one the nearest diners slink away to other premises, where they cause not a little friction, there being insufficient covers at those establishments. The little black and white cats take their places companionably around the abandoned bowl, careful to give each other ample elbow room, but instead of eating, they begin to look about them as if something is missing before turning to stare, rather reproachfully, at their hostess.
"Condiments?" hazards Bella. "Napkins? Champagne? Floor-show? Ah, wait a minute, silly me!" Bounding up two flights of stairs she swiftly returns carrying a hideous, almost bald creature, its bare skin horribly scarred and puckered, with one ear half-missing and a peculiarly bent tip to its ridiculous, naked tail. "Your friends have already gone in, sir," she says, and puts him gently down at the bowl. With only the barest acknowledgment the others make way for him and immediately begin to eat.
Weird or what? thinks Bella, watching them. She is just about to go and change for work when the doorbell rings, causing her to start nervously, then stand stock still, her heart pounding. Probably just the usual, she tells herself; a child clutching a wriggling stray – "Me mum said you'd 'ave 'im" – or, more likely, just a cardboard box containing some dying old flea-bag or a mewling heap of kittens. Nevertheless, she hovers indecisively. Foundlings and abandonees are usually heralded by an altogether more diffident ring. This one has a firmer air about it. This is more of a 'Your bloody cats have been crapping in my garden again,' sort of ring. Worst of all, thinks Bella, glancing back up the stairs and admitting her ever-present fear; worst of all, it might be someone about them.
Dropping to her knees (the top half of the door is of frosted glass) she begins to crawl away down the hall. She has almost reached the safety of the kitchen when the letterbox snaps open. Looking round she is confronted with a pair of eyes almost as large and violet-blue as her own, but without the added burden of five thousand years of wisdom and suffering.
"Hello, sister," says Miranda.
"Oh it's you," says Bella.
"Charming! Such enthusiasm. What are you doing down there?"
"Er, picking up a cat." Bella selects a docile-looking silver tabby and cradling it in her arms opens the door."
For a moment they stare at each other awkwardly.
"Aren't you going to ask me in?" enquires Miranda, smiling.
"Er, yes of course, sorry."
"I was in town so I thought I'd come and see your new flat," explains Miranda. "Gosh, look at this lot!"
"Feeding time," explains Bella. "Not a pretty sight."
"Is it all right for them to go out?" asks Miranda, attempting to close the door.
"Yes, don't worry, those two are outside cats. Some of them only come in to eat; they're just about wild really." She turns to lead the way. "Come on up. Only, er, mind how you go. Some of them aren't entirely housetrained I'm afraid."
Miranda wrinkles her nose, but seems rather amused than otherwise as she picks her way up the two flights of stairs to the little attic flat. Bending to avoid the sloping ceiling, she gazes around her with incredulity. "Is this it then?"
Bella shrugs. "Yup. Not quite the manor house is it? Bedroom in there, bit untidy I'm afraid, living room through there, and the kitchen is, well, on the landing, as you see. But I quite like that, it's sort of louche."
"Louche," repeats Miranda, doubtfully.
"Yes, you know, Paris, left bank, le demi-monde."
"Ah oui, je comprends!" laughs Miranda, looking out of the window. "Et qu'est-ce que nous voyons ici? Les toits de la Montparnasse? Mais non, c'est le gasworks de Bradport!"
"Remind me not to send you for the baguettes, " says Bella sardonically. "Anyway, the view from the back is very nice. You can see the whole heath, just about. Look, I'll show you." She goes to the tiny back window and draws back the curtain.
Miranda peers down. Jenny Wren is no gardener, and beyond the indoor cats' crude enclosure of timber and chicken wire the narrow plot has
entirely returned to nature, the grass and brambles continuing beyond the fallen rear fence and up the long-disused railway embankment, here about ten feet high. On the other side of the embankment is, nominally, Tenstone Heath, though very much an urban version, much disfigured with the black scars of fires and even more liberally scattered with abandoned supermarket trolleys, old carpets and the rusting shells of cars than it is at home.
"The cats love it," says Bella. "They can play out there without getting run over. And I can be at the Stones in about ten minutes. In fact you can sometimes actually see them if you know where to look, except it's a bit hazy today, so you can't. Or you can walk along the railway track almost to Windy Point, across the bridges and everything. It's a bit bumpy to cycle though. I did try once, but I had to give up." She looks around at the chaos of the flat, suddenly seeing it very clearly through Miranda's eyes. That's one of the problems with being an adept, the constant, intrusive empathy. "I know it's a bit grotty, really," she admits, "but it's just about ideal in many ways, being so close to the Stones and to work. We were lucky to get it and it's really cheap. In fact, at the moment it's free."
"What about the bathroom?" asks Miranda. "You don't seem to have one."
"Er, well we share that. It's down below. Sorry, did you want to use it?"
"You share the bathroom?" says Miranda, looking horrified.
"In theory, but I doubt she ever goes in there. When I first turned on the bath taps, they ran rusty. Anyway, we'd only been here a week when her operation came through. Since then we've had the place to ourselves."
"So now you're lumbered with all these cats?"
"Only while she's away. We look after them and she doesn't charge us rent. That's the deal. And I go to visit her and take her grapes and things. It's not much trouble really."
"And you have to feed them and everything?"
"It's no big deal; it's mostly tins, and a bit of meat now and again, for a treat." She smiles fondly. "They're quite interesting really. I used to think that cats were just cats, but they've each got a distinct personality and apparently quite a complex social structure too. I was just watching them when you rang, as a matter of fact. There's this particular gang of black and white toms." She pauses. "Is there something wrong?"
Miranda is leaning against the bannister rail in an oddly artificial pose, as if showing off a new ensemble. She is moreover, smiling again; if, indeed, she ever stopped. "Have you noticed anything different about me, then?" she asks.
Bella considers this. "Well, you do seem unusually jolly, for you. And now you come to mention it your aura does seem stronger than usual. That's usually a sign of . . ." She stops and looks at her sister through narrowed, speculative eyes. "You're never . . . "
Miranda breaks into a broad grin. "Yes! Nine weeks!"
"Oh wow!" cries Bella. "Oh gosh! Oh wow! I've actually, I mean, you've finally gone and done it!"
"Er yes, if you want to put it like that," agrees Miranda, looking slightly embarrassed. "All I have to do now is hang on to it."
"Gosh yes, you've got to be careful. Here, you'd better sit down. Come in and sit down. Let me move these cats. They're not supposed to be up here really. Go on, downstairs the lot of you. Shoo! Scat! It's all right, I've sprayed for fleas. Here, sit on this newspaper if you like. No, perhaps you'd better not, not in that skirt. What did Aunty and Uncle say? What about Michael's parents?"
"I haven't told anyone yet. I wanted you to be first."
"Me? Really? Gosh, I don't know what to say. I mean, wow!" Bella embraces her awkwardly, reflecting that she never actually has before, not as an adult anyway. "My little sister, pregnant! I was beginning to think I'd never see the day."
"Well, I'm glad you're so pleased," says Miranda, looking slightly overwhelmed. "Did I hear something about a cup of coffee?"
"I thought you'd given up. I mean, I heard you'd given up."
"I suddenly feel I need one."
"Right, on its way," says Bella, bounding onto the landing.
Miranda goes immediately to the window, opens, with some difficulty, the top sash and takes a number of deep breaths.
"Sorry, are you hot?" calls Bella
"Er, yes, a bit."
"It isn't really all that warm in here; it's probably your condition."
"Probably," agrees Miranda. "Gosh, is this Simon?"
"On the window sill? Yes."
"But he's gorgeous! I didn't think he'd look like that."
"Like what?" says Bella, bringing in the coffee.
"Well, you know, so pretty."
"Why not?" frowns Bella.
"Well, I mean, you haven't said much about him. Don't you think he's pretty?"
"Yes I suppose so. Choccy biccy?"
"Er, okay, thanks."
"Take two, one for each of you."
"Pardon? Oh, right." Miranda continues to examine the picture. "How long have you been together now?"
"Nearly three years."
"And I've never even met him! You ought to come to dinner. Bring him to dinner."
Bella is surprised. "Yes, all right. I don't know if he'll get on with Michael though."
"He's interested in money isn't he?"
"Oh yes, definitely. He's a businessman now."
"Then they'll get on."
Back in the hall, Bella opens the front door a crack, allowing a stream of outside cats to jostle through, like football supporters at a turnstile. "Not you, sunshine," she says, snatching up Sylvester.
"Ugh! What's that?" says Miranda, recoiling.
"This? This is the famous Sylvester; the one I ran over. We think someone must have set fire to him. We'd only been here a day or two and he came staggering home all red and raw; half cooked, really. He was lucky to survive. The vet cost a packet."
Miranda shakes her head in amazement. "You know, I'm beginning to think you've found your vocation."
"What, this lot? Not likely! I told you, it's just a cheap flat. I expect Simon'll buy us somewhere when he gets established."
Miranda unlocks her car, illegally parked on the double yellow lines. "Bye then. Got to dash. Oh by the way, you don't happen to know about something called FROTH do you?"
"What, as in, 'D'you call this a flippin' pint, love?' Far too much, I regret to say."
Miranda smiles wryly, or rather, piles another smile onto the one she is already smiling. "I told Michael it didn't sound like you. Too organised."
"Thanks a bunch. What is it then, some sort of acronym?"
"Forget it. I'll ring you about the dinner date, okay?"
As soon as her sister is out of sight, Bella excitedly punches the air. "Yesss! Give her nine months and she won't give a toss about the pit. Events, dear boy."
Now the GA thing, Best Beloved. We need to go back a week or two for this. Sorry, but it'll all become clear in the end.
The dim headlights barely penetrate the driving rain as Bella cranes forward, peering through the windscreen. There is something there, something on the road. Two frightened eyes stare up at her. It's a cat! Bella steers hard right. The cat scampers right. Bella steers left. The cat scampers left. A hedge looms in front of her. Bella rams her foot down on the brake pedal. It is, as always, hopeless. She is not afraid; she knows what is going to happen. In a moment there will be a loud bang and they will be airborne, lazily turning. There will be no pain. She will wake and see a nun, a nun whose beauty makes her ache.
Bella opens her eyes and shivers. It is, indeed, a wet night and rather cold. She turns over and cuddles up to Simon, who is always warm in bed, moulding herself to his shape. Lifting her head, she peers over him at the alarm clock. It is three-fifteen. Suddenly she stiffens, her adept's heightened senses fully and instantly alert. Putting her lips close to Simon's ear, she whispers: "There's someone in the house!"
Simon stirs sleepily. "Can't hear anything."
"There is!"
"Probably Selim, working late."
"Don't be silly, I don't live there any m
ore. This is Bradport."
Simon sighs. "What's the time?"
"Three fifteen."
"Oh bloody hell, Bella!"
"Shush! Listen. Did you hear that? You must have heard that."
"Door banging," opines Simon, turning onto his back.
Bella lies wide awake, listening to the wind and rain. Probably that was what provoked her dream; this time, anyway. Why does she have it so often? It's boring. She'd rather dream the future if she's going to dream anything. The door bangs again. It doesn't sound like a wind-bang, it sounds like a person-bang. Also she could swear she heard voices. "Well aren't you going to get up and close it then?" she asks.
"Why don't you go?" grumbles Simon. "You're bound to want the loo anyway."
"You're going to send a helpless woman down into a house full of burglars?"
"Don't know any helpless women."
Bella gets out of bed, dragging on her dressing gown. She checks the two doors in the flat; they are firmly closed. She is just about to brave the dark, cat-infested stairs when something draws her to the landing window. Down below, parked on the double yellow lines, is a large, unmarked van. A man wearing a balaclava is opening the rear doors. Others appear and start unloading large boxes. "Simon, come quickly: there are people going in and out of our house!"
Now there is the sound of something heavy being moved about, this time quite obviously on the floor below. Bella lifts the sash and leans out into the rain. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The man looks up. "Jenny?"
"Do I bloody look like Mrs Wren?" demands Bella.
A slow white smile appears in the blackness of the balaclava. "Now you come to mention it . . ."
Bella scowls and pulls her dressing gown more tightly about her.
Simon comes to the window. "What's all this about then?"
Another man appears. He is wearing a long parka with the hood up. "Where's Mrs Wren?"
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 22
