"Shut it, you," snaps Jason.
"Why are you being so horrible to her?" demands Pat. "She was very brave, coming to get help like that."
"She needn't 'ave bovvered," says Jason with a jerk of his head. "Sorted, innit?"
A heavy breakdown lorry is coming up the hill towards them. It passes slowly by and stops a few yards further on. Out of the driver's door clamber the mechanic, his mate, and a beaming McNab; out of the other, wearing only a pair of sawn-off jeans, steps the tallest, broadest, most beautiful man that Bella has ever seen.
"Uncle Thurston!" cries Bluebell. "Mum, it's Uncle Thurston!" Next moment she is being swung round and round like a laughing, gingham-clad doll. Pat comes forward too and gives him a shy little hug.
"Someone's happy," smiles Rat, getting his pipe out. "Hello, McNab. Found him I see. How was the voyage?"
McNab nods amiably. "Och ay, the voyage!" he says, as if he has all but forgotten it. "It wis maist interestin, Ratty. Ah maun lat ye see ma log."
Bella is not listening. She is transfixed, oblivious of all around her. Why was she not warned? Why was she not prepared for this vision of masculine perfection? Observe that noble countenance: the piercing blue eyes; the full lips, hinting at cruel passion, the powerful chin. Observe that body! Oh, that body! The immense, rippling, torso; the bulging, tattooed arms, so heavily muscled they are obliged to stand out from his sides. This is not some namby-pamby denizen of the gym – pumping this, sculpting that – this man is just naturally huge, huge all over: the wrists, the great, corded neck, the slab-like calves — a mountain of a man.
But far more important than all that is his aura, his utterly incredible aura. She thought never to see it. It is the exact chromatic opposite of her own! This, surely, is her male counterpart, the yang to her yin, the Adam to her Eve, the Shiva to her Kundalini. To cleave to this man would be to become whole.
"Come and be introduced," bustles McNab, dragging him forward. "Thurston, these are the guidly folk ah wis tellin ye aboot. This is Rat, ye ken, wi' the boat, an' this is Bella that learnt me tae dowse."
"Pleased to meet you, Thurston," says Rat, proffering his hand. "We've heard a lot about you."
"Yes we have," agrees Bella. "Hello."
Or that is what she wanted to say, but for some unaccountable reason it comes out all wrong and she finds herself blushing furiously. Never in her adult life has she needed to throw her head back to look up at a man. Never before has she felt so foolish, so inadequate, so petite, so feminine, so ready to surrender herself to a complete stranger, to allow herself be carried off right now into some secret ferny fastness of the heath and, well, fucked silly.
It is, of course, a pointless fantasy. Someone like him could have anyone in the whole world. Why would he want her? She is ugly, unworthy, a skinny, flat-chested beanpole. He isn't even bothering to look at her. Why should he?
"Where have you been?" demands Pat, as if scolding one of the twins. "I've been worried sick about you."
"Plymouth," cries McNab, triumphantly. Then, for some reason, he adopts a fairly creditable Lancashire accent: "I were in Plymouth all the time," he says. Thurston nods his agreement.
"But you said Bristol," complains Pat, querulously. "You showed me on the map."
"No, it were Plymouth," says McNab. "I'd found just the place and I were waiting for you there." Thurston nods approvingly at this rendition of his unspoken thoughts, indicating by his expression that it was a long and tiresome wait.
"An' the bluidy pigs teuk oor bus!" says McNab, reverting to his native tongue. "Jist teuk it awa an' nae compensation." His expression becomes one of disgusted incredulity. "They said it wis un-roadworthy! An' it wis runnin brawly, perfit meechanical order. We aye saw tae that. Aa oor wark, aa oor stuff, ma anti-gravity machine, gane! Some accursed piglet likely playin wi it at this verra maument. An' ye canna git the Meeccano ony mair; it's irreplaceable. It's naethin but common theft!"
Thurston allows McNab to finish his tirade, nodding indignantly, but uttering never a word of his own in corroboration or support. Bella frowns. Why doesn't he speak? Is he perhaps dumb? Is that why McNab is speaking for him? It seems impossible that such a vision of loveliness could have the least physical flaw. She dearly wants to hear his voice. Voices are important, they tell you so much. It would be deep, of course, a wonderful, sexy baritone; a voice to make one melt.
But now he is starting to look around him, his gaze resting first on one person then another. At last, almost as if reluctantly, it lands on Bella, where it briefly lingers, his eyes sweeping, as men's will do, speculatively up and down her long figure. Bella feels a tingling shudder run down her body as those eyes pass over her. Does he fancy her? She can't tell. Why can't she tell? She usually can. Oh, damn! Damn because now he is distracted by the twins, who spotting all the vehicles and commotion have come running off the heath. With a broad grin Thurston gathers them up, one onto each huge shoulder where they cling to his long hair, piping with excitement.
There now begins a sort of dance. Bella, even while ashamed of herself for being so brazen, begins to pose and preen, gazing at him seductively from under lowered eyelashes and tossing her hair, fortunately newly washed, with quite unnecessary animation. While Pat and Bluebell regale him with all their news she moves a little to one side, and, yes, not only do his eyes follow her, narrowing a little in carnal speculation, but his glorious aura flares slightly. A sure sign! She's cracked it!
Now is the time to play hard-to-get. Seeing her uncle returning to the Shangri-la, Bella follows him. She glances back at Thurston. Yes, he is still tracking her with those lustful eyes. Yes he has seen her looking. Is that the ghost of a smile?
The mechanic and his mate are both on their backs in the ditch, peering under the crumpled wheel-arch.
"Bit of a collector's item, eh?" ventures Rat, squatting down.
"They won't get spares for this in an 'urry," agrees the mate.
"Track-rod end's 'ad it," says the mechanic, struggling to his feet. "And someone'll 'ave ter drill them studs out. Where d'you want 'er to, Commander?"
"It's not really up to me," says Rat, hesitating. He looks around for Jason, but he has gone to join Sandy. They are now some distance off, both picking heather for all they are worth. "Oh, you'd better bring it back to the Point I suppose. It certainly can't stay here."
"Aye aye, sir," says the mechanic, doing a little salute.
The mate slides a little further under, wriggling his way along. "Blimey Steve, you wanna look at these brake pipes! And the 'oses. Thing's a deathtrap."
"Don't tell me any more," sighs Rat, gloomily. "I don't want to know."
"Tea, anybody?" Asks Kiss. She is carrying an ornate silver tray containing a matching teapot and sugar-bowl and a rattling pile of bone-china cups and saucers. Following behind is Phil, gazing about him with bright, vacant eyes and holding, at a rather acute angle, a plate of her famous cake.
"I think I'd better take that," says Bella firmly.
A few days later, the reason for Crystal's cruel rejection becomes clear. They wake to find that a blue-painted converted ambulance has slipped quietly in during the night, its sole occupant a gentle, denim-suited, banjo-playing young man named Denny.
"It's a plague," declares Rat. "We'll be overrun." But Crystal is clearly so happy to be reunited with her new lover, moving her few belongings aboard that very morning, that it seems impossible to send him away. Like McNab he makes a slender living from his instrument and it is not long before they form a busking duo, successfully working the shopping precincts and underpasses of Bradport and Pinebourne.
Jason eventually becomes resigned to losing half his harem and accepts the newcomer with reasonably good grace. Indeed, it is impossible not to like the amiable Denny whose general willingness and good sense soon make him an indispensable member of the rapidly growing little community.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Still yawning – she has risen late – Bella pedals sleepily
to work, through a dull commercial area of offices, builders' merchants and timber importers, down the last few yards of the High Street and out onto the quay.
Here, in contrast to the workaday world of the town, is life and colour and movement, with the gulls wheeling and crying overhead and the morning sunshine sparkling on the little spiky wavelets of the harbour. A warm breeze rocks the close-packed cruising yachts tied up alongside, setting their ensigns flapping and their halyards cheerfully clinking as Bella weaves among the strolling grockles and parked cars. Standing on her pedals she hurries now, past the gift shops and galleries, the queues for the tripper launches, the amusement arcade, the whelk-stalls, the old Custom House and the aquarium, all the while stocking-up on deep draughts of fresh sea air. At the far end of the quay she turns into the gated yard of the oldest and currently the most fashionable of Bradport's many hostelries, the Ferryman.
Leaving her bike among the beer kegs and paladins she passes down a couple of steps, through the kitchen door, held open by a fire extinguisher, and into the now familiar world of roaring fans, stifling heat and Radio One.
Here, at a long, stainless-steel counter, Ho, the chef, is frenziedly tossing glistening chicken quarters onto plates of chips and salad. "Ah, Bella, ver' good, you take," he cries, pushing the nearest towards her.
"Goodness, give me a chance to get my breath!" exclaims Bella. "Where's that Darren? Not in yet?"
Ho irritably shakes his head, at the same time making an alien but wholly scrutable gesture, graphically demonstrating what the missing youth might expect to endure, should he deign to make an appearance.
Bending gracefully at the knee, Bella examines her reflection in the polished surface of a tea urn, carefully re-pinning a lock of wayward hair. "He'll be off chasing girls on the beach I expect. It's a lovely day; too nice to work."
"I gim gur," growls Ho. "I gim hell you bet!"
Bella, heavily laden with two trays of plates, plunges into the dim passage that leads to the bars. She is almost there when the missing Darren steps out of the staff toilet, ostentatiously zipping the fly of his white, chef's trousers.
"Now clap yer 'ands," he says, looking her insolently up and down.
"Late again, you naughty boy," says Bella, dropping automatically into Standard Workplace Banter.
"Bike wouldn't start, would it?" He is an acneous, pasty-skinned youth with a particularly unpleasant, greenish-yellow aura; the sort that, by some strange process of psychic synaesthesia, tends to express itself as BO.
"Mind then," says Bella, attempting to push past him, but Darren, his hands in his pockets, steps smoothly to the left, blocking her way. Bella naturally moves to the right and they execute a number of inconclusive chassés in the narrow corridor.
"Cha cha cha," says Darren, amiably.
"Darren, I am holding six plates of rapidly cooling chicken."
"Darren peers at them, lifting a leg with one disdainful finger. "Undercooked. Yer can tell Ho done these; mean bastard only puts half a tomato in. Hold on an' I'll gob in 'em."
Bella, angry and revolted, swiftly raises the trays above her head. "You're really seriously disgusting, Darren. Have I told you that lately?"
But Darren moves in with a smirk, pinning her against the pipe-clad wall and cupping his hands over her breasts. "Hey, I really like your tits, Bel. I like little pointed tits; they're classy."
Bella turns her face away to avoid an attempted kiss. "Get off me, Darren! What on earth's got into you?"
"I like your skinny legs too," says Darren, "specially in that little dress. French Maid, is it?"
"It's a waitress's dress, Darren. You might even have seen one before." She wriggles helplessly, fatally hampered by the trays. "Now will you please get off."
"You wanna watch out for those plates," advises Darren, insouciantly. "They're slippin'."
As with most things, Bella is not entirely surprised by this turn of events. She has noticed him before, studying her covertly, undressing her with his eyes. Not an unusual experience for her, of course. Fortunately she has many lifetimes' worth of expertise in dealing with bumptious young men. Moving her hips in a thoughtful manner she frowns and looks pointedly down. "Darren Dunlin! Am I mistaken, or is that what I think it is?"
Darren grins lubriciously and presses his pelvis even more firmly against hers. "Yeah, what about it?"
"Just remind me, Darren, how old are you?"
"Twenty," lies Darren, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Why?"
"Twenty! Really? You surprise me." She looks down again and shakes her head sadly. "Darren by name and Darren by nature, obviously."
"What the hell are you on about?" demands Darren, and steps back, the better to follow her gaze. Seizing her chance, Bella shimmies past him and scampers up the steps to the bar door, resisting, as she does so, the temptation to cry: "Nah nah ne nah nah!"
"Bitch!" snarls Darren. "Yer not so fuckin' pure. I seen you with that Dunnock, lettin' 'im feel you up. What's he got that I haven't?"
"I just told you," says Bella. "Don't you know what Darren means? Your own name? It means 'Little One'." And putting her bottom to the door she pushes through it into the noise and smoke of the public bar.
"Six chicken salads, two ploughman's," she calls, in the required bored singsong. A party of young women in the corner raise their hands.
*
Heather Dunnock, peroxide of hair, pink of lipstick, crepe of bosom, pulls a careful pint of Guinness. "God it's busy today; I haven't stopped since we opened. Bella love, you couldn't take over for a minute while I go to the loo could you?"
"But Mr Dunnock said I wasn't to."
"Only for a minute, promise. That's eighty pee sir. Thanks."
"Who's next then?" sighs Bella, gazing at the sea of faces.
"Two pints of Old Tom, half a Mackie, half a shandy and a gin and tonic please darlin'."
"Er, right," says Bella, searching for a glass.
"Hello my flower, being a barmaid now?"
"Don't distract me, Simon. Two Old Toms. Sorry, what was it?"
"Half a Mackeson."
"I just called in to say I got it."
"Got what?"
"The shop, in Cable Street."
"Oh, right! I mean, fantastic! That's fantastic!"
"I think you'd better let me pour that love."
"What? Oh, okay. Simon, that's fantastic!"
"See you later then: celebrate."
"Yes, all right. That's fantastic."
"And half a shandy and a gin and tonic."
"Yes, all right. Now where are the flipping tonics? Charlie," calling through to the lounge bar, "where are the tonics?"
"Bella, what are you playing at? Ho's doing his little nut back there."
"Sorry Mr Dunnock. Heather wanted —"
"Off you go, chop chop. I'll do this one. Sorry about that, sir. What was it?"
"Just a gin and tonic, mate."
"One gin and tonic coming up. These others yours?"
"Nah, they're paid for."
"Oh and Bella."
"Yes Mr Dunnock?"
He puts a hand down behind him, and tugs at her hem: "Still a bit short, dear."
"Yes, Mr Dunnock."
*
Simon and Nick are in the relative quiet of the lounge, sitting at the bar. The number of empty glasses suggests their celebrations are well begun.
"I am utterly shagged," says Bella, throwing herself down beside them. "Hello Nick."
"Usual?" says Simon.
"Yes please."
"Usual please, Charlie."
Bella kicks off her shoes and gratefully applies her feet to the cool chrome of the bar rail. "God, my poor old plates, they're practically steaming."
"Hmm, see what you mean," says Nick, studying her appreciatively.
"Sorry?" says Bella.
"French Maid. Definitely one of my core fantasies."
"I told him," explains Simon.
Bella sighs. "I'm a waitress, okay?
Just an ordinary common-or-garden waitress. This is a waitress's uniform."
"No it's not, it's —"
"Shut up, Simon."
"Funny, innit?" muses Nick. "A very interesting phenomenon, from a psycho-sexual standpoint. Is it the little lace cap? The apron? Drawing attention to, well, you know. The ambiguous connotations of service perhaps? The suggestion of availability and —"
"Shut up, Nick."
"It's the hemline," opines Simon. "Look no further."
"There is nothing wrong with my hemline."
"Oh, I think we agree with that, don't we Nick?"
Bella raises her eyes to heaven. "Men, honestly! I've already been practically raped this morning as it is. Maybe I'll come in Carol's habit tomorrow and get a bit of peace."
"Carol? Habit?" enquires Nick.
Simon shakes his head. "Don't ask. Not unless you want to be here all afternoon. What happened anyway? Who was it?"
"Yeah, tell us who it was and we'll work him over for you," says Nick, balling his fist and looking at it fiercely.
"Not that Dunnock?" frowns Simon, lowering his voice a little.
"Heavens no, just some spotty little sous-chef. Nothing I can't handle. Why Dunnock anyway?"
"I've seen him giving you the look." He attempts unsuccessfully the landlord's lewdly speculative stare.
Bella is amused. "He's just full of himself, that's all. They're all like that, the Dunnocks; very strong life-force, powerful auras."
"They also practically own the town, in case you haven't noticed," says Nick. "They've probably got droit de seigneur. Anyway, I must get back to work, I only dropped in for a pint. Good luck with your new business, Simon. One day I shall look up at the towering Sheldrake building and say, 'I knew him.'"
"It's only a fifty quid lock-up. And I've hardly sold anything yet."
"Oh but you will. You're on your way, mate. You've certainly convinced me, and if you can sell to a salesman you can sell to anybody. Just you see, in a couple of years I'll be coming to you for a job. Why not sell car-phones too? Why stick to computers? It's a technological world we're moving into."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 24
