Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  Veronica looks up from her sewing. "We may yet see Rat's Folly take to the high seas then?"

  "Don't see why not. Though God knows how we'll get her launched with the creek silted up. I seem to remember it was a struggle getting her ashore." He is about to knock out his pipe on the heel of his shoe, but catching his wife's disapproving glance goes inside for an ashtray. "I've said he can sleep aboard, by the way," he says, coming back. "Bit Spartan, but he seems keen. He had a bus like Pat's, apparently, but the police took it off him."

  "Can they do that?" asks Veronica. "It seems unlikely."

  Rat shakes his head. "Damned queer lives these people lead, constantly on the edge of the law." Settling himself in a deckchair he balances the ashtray in his lap, taps the contents of the pipe into it and, using a small penknife, begins to scrape out the bowl. "Whoever would have thought a few weeks ago we'd be playing host to this lot, eh? A banjo-playing busker; an ex-librarian that won't educate her children —"

  "She's home educating them," interrupts Veronica. "She just won't send them to school, that's all."

  "All right, a banjo-playing busker; an ex-librarian that won't send her children to school; a bunch of lazy, no-good hippies, two of them octogenarian —"

  "You can't call Kiss and Phil hippies," interrupts Veronica again. "They're just running away from that horrible-sounding daughter of hers."

  "A banjo-playing busker," repeats Rat, sticking doggedly to his theme, "an ex-librarian that won't send her children to school; a couple of lazy, no-good hippies; two octogenarian refugees, one senile. Is senile all right?"

  "If you must. I suppose that's what he is, poor chap."

  "One deeply eccentric Scots midget . . . "

  "Not mad?"

  "I didn't think you'd accept mad."

  "I'd say mad. He's just presented me with a box containing a totally smashed sea urchin shell and a tube of SuperGlue. Says it's a three dimensional puzzle."

  "A mad Scotsman, then; a banjo-playing busker; an ex-librarian that won't send her children to school; a pair of lazy, no-good hippies; two octogenarian refugees, one senile, and an eighteen-stone carpenter with a terminal stammer. Young Bella's got a lot to answer for, is what I was going to say."

  "Is that what it is, a stammer?"

  Rat nods. "According to Bluebell anyway. He's never said a word in my presence, stammered or not. Mind you, with McNab around he'd be lucky to get one in edgeways; the man's gone boat-mad. Suddenly he's an expert on all things nautical. Never stops. I got the story, by the way. Want to hear it?"

  "Yes, all right."

  "You're not to interrupt."

  "Of course not."

  Rat peers into the bowl of his pipe, gives it a last tap and begins packing it with tobacco. "Quite a saga, actually."

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "I mean, in the heroic sense; soon told." He pauses to root about in his pocket for his matches, standing up to extract them. "I have to say first of all that I feel a bit responsible; it could all so easily have ended in disaster. I suppose I should have gone aboard and sniffed around a bit, but they seemed to know what they were doing and Lawrence Mallard, of all people, recommended them, so what do you do?" He strikes a match. The tobacco fails to ignite. He shakes it out and strikes another. "The bald fact is, there was no-one aboard with any real experience. Turns out even the skipper had only done a bit of coastal pottering. He'd not long bought the boat."

  "They were only going to Plymouth."

  "So they were, and perhaps they would have been all right, But they've scarcely sunk Portland when a force six or seven gets up – heavy swell, nasty, steep seas – and the skipper and the chap he took as crew are immediately sick as dogs — prostrate. The only people with any sea-legs turn out to be the crew fellow's young girlfriend and, amazingly, McNab, neither knowing one end of a boat from the other."

  "Goodness!"

  "Goodness indeed. There they are, more or less on a beam reach, heading out to sea, McNab at the helm, which he took when the skipper keeled over, too terrified to alter course or heave-to, and wouldn't know how anyway. Girl ditto. Fortunately they'd shortened sail by then. Anyway, they do the only thing they can do: keep going, all through the night, straight across the shipping lanes. No lights even, until the girl gets them sorted out."

  "Gracious."

  "Gracious indeed. Come the morning, the wind and sea drop and they start to experiment a bit. The girl once spent an afternoon sailing on Bradport Park lake and by the time the others crawl out they've got the hang of it between them and can tack, heave-to, shorten and make sail, the lot. He may be mad, but he's not stupid."

  "Nor she, by the sound of it."

  "Er, no indeed. Anyway, the skipper, so called, eventually pulls himself together enough to get a fix and they're off Guernsey."

  "Good heavens!"

  "Good heavens indeed. A bit more easting during the night and they'd have bloody well bumped into it. Anyway, an hour later they're motoring into St. Peter Port and that's where the crew and girlfriend jump ship."

  "Mutiny! Desertion!"

  "Well, desertion anyway. There was a ferry due out and they took it, leaving just the owner and McNab."

  "What happened then?"

  "Well, the owner was all for giving up and following the ferry back to Bradport, but McNab wasn't having it. He said this chap had contracted to take him to Plymouth and that's where he wanted to go, so after a lot of argy-bargy they did. By the time they got into Plymouth, McNab had even learned the rudiments of navigation; not, it has to be said, from a master of his craft; they made their landfall at Fowey. Anyway, by then the bug had well and truly bitten, and we now have a new, nautical, McNab."

  "Well, if it takes his mind off building lavvies it will have been worth it."

  "Sorry to disappoint you. He's now planning one for the boat. A modified Mark IX, whatever that is."

  *

  Stopping her bicycle on a small rise, Bella shades her eyes and scans the wilderness around her for signs of life. She is standing amongst unbroken acres of chest-high furze. Dull bottle-green in colour, with a scattering of sulphur-yellow flowers, it stretches away in all directions with only an occasional solitary pine or clump of birches to bring an element of verticality to the view. There is no-one to be seen near or far, but at length she hears the distant buzz of a chainsaw and turning towards it she sets off again, freewheeling down a narrow, bumpy track with the bushes brushing her handlebars on either side.

  The clearing is already about thirty yards in diameter. Dusty and uneven, it is covered with the mangled stumps of cut-down furze bushes and the inevitable scattering of ancient rubbish, mostly bottles and rusty cans. At the centre of this newly-open space about twenty young men and women are building a bonfire, dragging the prickly branches from all directions and heaping them with pitchforks into a great, spreading pile. Others are still working around the boundary, attacking the near-impenetrable furze with saw and billhook.

  This is plainly not their regular work; there is a gawky awkwardness about them, a misdirection of effort. The bare torsos of the men are tube-like, un-muscled, they stop frequently to nurse blisters, scratches and aching backs, while the young women in their leather gloves and newly printed FROTH T-shirts potter earnestly, gleaning pointless little bundles of furze sprigs and carrying them to the fire with arms outstretched to avoid the prickles. Many of the men have beards, while the girls tend to plumpness and lank hair and bland, ingenuous faces. They are, of course, young teachers and social workers at play.

  Acting as foreman is Julius Hawksmoor. He bounds about as if on springs, lending a hand here, taking over there, stopping occasionally to inspect and pontificate on an interesting find: a tiny, whitened skull, a blue butterfly. He doesn't notice Bella, who drops her bike quietly and makes her way towards a small group of people sitting and squatting near the edge of the clearing.

  "Hello Blossom," says Simon, standing up. "Have you brought the drinks?"

/>   "Drinks, sandwiches, courtesy of Ho – isn't he a sweetie? – and I thought you might like some apples," says Bella, handing over a bulging Tesco bag.

  "Blow the sandwiches," declares Nick. "Let's get at the drink; I'm bloody parched."

  "You look nice," says Jacqui, smiling at her.

  "If not very practical," suggests Martin.

  "I haven't had time to change," says Bella. "You wanted your drink didn't you?" She turns to the person sitting next to him. "Hello, a new face. I don't think we've met, have we?"

  "Sorry," says Nick. "This is Jo. Jo, Bella."

  "Hi," says Jo

  "She's my flatmate," explains Jacqui.

  There is little to suggest from a casual glance that Jo is a woman. Her voice is deep, her shoulders broad, her hips narrow and her denim-clad thighs lean. Her hair is a tawny crewcut so short you can see her scalp, and from the region of her left ear to the corner of her mouth is a thin, white scar. Even her dark, bluish-grey aura is hard edged like a man's. There is a suggestion of breasts beneath her man's check shirt, but that is all. She has been sweating profusely, it stains her chest and armpits, and her sinewy, brown arms are covered with bloody pinpricks and scratches. She is idly toying with a small hand axe, driving it repeatedly into an already vanquished stump.

  "All these recruits!" says Bella. "How do you like being Friends of Tenstone? I mean, are you going to join?"

  "Bit too much like hard work if you ask me," says Nick, looking ruefully at his wounds. "I feel like . . . who's that saint that got peppered with arrows?"

  "Sebastian?" suggests Simon.

  "That's the fella."

  Bella unwraps the sandwiches and distributes them. She becomes aware that Jo is closely observing her, her expression a rather peculiar mixture of interest and disdain.

  "You're not the one that started all this are you?" she says. She sounds as if she can scarcely believe it.

  "I told you she was," says Jacqui.

  "Sort of," admits Bella. "The name was Simon's idea actually, and it's Julius Hawksmoor that's done all the organising."

  "And what exactly do you hope to achieve?" says Jo.

  Bella glances at Jacqui, then Martin. Has no-one briefed her already? Perhaps she just wants to hear it from the horse's mouth. She gathers herself for the stock answer. "Gosh, well. What we're trying to do is preserve the heath in its original form: encouraging rare species, clearing rubbish, getting rid of pine and rhododendron scrub, stuff like that. It's a very important habitat you know, lowland heath, and there's not much left. Also, there's a rather special ancient monument."

  "The Tenstones?" says Nick.

  "Yes."

  "It's under threat from developers," explains Simon. "The heath that is; they want to mine it for clay. This would all disappear, perhaps forever."

  Jo's eyes immediately narrow. "Bastards!" she says.

  "Yes, absolutely. Quite," agrees Bella wholeheartedly.

  "And all this is to help the Dartford Warbler?" says Nick, indicating, with a sweep of his arm, the clearing, the bonfire and the labouring hordes. "I don't think I've actually seen one yet. What does it look like?"

  "You probably won't," says Simon. "It's a bit like a demented-looking wren, bluish head, brownish body, rather rare. You might see a Stonechat."

  "Didn't Julius tell you all about it?" asks Bella.

  "Not really," says Nick. "He just sort of boinged up, gushed a bit and boinged away again. Then we started hacking. Look at him now, boinging about. They ought to call him Tigger."

  "Or Zebedee," suggests Jacqui.

  Everyone laughs, except Martin, who as usual is taking no part in the conversation but is staring abstractedly into the distance.

  "It's to encourage them," explains Bella. "Cutting the furze encourages them to live and nest here."

  "Why don't they just nest where there isn't any furze?" asks Jo.

  "They like to live in the furze and hide under it, especially in winter when it's covered in snow. It keeps them warm. Grazing animals used to keep it nice and short, but now there aren't any, so we're doing it instead. When this lot grows back, it'll be just right."

  "It also encourages the spiders and things they live on," says Simon.

  Martin frowns. "But how is this supposed to save the heath?"

  "Well, it won't," admits Bella. "Not as such."

  "It's a consciousness-raising exercise," says Simon. "It brings people in."

  "Maybe," says Martin doubtfully, "but are they the right sort? If you ask me, all this is a waste of time, given what you're up against. If you want to save the heath from this mining company of yours that's politics. You want activists: people who are politically aware. Serious, committed people."

  "People like you, I suppose?" says Bella. She really doesn't like him at all, even though she thoroughly agrees with him. As she speaks, there is a sudden, crackling roar and the bonfire bursts dramatically into life, the ragged flames reaching high into the sky. The teachers and social workers all cheer and jump up and down. Some link hands and begin dancing round it, stumbling over the furze stumps.

  Julius detaches himself from the crowd and comes bounding over. Putting his arm round Bella's waist he gives her a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. "Hello, Bell! Where have you been? We've missed you."

  "Working," says Bella, gently detaching herself. "You will be careful with that fire, won't you? It looks a bit dangerous."

  "What? Yes, yes, don't you worry about that." He blinks hard and rubs his hands gleefully together. "My goodness, it gives off a heat doesn't it? We could do with some of that in the grate at home, couldn't we? Warm the old mausoleum up a bit."

  "You have got the beaters and everything handy, haven't you?" persists Bella. "Just because we've had a bit of rain, it doesn't mean —"

  "Yes, yes, no problem," says Julius dismissively. "Don't you worry." His arm is creeping round her waist again.

  "Perhaps you should look over there, my friend," says Nick, casually pointing. They all follow his gaze to where a small tongue of flame, almost invisible against the low afternoon sun, is dancing upon the scattered debris at the edge of the clearing.

  "Goodness! Must have been a spark. Come on men," cries Julius and off he bounds, followed by his eager cohorts.

  "Stupid wanker," mutters Jo.

  "What's all this kissing and cuddling business anyway?" demands Simon. "Getting a bit familiar isn't he?"

  Bella shrugs. "Just his way I suppose — demonstrative."

  "Well he can demonstrate on someone else."

  Taking his arm, Bella draws him to her. "Jealous?"

  "What, of him? No, of course not. I just think he's taking a liberty, that's all."

  "A half dozen committed people are all you need," says Martin suddenly. "Publicity. It's all about publicity. Lobby your MP, County Councillors, all the various nature conservancy bodies, of course. Get up petitions, bombard the media. Media manipulation is very important. You'd be good at that, Simon, with your background."

  "Direct action," growls Jan. "Picket the mining company, ransack their offices, threaten the directors, shame them."

  "Yes, that too, if necessary," agrees Martin.

  "You leave it to us," says Nick. "We'll draw you up an action plan if you like, won't we Mart?"

  "I'm getting a bit worried, actually," says Bella distractedly.

  While they have been talking, Julius's 'spark' has rapidly grown into a substantial conflagration and all the teachers and social workers are now wildly flailing at it with their beaters. Even as they watch, a quite large area of furze is almost instantly alight. Choking smoke begins to fill the clearing.

  "D'you think we ought to go and help?" says Simon. "It seems to be getting out of hand."

  "If you want to know what I think," says Nick, glancing behind him. "I think we should make a run for it."

  "I'd say a petition first," muses Martin, allowing himself to be led away. "It's something everyone can do: encourages an esprit de
corps."

  *

  "A car phone!" exclaims Bella.

  "Er, no, this is the whole thing. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't need to be in a car. This is its battery pack. See? Good eh?"

  "You didn't tell me you were getting it! Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I am telling you. I'm telling you now."

  "But is it yours?"

  "Yes, of course. I mean, no, not personally mine. It belongs to the business."

  "I'm not surprised you're sheepish!"

  "I'm not sheepish at all. It's a demonstrator. You have to have a demonstrator. I just brought it home to show you."

  Bella picks it up. "Phew! It weighs a ton. Where would you take it?"

  "It's not aimed at you; it's for tradesmen, business people. Anyway, that's mostly the battery; they'll probably get smaller. This is new technology, don't forget. Look how personal computers have come on. I want to be in at the bottom; it's no use waiting till you can wear them like a wristwatch."

  "And you reckon you can sell these things?"

  "I know I can. I've just sold one to Steve Pipit, the plumber."

  "Gosh, really? Can I have a go?"

  *

  "I never dreamed it was anything to do with you," declares Veronica crossly. "I'd have credited you with more sense. What on earth did you think you were doing, letting them have a bonfire? You of all people should know the risks."

  "It wasn't up to me to tell him what to do," protests Bella. "I did try to warn him, but he wouldn't listen. Anyway, it was only a couple of acres."

  "Of course it was up to you; you should have made him listen. I didn't bring you up to defer to some tinpot cleric. He should damn well stick to his job and keep out of our business. I've a good mind to complain to the bishop. It says here it was five hectares" – she stabs angrily at the front page of the Bugle – "whatever they might be."

  "Just over twelve acres," mutters Rat, shaking out a match.

  "It was never that much!" cries Bella.

  Rat takes his pipe from his mouth and stares at it reproachfully. "It could have been much worse, you know; you were very lucky."