Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "I don't know why you had to get mixed up with this lot anyway," says Veronica crossly. "It's just plain mischievous."

  "We're trying to preserve a valuable ecosystem, Aunty. At least now the Dartford Warbler will have somewhere to live."

  "I know perfectly well why you're doing this, Bella, and it has nothing to do with the Dartford Warbler. You're not the slightest bit interested in the Dartford Warbler."

  "Yes I am. Anyway, why shouldn't I fight for what I believe in? Don't my views matter? Or is it only her views that matter?"

  "You could at least keep it in the family. It's underhand, involving these people; underhand and unnecessary."

  "Oh? And I suppose coming to you behind my back isn't underhand?"

  Veronica looks affronted. "Miranda? Miranda has never come to me behind your back. If she did, I wouldn't listen. Whatever gave you that idea?"

  For some moments, Bella stares at her, gobstruck. "I'm not carrying on with this conversation," she says. "I wouldn't trust myself."

  "Trouble?" asks Pat, putting down her book.

  Bella makes an angry, throwaway gesture. "Oh, it's nothing, just another stab in the back from my own flesh and blood. No more than I'd expect, really. Where is everyone?"

  "Twins on the beach, McNab and Thurston in the boatshed. I'm not sure about Bluebell. As long as she isn't here, I don't care; she's not my favourite person at the moment. I was just having a quiet few minutes before I start cooking."

  "Oh, right. I'll leave you to it then."

  "I didn't mean it like that . . ." begins Pat.

  Entering the boatshed, Bella is surprised to find its occupants wreathed in steam. It is coming from a large, inclined pipe suspended over a glowing brazier. McNab is fussing round it, feeding the flames with timber off-cuts, while Thurston gazes expectantly at a battered old alarm clock. Stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of paint-stained jeans he seems slightly embarrassed at her unexpected arrival. Bluebell, who is sitting on an upturned dinghy and painting her nails, barely acknowledges her.

  "Och it's Bella," says McNab amiably. "Come an' sit ye doun."

  "I've just been taking a telling off," says Bella, throwing herself down on the dinghy.

  "A tellin aff, Bella? Whit for?"

  "The fire of course."

  "This fire? But we hae aa the permeesions."

  "No, the heath fire, the one that idiot Julius . . ." She pauses, frowning. "Thurston, did you just say something?"

  "He said 'ouch,'" confirms Bluebell disinterestedly.

  "Pit the gluves on y'daftie," cries McNab, flinging him a heavy leather pair.

  The alarm goes off and suddenly all is action. Thurston immediately withdraws from the pipe a narrow, ten foot length of hot, steaming timber. Rushing with it to a heavy wooden mould, he inserts one end and throwing his considerable weight on the other, bends it slowly downwards.

  "It's no leeped eneuch," says McNab after a moment. "We shoud pit it back." Then, in his Thurston voice. "Of course it is, stop yer mithering. And don't crowd me!" Then, in his own voice: "We shoudae gien it langer ah tell ye." Then, in his Thurston voice again: "It's coming fine. Just another couple of inches. There! What did I tell you?"

  "What on earth are they doing?" asks Bella.

  "Doubling some of the frames," says Bluebell.

  "Oh of course, silly me."

  "Frames are what they call the ribs; those things the planks are fixed to. I should have thought you'd know that."

  Her spat with her aunt temporarily forgotten, Bella watches Thurston, first with awe and then, despite herself, rising lust as he swiftly fetches each length of timber from the steamer and bends it, grunting with the effort, to the shape of the mould. Rivulets of glistening sweat trickle down his massive torso while sunbeams from the chinks and holes in the boatshed's walls play eagerly on him like so many smoky stage lights. "Oh, isn't he beautiful!" she breathes.

  "What, Uncle Thurston?" says Bluebell, incredulously. "How can he be beautiful? He's really old and he's got a big fat bum. I like little, tight bums," she adds, waving her wet nails about to dry them.

  Bella raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Anybody's in particular?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know?" says Bluebell smugly.

  But of course you don't know about that, Best Beloved. I'll show you that bit in a minute, after this next bit.

  Bella splashing slowly along the beach, cooling her feet in the little wavelets of the harbour. Rat strolling a little higher up, crunching along the shingle, carrying her sandals. Over the Bittern Hills and inverted in the mackerel waters is a glorious sunset of red and gold, turning the moored yachts and the long curve of the shingle bank into flat black silhouettes, devoid of detail.

  "The idea," says Rat, "was for you to keep a low profile."

  "I did! That's exactly what I did do. I left it entirely to Julius. He even thinks he thought of it himself, and now I'm the one in trouble."

  "Then why didn't you just let him get on with it? You didn't have to be there in person."

  Bella shrugs. "I needed to feel I was doing something constructive. I couldn't just sit about, waiting for the bulldozers."

  Rat stops and gazes down at her. "You know, I hate to say this, after you've put in so much effort, but I think we might have jumped the gun a bit. Miranda hasn't said anything at all about reopening the pit since the meeting, and she's had plenty of opportunity. My guess is she's talked him out of it."

  "Talked who out of it?"

  "Michael of course."

  Bella shakes her head crossly. "You've got it all wrong about Michael; it's not him, it's her. Otherwise, why was it her doing all the pushing at the meeting? She was horrible. And she hasn't given up, I can tell you that. Anyway, she has said something — to Aunty."

  "I don't think so, Bella."

  "She just hasn't told you, that's all."

  "Your aunt wouldn't keep something like that from me."

  Bella doesn't answer. She works her foot into the wet sand and watches the interesting 'Man Friday' shape slowly fill with water. Soon it will disappear. The only place it will survive is in the Akashic Record, that wonderful library of everything to which she would dearly like access, should have access, if only the Stones would let her. She is mightily tempted to tell him all she knows, about how her aunt and Miranda huddle together whenever they think no-one is listening, drawing up their plans, plotting to ruin the Heath and destroy the Stones. Deceiving him too. But she doesn't. She doesn't want him to be hurt. She wishes he hadn't been there this morning. She wishes she'd kept quiet about Miranda's perfidy, but it's too late now.

  "Has Miranda actually told you they want to go ahead?" persists Rat. " You went to dinner with them, didn't you? Did she say anything then?"

  "Not then," admits Bella. "Not to me, anyway."

  "Well then? Surely one of them would have. Why don't you just wait and see what happens? Go on supporting this FROTH thing if you must – the place could certainly do with a clean up – though you'd do well to take his matches away from him. And for goodness' sake, don't say anything to your aunt about it, unless you want to be scalped."

  "You keep things from her," accuses Bella. "What makes you think she doesn't keep things from you?"

  "That's different. I'm just trying to keep the peace."

  It's still a lie, thinks Bella. It's all lies and deceit. Everyone deceiving everyone else. And I'm the only one that knows both sides. It's horrible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Roughly dicing some of the cats' chicken quarters – this week's special offer – Bella puts them in the blender and whizzes them to a featureless creamy paste. She dips her finger in and licks it. It has quite a mild taste, even on its own. When mixed with the rice, raisins, olives, and a good pinch of oregano it will be undetectable. She hasn't any capers, unfortunately, though the recipe demands them.

  "Hello, what's this?" asks Simon, ambling into their tiny kitchen.

  Bella casually throws a tea-towe
l over the chicken bones. "Nut purée, for your vegans. I'm doing stuffed peppers with tomato and aubergine. Just the once, mind. If they want to eat here again, they'll have to bring sandwiches."

  "But don't you feel honoured? We're hosting our first Gaia's Army meeting!"

  "You are joking, I hope?"

  "Of course I'm joking. Should be interesting though."

  "Why?"

  "I just think they're interesting. All these disparate people joined in a common cause; people driven to extreme measures by pure altruism. Don't you think it's interesting?"

  "No."

  *

  "Nice lunch, says Nick, patting his ample belly. We'll come again." There is a general murmur of agreement, except from Martin who is deeply engrossed in Simon's latest computer.

  "Nearly eight megahertz clock-speed," boasts Simon. "Nine inch screen, three and a half inch, eight-eighty KB disc drive, two fifty-six KB of RAM. State of the art that is. Well, nearly. There's one with colour just out, but I haven't got it yet."

  "Would you like me to help wash up?" whispers Jacqui, as though she doesn't want anyone to hear.

  "No, I'll do it later," says Bella. "You can take these coffees off me if you like."

  Jo, who is reading the paper, makes small exploding noises. She always seems to be exploding, or on the point of exploding; her aura is most unquiet. "Listen to this!" she cries. "'Family pet destroyed after savage attack on toddler. Sarah Louise Siskin, five, received emergency treatment . . .' blah, blah, blah . . . 'The family immediately had Satan, a pit bull terrier, destroyed.' Immediately! Summary execution for one lapse! It's nothing less than cold-blooded murder. It makes me boil! They shouldn't be allowed to keep animals if they don't know how to treat them."

  "I don't like pit bulls," says Jacqui, visibly shuddering. "I don't like big, fierce dogs at all." She turns to Bella. "I know it's silly, with my job and everything, but I don't. I have tried to like them."

  "Pretty horrific injuries," observes Nick, reading over Jo's shoulder. "Forty-eight stitches, probably scarred for life."

  "At least she is alive!" growls Jo. "Which is more than you can say for the poor bloody dog."

  "You wouldn't put a dog's life before a child's, surely?" says Jacqui. "I mean, I know what you mean and everything, but suppose it had killed her? What do you think, Bella?"

  "Me? I'm keeping out of it."

  "They should be equal," snaps Jo. "They have an equal right to life. They didn't have to kill him. They could have sent him away. Someone would have had him. Anyway, she was probably tormenting him, otherwise why would he attack her? She must have known what she was doing, it says here she's five; hardly a toddler."

  "You're a toddler until you go to college in Buglespeak," says Martin. "How do I move this again?"

  "Just use the mouse," says Simon. "Like . . . so, and like . . . so."

  "Oh, right, I get it! Hey, this is great! I want one."

  "Another sale, another frock for me," says Bella rubbing her hands. She only says it to needle Jo.

  "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog," declaims Nick, reading one of Martin's earlier efforts. "Is this the best quality printing from that thing?"

  "With the dot matrix, yes. But it's quite all right for internal memos and things."

  "Hmm, I suppose so."

  "There's a daisy-wheel one, letter quality, but it costs a bit more."

  "Coffee Martin?" says Jacqui, passing it over.

  "What? Oh, thanks."

  "Did you enjoy your stuffed peppers, Martin?" asks Bella sweetly. "I did them specially for you and Jo."

  "Yes, very nice. So let's get this straight, I can save this and when I put the machine on again it'll still be there?"

  "Yes, and then you can work on it again if you want, and if you've finished with it you can delete it and free up the space. Not that you're exactly short of space; you'll probably never fill it."

  "Right, I'm definitely interested," says Martin. "How much are they?"

  "That one is just over fifteen hundred, including the printer. I'm not actually making anything on the printer, you're getting it at cost."

  Martin's pale eyes grow round with amazement. "Fifteen hundred pounds! You're joking!"

  "Fraid so," says Simon. "They'll come down in time, I expect, when they become more popular."

  Martin looks disappointed. "They'll need to!"

  "But just think of the advantages you'll be missing in the meantime."

  "Oh I can see the advantages. I just don't happen to have fifteen hundred pounds."

  "No frock for me after all then," sighs Bella.

  "You never had a chance," says Nick sympathetically. "He's a tight-arsed bastard."

  "We don't all earn what you do," snaps Martin.

  "Ahh! Look at Sylvester," says Jacqui sentimentally. "The other one's licking him."

  This is important, Best Beloved

  "That's a Mafioso," says Bella, forgetting to ignore her. "They do it all the time. Sometimes there are two or three of them at it, all at once."

  "Mafioso?" frowns Jo.

  "That's what I call them — the Mafia. They go round in a gang and they bully all the other cats. They're horrible to them sometimes."

  "Really? I've never heard of that before."

  "Nor had I. It's very interesting. They even sleep together, piled in a heap. The others are terrified of them."

  "Listen to him purr!" exclaims Jacqui.

  "Nature's remedy I expect," says Nick, watching them with interest. "There are probably all sorts of good things in saliva."

  "It certainly seems to work," agrees Simon. "I reckon his remarkably rapid recovery is mostly down to that."

  "The odd thing is, they're all the same colour," says Bella, eager to discuss this rather odd phenomenon. "I mean, we've got every sort of moggy here from ginger toms to Siamese, but this lot are all in evening dress, all male, all small and scruffy. None of the others have shown the slightest interest in him."

  "Evening dress! laughs Jacqui. You are funny!"

  "All one family perhaps?" suggests Martin.

  "Yes, I thought of that. Seems unlikely though."

  "What you have there," says Nick, "are Jellicle Cats." And he launches into verse:

  "Jellicle Cats are black and white,

  Jellicle Cats are rather small;

  Jellicle Cats are merry and bright,

  And pleasant to hear when they caterwaul.

  Jellicle Cats develop slowly,

  Jellicle Cats are not too big;

  Jellicle Cats are roly-poly,

  They know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.

  "You see? Jellicle Cats, no question — T. S. Eliot."

  "I didn't know you were poetical," says Simon, impressed.

  "I have hidden depths," admits Nick, modestly.

  "I think it's time this meeting came to order," says Martin.

  *

  32 The crescent

  "Good morning. I'm sorry to trouble you. I represent the Friends of Tenstone Heath."

  "Who?"

  "The Friends of Tenstone Heath."

  "Never heard of them," says the woman.

  "I don't expect you have, we've only been going a month. The thing is, we're trying to stop the Tenstone Mining Company digging up the Heath."

  "The who?"

  "The Tenstone Mining Company. They want to dig up the Heath and turn it into a clay pit. We're getting up a petition to stop it. Would you like to sign?"

  "No, I don't think so." She begins to close the door.

  "But you can see the Heath from your back window, " persists Bella. "Which would you rather look out on, some nice purple heather or great heaps of clay and machinery?"

  A man joins her.

  "What's all this then?" he asks.

  "It's a survey for some mining company," says the woman.

  "It's not a survey," explains Bella patiently, "it's a petition. We're trying to stop them mining the Heath for clay."

&n
bsp; "Is that on the cards then? First I've heard of it."

  "Yes, very much so I'm afraid. Would you like to see our press release?"

  The man reads for what seems an unnecessarily long time.

  "Hmm, we don't want that, do we? Where do I sign?"

  "Here, please."

  "D'you want us both?"

  "Yes please, and your address."

  "What are you going to do with it?" asks the woman, clearly still suspicious.

  "Do?" asks Bella.

  "With this petition, when you've done it."

  "Oh, well, we plan to present copies, with our objections, to the local planning committee and the District Council and the County Council, and English Nature and Bradport Wildlife Trust. And Peregrine Marsh-Harrier of course."

  "Who's he when he's at home?"

  "Your MP"

  "Oh, right."

  "Thanks then. Bye."

  "Bye."

  34 The Crescent

  "Good morning. I'm sorry to —"

  "We don't buy anything at the door. Can't you read the notice?"

  "I'm not selling anything. I've got this petition. I'm hoping you'll —"

  Not for the first time the door is shut firmly in her face. Bella continues her spiel anyway, but louder, her nose now a stubborn inch from a stained-glass galleon under full sail. Through the dimpled blue of the sky bits she can dimly see the old woman in the hall, watching her. Bella sticks out her tongue, flattening it against the glass. "Silly old bat."

  36 The Crescent

  "Good morning. I'm sorry to bother you. I'm representing the Friends of Tenstone Heath. We're getting up a petition to stop —"

  "Petition eh? Let's have a gander." The man, quite pretty, hair a nice sort of grey that goes well with his rather sexy smoky-blue aura, takes the clipboard gently but masterfully from her hand and scans it with silent concentration. "Hmm, don't like the sound of that. Give us your pen."

  "Thanks. That was nice and quick. It usually takes so long to explain."