Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  Crossing the road they pass through the open lychgate and thread their way between the graves, settling themselves on a broad, flat tombstone beneath one of the old yew trees. Here in the daytime there would be a fine view down to Windy Point, but now the gently sloping heath beyond the churchyard wall is lost in blackness and only the harbour can be seen. Hanging low over it, so low as almost to touch the Bittern hills, is an immense-seeming moon, its silvery light reflected in the distant water. There is no sound but the thumping bass of the music, here reduced to a heartbeat, and they sit together a little shyly, disinclined to break the spell by talking.

  "It's beautiful," declares Nick at last.

  Bella, moves closer to him, allowing herself to be enfolded by his uncompromisingly masculine aura. After the events of the evening it is a deeply comforting feeling. "Don't be surprised if someone pops up," she says. "The local kids come here to copulate."

  They giggle cosily.

  "Simon says you used to live here, in Tenstones."

  "Yes. My aunt still does."

  "What, in one of those cottages?"

  "No, it's well out of the village, an old wooden bungalow, quite isolated."

  "Is that why you love the heath so much?"

  "Yes. I grew up on it really."

  Bella is fully aware that she shouldn't be telling him these things. What would they say if they discovered she was a bloated capitalist, that one quarter of all this is hers, that she is campaigning against her own family? Would they still help her? She doesn't much care, frankly; she's fed up with secrets.

  She wonders where they are now. She knows they are together because she saw them dancing, a slow one, and then they were gone. She suddenly feels very lonely and unloved and also, for some reason, desperately randy.

  "And did you come here to copulate?" Asks Nick, his voice low and teasing.

  Bella experiences a delicious little tingle of excitement. She has noticed before how he seems able to read her mind. "Good heavens no!" she laughs. "That wouldn't have been . . . I mean, well, it must be a bit uncomfortable, don't you think? All those nettles."

  There is a highly charged silence. Bella decides she is going to let Nick have her, preferably right here. If Simon comes looking for her and finds them together, so much the better. It will serve him right. Swinging her legs round, she lies down provocatively behind him, stretching out on the rough surface of the tombstone and staring up into the dark yew branches. It reminds her, inevitably, of lying on the altar stone, all those years ago. She'd be too big for that now; she'd dangle off the ends. The tombstone is much bigger, almost like a bed. It is, in fact, the family tomb, fortunately no longer used. She wouldn't have fancied poking about among all those mouldering ancestors, even assuming she could have got the lid off.

  "I'm having trouble with my mother," she blurts.

  "What sort of trouble?" asks Nick, apparently un-fazed. Does nothing surprise him?

  "She's . . . Oh, I don't know." Bella struggles for the right words. She is beginning to feel extremely woozy, even lying down. "We're very close, you see, too close really, but now I've learned some things about her that I don't very much like. I mean, what I mean is, it's perfectly all right if that's what she wants, I'm not a prude or anything, and if it was anyone else it wouldn't matter, so it shouldn't matter if it's her. I know that. But now that she's . . . I mean now that we're . . . well, it's a bit like being conjoined twins, isn't it? Except, at least then you could wear earplugs and a blindfold or read a book or sing or something and . . . Nick, will you kiss me please?"

  Nick turns, and for a while does nothing but look down at her in the moonlight. She cannot see his expression; it is hidden in shadow. Then he slowly bends and kisses her very tenderly, not on her half-open lips, as she expected, but on each flickering eyelid.

  "I think, actually, we should be getting back," he says, standing up. "Don't you?"

  Bella is at first disbelieving, then mortified. An infidelity and a rejection all in one evening are almost more than she can bear. She doesn't move, but stares up at him reproachfully. "But I thought you . . . wanted me."

  Nick sighs. "Of course I want you."

  Bella smiles and holds out her arms. "Well, then!" But he shakes his head.

  "Look, I'm sorry; I shouldn't have flirted with you. You know how it is: lovely lady, moonlight, comfy tombstone. I think we should go back now. Anyway, if you stay there, you'll get piles."

  *

  Bella reaches into the swing bin and takes out a dead rat. There is always a dead rat in the swing bin; they are nearly all dead now. Holding it at arm's length she carries it to Mrs Wren's musty-smelling bedroom and puts it to bed, carefully arranging it on its back with its head on the pillow. It looks quite comical, like an old man snoring, but she doesn't smile. Tucking the blankets neatly round its neck, she returns to their own room and undresses, putting on her sulking drawers; big, ugly, horizontally striped things that reach above her navel. Simon hates them. He also hates the red winceyette nightdress that she keeps for very cold nights. Between the two of them she is impregnable. Getting into bed she picks up a magazine and begins to read. She reads it from cover to cover and doesn't remember a word. It is now nearly two in the morning and he is not yet back. She knows perfectly well where he is. She hates him.

  At nearly half-past two she hears a key in the door. She can tell he is angry by the way he thumps up the stairs. She has never known him really angry and doesn't know what to expect. Will he offer her violence? He throws off his coat and stands looking at her, his arms akimbo.

  "Well you really excelled yourself tonight," he says.

  Bella stares fixedly at the magazine. She wonders if she should buy some leggings; only tasteful ones of course, not patterned or anything. "I don't know what you mean," she says.

  "You know perfectly well what I mean, making a scene like that."

  "What did you expect? You insulted me." She glances up at him briefly. "How could you?"

  Simon squeezes his eyes with thumb and forefinger, sighs. "Look, lets cut this short, okay? Get it over with. I'll just admit it. I'll come right out and admit it. I enjoyed dancing with her. There! I admit it. Note that I admit it. She's a pretty girl, maybe even a beautiful girl, and I enjoyed dancing with her. I particularly enjoyed watching her move in that amazing whatever-it-was. There! And what's more it doesn't matter. Not one jot. Shall I tell you why?"

  "I don't care, frankly," says Bella with dignity. "Where have you been for the last two hours, in her bed?"

  "Of course I haven't been in her bloody bed!" It is very nearly a snarl. "Martin drove her home. You embarrassed her and she wanted to go home. But not half as much, I might say, as you embarrassed me!"

  "You deserved to be embarrassed; you were with her all bloody evening!"

  "I was with her for maybe twenty minutes."

  "It was far longer than that."

  "Okay, half an hour then. I wasn't looking at my watch. It was just a dance, Bella!"

  "It was a slow one. You had your arms round her."

  "One of them was a slow one, yes."

  "And then you went off with her." "I didn't go off with her. We were sitting in the dining room, talking. We were hardly alone, if that's what you mean."

  "I never saw you."

  "Well we were there."

  "You didn't have to dance with her at all. Why did you dance with her?"

  "She asked me! I was socialising. I danced with lots of people. If Jo had been there, I would probably even have danced with her if she'd wanted. What was I supposed to do, say no? 'Sorry, Jacqui, I can't; Bella will be jealous?' Anyway, you were dancing with her."

  "That's different."

  Simon comes and leans heavily on the brass bed rail. He is giving her a very funny look. She continues to stare at the magazine, pulls the duvet more tightly round herself.

  "No, it isn't, actually," he says, conversationally. "It isn't different at all. I might just as well be jealous of you,
if I was that stupid. I suppose it would be stupid?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you know perfectly well what I'm talking about. The reason why it doesn't matter if I dance with her, not that it should matter anyway, is that Jacqui Gadwall is gay. She's a lesbian."

  "Simon, for the umpteenth time, she is not gay."

  "She is gay. I have it on the best authority."

  "She is not gay! I'm a woman for Christ's sake, don't you think I'd know?"

  "She is, because she told me so herself."

  "She told you she was a gay? I don't believe you!"

  Simon nods slowly. "We had a very interesting conversation, actually. She told me lots of things. She told me about you. She told me how much she fancies you."

  Bella opens then closes her mouth, scrambles out of bed, shaking her head as if to dislodge what she has just heard. "I'm not listening to any more of this. I'm going."

  "She's got a bloody great crush on you!" He is shouting now. "She didn't know what to do with herself. She was crying. She didn't even mind telling me! What was I supposed to say to her eh? And shall I tell you something else? You encourage her, I've seen you. You play up to her. You string her along."

  "I don't!"

  "All this business about me fancying her is . . . well I don't know what it is."

  "You're mad! I'm not talking to you."

  "Do you know what I think? I think you've got that pathological jealousy thing. I think you're obsessed. I think you've picked the one person you know I couldn't possibly be involved with to feed your jealous fantasies! Bella, where do you think you're going?"

  "I'm not staying here to be insulted. I'm going."

  "It's cold. It's the middle of the night, Where are you going?"

  "To Mrs Wren's room. If you think I'm sleeping in the same bed as you you're mistaken."

  "You can't do that."

  "Watch me."

  "You can't. You can't sleep in Mrs Wren's bed."

  "Why? She's not going to know. I'm not staying here."

  Simon sighs. "All right, all right. I'll sleep in Mrs Wren's bed."

  "What's the difference?"

  "The difference is that Mrs Wren's bed will be damp and cold and full of fleas and I'm not letting you do it."

  "I don't care about the fleas."

  "Well I do. If anyone is sleeping in Mrs Wren's bed it's going to be me and that's that. I'm very tired and I'm going now."

  Bella finds she has started a pounding headache. She slumps on the edge of the bed and puts her head in her hands. The sobs come and she can't do anything about them. She feels Simon's hand on her shoulder. She shrugs him off. "Get off me. I hate you."

  "All right, I'm going. I'm taking the alarm clock."

  Bella watches him getting his things together. "I'll tell you what happened, shall I? I know what happened. You made a pass at her, didn't you? You kept pestering her for sex and in the end she told you she was gay, just to get rid of you. It's pathetic!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The two sisters wave goodbye in the gathering dusk as the Land Rover crunches away down the drive. Rat sounds his horn, sending the rooks that live in the old beeches cawing and flapping untidily into the frosty sky. Then they are through the gatehouse and gone.

  "Was it something I said?" sighs Miranda.

  "I expect she'll stay longer next time," says Bella. "It's bound to feel a bit odd after twenty years, like going into some sort of time warp. Just think, when she was last here Harold Wilson was Prime Minister, and the Beatles had just brought out 'Please, please me'. Or was that in sixty-four?"

  "God knows," says Miranda distractedly. "I suppose I thought everything would be all right again, after Mummy, but it's been months now and all I've managed to do is get her here for three hours on Christmas day. I wouldn't mind if she'd enjoyed herself, but she just sits there, hardly eating, doesn't even want pudding, and bogs off early on some trumped up excuse. I don't believe for one moment she's tired. Why should she be tired? She's never normally tired. Goodness knows what Simon must have thought."

  "Oh he knows Aunty well enough by now."

  They turn and walk slowly indoors, arms folded against the chill air.

  "I just want her to look upon it as home, that's all," says Miranda. "I mean, it is her home for goodness' sake, the family home. She can't go on living in that horrible damp shed forever."

  "I don't think it's damp is it? I've never noticed."

  "You wouldn't notice if you had to swim for your bed. Of course it's damp, it must be; it's half over the water. It's not good for her at her age. Anyway, she could at least have stayed for tea."

  Bella knows something that Miranda doesn't, namely that Rat and Veronica have another invitation. Even at this moment her aunt is probably being hoisted aboard Roz to the warm welcome of Pat, Bluebell and the twins, marvelling amiably at the bright swags of paper chains, the cotton-wool snow on the windows and the Christmas tree ablaze with real candles, before tucking into a lovely tea including several sorts of biscuits, an iced cake with a robin on it and, of course, lots of big gaudy crackers. But though unwilling to forego the pleasure of Miranda's hurt and annoyance, she decides not to tell. It is, after all, the season of goodwill. Also it is hard to be wholly hostile to your own sibling, whom you have successfully impregnated after so much time and effort, and who is even now swelling satisfyingly under her maternity evening dress. Soon, thinks Bella, she'll be waddling ungainly about with her head full of matinee jackets and little knitted bootees and won't have time for any of that stupid clay pit nonsense. With any luck, the world has been saved.

  In the drawing room, Michael Broadmayne leans against the great fireplace, one foot on the fender, nursing his whisky. Behind him, the greater part of a small tree hisses and crackles soporifically in its bed of incandescent ash.

  Simon reclines, bloated, on a sofa, beset on all sides by quivering Dalmatians. "That's one amazing ceiling you've got there," he observes, scratching a canine ear.

  Michael follows his gaze. "The strapwork? Something else innit? Cost a mint to restore I can tell you. You can't get the craftsmen nowadays, not round here anyway. We had to fetch these guys down from Morpeth. Took 'em a month, three of 'em. Couldn't understand what they were saying half the time. Mind you, they did a magnificent job; you can't even see the joins. Top up?"

  "Mmm, ta."

  Michael ambles over to the drinks' trolley. "The rest of the room's pretty original actually. Have you noticed the panelling? Linenfold, they call that; carved like folds of cloth, see? They'd have had real cloth hangings originally, to keep the draughts out and they reflected that in the carving. Nothing new, is there? How is that different from wood-effect plastic windows? Only in the skill involved when you think about it. Else it's the same."

  "I suppose that's true," agrees Simon, sensing a hobby horse. He democratically transfers his attentions from Dotty to Lotty, causing Spotty Botty to whimper with frustrated desire.

  Michael hands him his drink. "Here you are. Enough?"

  "Fine, thanks."

  "Wouldn't be surprised if there was a priest-hole behind that lot; they didn't give up their popery too readily round here by all accounts, not to mention the older stuff. Did you know there's still a row of penises on the church tower? Penes, I suppose I should say; real cocks, no messing. Stuff like that got knocked off, mostly, but these even survived Cromwell's army. People forget just how remote we were here until quite recently. Back end of nowhere until the railway came. Dogs, get off or you'll go outside!"

  "They're all right."

  "No they're not. Lotty, get down! They need a walk, but I'm blowed if I'm taking them. Concepción usually does it but she's off. No, it's amazing what you learn, owning a place like this; mostly how to spend money. It's bleeding me dry I don't mind telling you. Labour of love of course. Mind you, you've got to live in the place; no good treating it like a museum just because it's old. That's why I put in the en
-suites and the Jacuzzi. I don't go for all that drabby stuff: earth closets and so on. Daft that is. Plain daft. The rows I've had with Heritage. Latest thing, they won't let us pull down some crappy fifties lean-to. Fifties! I kid you not! I mean, it looks diabolical. If you wanted it now, they certainly wouldn't allow it to go up. Now it's up, you can't take it down. Where's the logic? Crazy! I told 'em, a house is organic, it changes. You put bits on, you take bits off; you put things in, you take things out. Suppose Henry VIII had been prevented from altering Hampton Court? Or Louis XIV expanding Versailles?

  "Take the guy that made that chest there, the one with the telly on. Fifteenth century that is, six hundred years old. But he didn't think it was anything special, did he? Just another bloody chest to him. Probably got sick of making chests. What I mean is, there's nothing special about old things per se. You preserve quality. The chest's got quality; that's why it's lasted. Though I daresay when sprog arrives he'll end up drawing all over it."

  "Ah, yes," says Simon, eager for a change of subject. "When's it due?"

  "Eight weeks. She's well into the third trimester."

  "You've learned all the jargon then."

  "Oh you got to, otherwise you don't know what the hell they're talking about. Just at the moment, I can authoritatively tell you, he's about the size of a cauliflower. Amazing eh?"

  "What's the size of a cauliflower?" asks Miranda, coming in.

  "My son and heir, m'dear."

  "Proud Daddy," says Bella, smiling.

  "Too right I am. It was damned hard work getting him, I can tell you. Tell the truth I was about ready to pack it in and take up gardening instead, but no, she kept me at it, day and night till I thought it'd drop off. Didn't you, dear?"

  "They don't want to hear all that, Michael. Shut up and put the telly on. Quickly now."

  "Why, what are we missing?"

  "The Queen. The Queen's speech."

  "Oh, right. Gotta watch the Queen. Now where's that zapper? Damned thing's always going walkabout."