Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "D'you want me to clear this up," says Bella, rooting among the discarded wrapping paper.

  "No, leave it, Concepción will do it."

  "Ours is usually under a cat," says Simon. "Trouble is, which one?"

  "No, here it is," says Michael, "All mixed up with Bella's fancy nightwear. You going to model this for us, Bel?"

  "You should be so lucky."

  Michael holds it against himself and looks down. "Now I ask you, what is the point of a thing like this, eh? A scrap of silk, a froth of black lace, not much use on a frosty night is it? They should have trimmed the hem with fur; at least it would have kept her neck warm. Hello, I do believe she's blushing! So's he! I love this."

  "Michael, the Queen!"

  "Sorry dearest. Side One?"

  "Of course Side One."

  "What's this? This isn't the Queen."

  "Missed it, I'm afraid," says Bella, passing her the Radio Times.

  "Oh, I don't believe it!" says Miranda almost tearfully. "Honestly, I try to make a traditional family Christmas and what happens? The guest of honour pushes off halfway through the afternoon and now we've missed the Queen."

  "I'm terribly sorry," says Bella. "I didn't even know you wanted to watch it or I'd have reminded you."

  Miranda shrugs and sighs. "Oh well, I don't suppose it really matters. Everything's ruined anyway. I might as well get the tea; that's if no-one else is thinking of jumping ship."

  "Of course not," says Bella.

  "Can't go now," says Simon. "We've ordered the cat-sitter."

  "Still no Mrs Wren?"

  "I'm beginning to wonder if she'll ever come out, to be honest," says Bella. "She doesn't seem to know who I am half the time. They're talking about moving her into some sort of home."

  "You mean someone's giving up their Christmas to look after a load of cats?" says Michael.

  "She's a veterinary nurse, animal mad," says Simon. "She's spending it with her parents so she'll probably be glad to escape for an hour now and then."

  "Oh, why does everyone have to be so cynical about Christmas!" exclaims Miranda, making for the door. "Surely families can get on for one day a year?"

  "Gotta see the famous Arab," says Michael, following her out of the room. "See you behave yourselves, you two. No hanky panky."

  Simon throws himself back on the sofa, arms and legs outstretched. "Phew! He's really on form today isn't he? You know, he's not that big a guy but he sort of fills the room. Is that what they mean by a larger than life character?"

  "What were you talking about? Did you ask him about the pit?"

  "You were only gone a few minutes. I could hardly just launch into it. He was mostly talking about the house. The way he bangs on about it you'd think he bought the ruddy place instead of just marrying it."

  "Oh he did. Buy it I mean. We had to sell it and he bought it and then Miranda married him. It's my belief she only married him to get the house back."

  "Really? I can almost imagine that. Why did it need restoring? He reckons he's spent a fortune on it."

  "He has. It was pretty run down when he bought it, which is why we had to sell. After my grandparents died, the estate was left in trust until Mummy and Aunty were twenty-five, but the trustees completely ripped them off and there was no money left for repairs. It was just a wreck really, with leaks in the roof and all sorts. Aunty had moved out to Windy Point years before, after she and Mummy had some sort of row, and Mummy was away most of the time, so we went to live with Aunty. We were only little then of course. When Mummy was home she just used to camp in one room and eat out. Sometimes we didn't even know she was here. All the staff went and after Mrs Bunting retired there wasn't even a housekeeper, just a stableman and Fieldfare the gardener and he's only got one leg. Listen, he's coming back. I'm going to help with the tea."

  "You're not going to leave me again!"

  "Tell him about the business," whispers Bella, kissing him. "He might offer to help. He does that sometimes."

  "I'm not sure I want his help."

  "And at least try to find out about the pit. It'll sound so much better coming from you."

  *

  "What are you looking for?" asks Bella.

  "Trays. That stupid girl seems to have hidden them."

  "Where is she anyway?"

  "I gave her the Christmas off."

  "I though she was from the Philippines. She hasn't gone back there has she?"

  "No, some religious group took her away in a minibus. To be honest I wouldn't care if they kept her. Do you want to put the kettle on? I'll just do these scones."

  "Are we going to have chocolate digestives?"

  "Of course. I'm hardly going to invite you for Christmas and not supply your staple diet. Cups and saucers in that cupboard."

  "Nope, glasses in this one."

  "Oh honestly! Why does she have to mess about with things? You'll just have to search around."

  "Does everyone want tea?"

  "Well, we do. You two can have another coffee if you like."

  "Bromide in Michael's?"

  Miranda rolls her eyes. "You must wonder why it took so long."

  "He's probably just showing off because I'm here. That's what they normally do."

  "Who?"

  "Men, when I'm around."

  "You're so modest aren't you?"

  "I'm just telling it like it is. Ah, here they are. Fancy cups or plain?"

  "Fancy of course, it's Christmas."

  "Christmas!" says Bella, simultaneously.

  "Well it is."

  "Do you want to know what I think?" says Miranda, after a while.

  "About what?"

  "Simon. You should snap him up. I really like him, we both do. He's quiet and gentle and intelligent and ambitious and obviously worships the ground you walk on. I'd bag him quick if I were you, before he gets away."

  "Oh yuk Miranda! Anyway, he isn't normally that quiet. He's actually quite extrovert."

  "Why yuk? Isn't that what you want?"

  "Put like that I'm not sure I do."

  "Don't you love him then? I thought you did."

  Bella sighs. "Oh goodness, Miranda, I'm not like you. I'm a very complicated person, I've lived hundreds of lives; I've seen and done things you can barely imagine. It's not as if any old millionaire will do."

  "Well that's put me in my place."

  "Now you know I didn't mean it like that," protest Bella. "It's just, I mean, you hardly know him. What can you tell about someone in just a couple of hours? He might have all sorts of faults and you wouldn't even know. He might have unpleasant personal habits. He might have smelly feet or something. He might be absolutely lousy in bed. He might be, I don't know . . . a golfer. He might be a golfer and you wouldn't know."

  "I'm sure you wouldn't make a mistake in the bed department, dear, and if he was a golfer we'd have found out in the first five minutes." She turns and looks archly at Bella. "I think he's quite dishy actually. He's got a really nice smile."

  "Well you can have him then. Anyway the thing is . . ." Bella hesitates. "The thing is, I'm not sure, but I have good reason to believe this is the incarnation when . . . well, when someone rather special turns up. May already have turned up, actually."

  "Oh? Who?"

  "Just someone. A once-in-umpteen-lifetimes sort of someone. You wouldn't understand."

  Abruptly, unexpectedly, Miranda throws down the scone she is buttering and grabs her sister by both arms. "Dear, foolish, head-in-the-clouds, Bella," she says, shaking her for emphasis. "You are nearly thirty-two, you are essentially broke, you have no career, no professional qualifications, no husband and no home."

  "So what?" says Bella crossly. "I'm not interested in stuff like that. Mine is a life of the spirit. I have a mission. You just don't understand, do you? You never have."

  "You are broke, you have no career and you are nearly thirty-two," reiterates Miranda. "That big clock in the sky is tick, tick, ticking."

  "Thirty-two i
s no age!"

  "No, but forty is. Forty is just eight short summers away. Are you going to fritter them away waitressing for creepy Colin Dunnock and dancing naked round the bloody Stones, or are you going to do something with your life?"

  "I . . ." Such is the vehemence of Miranda's attack that Bella, for all her ancient mastery of language, is temporarily lost for words.

  "Through there," continues Miranda, briefly releasing her grip to gesture at the door. "Through there in the sitting room, currently being bored witless by cruck frames and Tudor chimney styles, is a man, a real man, flesh and blood, not some pie-in-the-sky knight on a white charger; the first man, that I can remember, that you've managed to keep for more than about three weeks . . ."

  "That's not true!"

  "A man who cares so much for you that he's prepared to give up his very good job in London and sell his house, just to come down here and be with you. A man, moreover, who was ready to stump up for an almost new van, a load of fancy dress costumes and I don't know what else – over seven thousand pounds worth, Bella! – and would have done so if we'd let him, just to keep you out of trouble. A man who has presumably sorted out all the other messes you've no doubt got yourself into while you've been away and who is even now keeping you while you play the holy mystic, making a fool of yourself and us!"

  "I don't have to listen to this!" cries Bella, struggling free. "I do work. It might not seem much to you, but I pay my way. And I don't play at anything. I don't expect you to understand. How can you understand? Not being understood comes with the job. In a few thousand years, when people are wiser, maybe they'll understand. Not that I expect anyone to thank me." Suddenly she frowns. "How did you know about the van? Did Simon tell you?"

  Miranda shakes her head in exasperation. "Bella. Who, exactly, do you think paid for it? Did you even wonder? Did you think it was Uncle? Well I can assure you it wasn't. He wouldn't have been able to afford it."

  "He can't be all that hard up. He's just bought a new Discovery."

  "No, Michael bought it for him. We worried about him driving around in that old rattle trap. He is nearly seventy, you know, and there's Aunty to think of. I don't think you realise just how bad things are. If it wasn't for Michael there's not one member of this family who wouldn't be in Queer Street, including you, and it can't go on. He may be my husband, but I've got my pride even if you haven't. Somehow this estate has got to show a profit and go on showing a profit and by hook or by crook I'm going to see that it does; so if you don't want the pit to reopen you'd better stop wasting your time messing around with a load of potty environmentalists and think of an alternative. Pronto!"

  *

  Bella peers one last time in the looking glass, adjusts her hat, and turning to Simon strikes an Avengers-style pose with her riding crop. "What do you think?"

  "Kinky as hell," says Simon, pulling her to him. "Let's go back to bed."

  "Later," she promises. "And I'll keep my boots on."

  They pause on the front steps to savour, from inside the picture as it were, that most traditional of country scenes: a Boxing Day meet in front of a fine country house. Standing about the drive and spilling over onto the lawn, are the mounted members of the Tenstone and Wimbleford Hunt, the Huntsman and officials in pink, the rest in black, surrounded by a milling crowd of hounds and foot followers. Fieldfare limps among them with a silver tray, handing up the stirrup-cup, while a young woman from the village, standing in for Concepción, follows behind with extra glasses. It is a chill but sparkling morning redolent of sherry, horses, and restrained excitement, the white breath of men and animals hanging in the still air.

  For Bella, there are many old acquaintances to see and greet, there being scarcely a family among the local landed community that isn't represented. Even Pat and the twins are here, lending support to Bluebell who, correctly dressed and looking very grown-up, sits rather nervously astride Percy. Miranda, on Bucephalus, is talking to them.

  On the far side of the crowd is Rook, today in the role of terrierman. Clad in breeches and tweed jacket he is leaning against the estate Land Rover, his dogs at his feet, surrounded by a bunch of mostly rather disreputable-looking cronies including, Bella is interested to note, Sandy's Jason.

  Michael is standing on the steps, clutching a whisky. "Hello, what's this? Not going with them, Simon?"

  Bella smiles and shakes her head. "I couldn't persuade him."

  "I'm tempted," admits Simon. "But I've never even sat on a seaside donkey, let alone a horse."

  "Very wise. Steer clear of 'em, is what I say. Those as don't bite, kick."

  "Rubbish," says Bella. "They're not all like that." She is secure in the knowledge that her mount for the day is a large but docile gelding, named Henry, who is guaranteed to do neither.

  Miranda, who has moved on to confer with the Huntsman and his whipper-in, comes riding over. "Right, we're off. Ready Bella?"

  The same elderly stable-hand who once taught her to ride pushes through the crowd, leading Henry. "Yer'll be orl roight with this un, Miss Bella, 'e be gennel as a kitten."

  "For goodness' sake, I'm not made of china," complains Bella. "Are you going to help me up, Simon?"

  "Er, right."

  Michael turns anxiously to Miranda. "You're not actually going to hunt, are you? You said you wouldn't."

  "No, of course not. We'll just follow at a walk and see what we can see. We can't jump anyway or Bella will fall off."

  "Ha bloody ha!" cries Bella. "I seem to remember beating you at a point to point once upon a time."

  "That's right, once. You were sixteen, I was twelve."

  "What are you going to do, Simon?" asks Bella. "You could always follow on foot."

  "No he won't," says Michael. "We'll crack a bottle, talk business."

  "Sounds good to me," smiles Simon resignedly.

  They rejoin the Huntsman – a big, ruddy-faced farmer named Guy Partridge, whom Bella once briefly dated – and the whole party begins to move off, past the garages and stables, filtering through the great gates, specially opened for the occasion, and down the farm track in a sea of hounds.

  "No sign of the antis today," observes Guy gruffly, as they reach the village street.

  "They're around somewhere, you can be sure of that," says Miranda.

  Practically everyone in the village has turned out to see them go by, and many from further afield, the Tenstones meet having become something of a tradition. Women hold up small children to watch, while old greybeards lean on their gates and wave. With so much to see and smell, the hounds are everywhere and the whipper-in is hard pressed to keep his canine charges out of people's houses, gardens and crotches, continually crying, "Hey, ware that!" and, "Get back 'ere, yer bugger," and occasionally laying about him with his whip. But despite Miranda's misgivings there seem to no banner-waving hunt saboteurs around to make life even more difficult. Perhaps they are tormenting another hunt today.

  Soon the party turns off down a narrow side lane, leaving the well-wishers behind them, and are almost immediately in open farmland, chatting and laughing above the swish of dead leaves and the pleasant cacophony of hooves as they ride between the winter-bare hedges. After a while they are brought to a halt by Guy, holding up his whip, while the first covert, a small spinney in the corner of a field, is drawn by the hounds.

  "Come on," says Miranda. "They won't find anything there."

  "How do you know?"

  "I just do."

  The two women turn off through a five-barred gate, closing it behind them, cross a long, sloping meadow and begin to climb slowly out of the valley, urging their mounts up the side of the long spine of the estate known as High Ridge. At the top, among tall, wind sculpted pines there are two contrasting views. To the south is Bella's familiar suzerain, the wild heath, with the harbour and hills beyond, while to the north is a more homely landscape of fields and farms, a winter-muted montage of pasture and plough, stretching from the village right down to the woods bordering t
he River Wimble. It is in this direction that they turn their gaze, watching the tiny riders and tinier hounds, far below. As Miranda predicted, they have drawn a blank at the first covert, and the mounted field has been permitted to advance just short of the next, a more sizeable coppice of young hazel. Faint sounds of a horn and cries of "Covert-hoick" and "Leu-in" rise up to them.

  "There won't be anything in there either," says Miranda. "The anti's will have beaten it already, and sprayed too, very likely." She sits upright in the saddle and stretches uncomfortably, a hand on her back. "They might just as well have moved straight on to Brandt's. It's too big to clear."

  "Are you sure you're all right?" asks Bella, ever mindful of her developing foetus. She tends to think of it as hers since it is much more important to her than it could possibly be to Miranda.

  "Yes, I'm okay," winces Miranda, suddenly seeming rather dispirited. "But I think this'll have to be the last time. Shall we move on?"

  They walk slowly along the ridge beneath the trees, the horses' hooves making almost no sound on the soft pine-needles, until another downward-sloping track appears and they turn to follow it.

  Having drawn a blank for a second time, the hunt has moved on to a wide and tall hedge between two fields, almost a narrow wood, containing several mature oaks and one or two skeletal dead elms. The hounds are casting excitedly up and down within it while the riders and some of the foot followers are well spread out, ready to turn back any fox that may bolt unsportingly in their direction.

  Suddenly, with the preternaturally keen eye of the adept, Bella notices something that the hunt, their view obscured by the great hedge, cannot see. The ground beyond is rather uneven and in the middle of the field immediately below them is yet another small, scrubby covert, probably hiding a cleft or hollow considered too steep-sided to plough. Scrambling up out of it, dressed in the ubiquitous breeches and flat cap of a foot follower but still instantly recognisable, is the big, bear-like figure of Nick. He is wildly waving both arms and yelling like a madman. Moments later a fox explodes out of the undergrowth ahead of him, streaking away across the brown furrows as if his life depends on it; which, of course, it does.