Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  Simon waves it away. "Keep it. You'd better. We won't be here much longer."

  "You're leaving?" says Martin, frowning. "But what about the cats, and the rats?"

  "We'll sort something out."

  "I just wish. . ." says Jacqui, who has so far been totally silent.

  "Wish what?" says Jo.

  "Nothing."

  "Why say it then?"

  Jacqui colours and looks down. "Congratulations Bella," she says, in a very small voice. "I hope you'll be very happy."

  "Thank you," says Bella coldly.

  They all move to the head of the stairs.

  "We'll talk about all this at a better time," says Martin. "Don't forget the meeting on Tuesday. Ferryman. Eight o'clock."

  "Now look here," says Jo, hanging back. "If you're so sure she's really on our side, at least make her bloody well prove it."

  "How would she do that?" asks Martin, rather wearily.

  "Well by getting us into their company office for a start. We still don't even know what their exact plans are; they could be hatching anything. This clay pit business could be a complete red herring."

  "What on earth else would it be?" says Nick.

  "I don't know. How would I know? That's the whole point. They could be planning to bury hazardous waste there for all we know – nuclear waste, even – while she leads us up the garden path with these apparently nonexistent pit plans. I wouldn't trust any of these bastards as far I can spit."

  "Oh come on!" cries Nick, grinning at the others. "Secrete plans to dump nuclear waste? On their own doorstep?"

  "You don't know they're not. It could be anything."

  "I think living at Greenham has addled your brain, that's what I think."

  "Oh yes?" snarls Jo. "Well don't think I don't know why you're so keen to . . ."

  "All right," says Bella suddenly. "We'll do it."

  They all turn and look at her. "Do what?"

  "Do what she wants: break into the office, steal their plans; trash the place if you like. See if I care."

  Bella is so surprised to hear herself saying this that for a moment she thinks it must be her mother speaking. Perhaps it is. She has slowly begun to realise that she is not entirely keeping her promise not to interfere. There are other, more subtle, ways to do it than by nagging. She just knows that she suddenly feels all wrong; everything's wrong. Just a few minutes ago she was blissfully happy but now she is starting to feel terribly confused and wobbly, rather like when she had the concussion. Maybe it's the drink? But she hasn't had all that much really. At any rate it's too late to unsay it now, not without looking a complete fool. She'll just have to brazen it out.

  Martin and Nick look doubtfully at each other. "Now let's get this straight," says Nick. "You're offering to let us raid your own company office?"

  "Yes. Except I won't just let you, I'll come with you. I'll get you in there. It isn't easy, you'd never do it on your own."

  Bella thinks she might be about to faint. Her voice begins to seem indistinct and out of phase as if fed back to her electronically. She grips the kitchen unit she is leaning against, trying to look normal and relaxed. It's their auras — Simon and Jacqui's. They seem to fill the room like a coloured fog, flaring out towards each other with obscene intensity, choking her. She wants them to go; she can't breathe. She just wants them to go now, all of them. Perhaps she could pretend to be ill? Pretend to be ill, get them out of here and go back on her offer. She wouldn't even have to pretend; she is ill.

  Somewhere a long way off, several people are talking at once.

  Nick is saying: "But the office is at the Manor, isn't it? Where your sister lives."

  Simon is saying: "Bella, you cannot be serious!"

  Jo is saying: "Okay, when? When do we do it?"

  With a herculean effort, Bella pulls herself together. "When you like," she shrugs. "It'll have to be at night, obviously."

  "How about tonight then?" growls Jo.

  "Tonight!"

  "Yes tonight, right now. That way you can't have a reception committee there, waiting for us."

  "All right then, tonight it is," says Bella defiantly.

  "Now just wait a minute!" cries Simon. "Bella, this is madness!"

  Bella ignores him. She makes for the bedroom. "Just give me a chance to change and I'm with you; I can't climb walls in a skirt and high heels."

  "Climb walls?" frowns Jacqui.

  "But you can't . . ." remonstrates Simon.

  "Shut up," snarls Jo.

  "Don't you talk to me like that!" cries Simon. "I'll not have you talking to me like that!"

  "Or what? You'll hit me I suppose? Typical! Typical male response!"

  Martin turns to Nick "Is this really on?"

  Nick shrugs. "God knows. We certainly can't go unless we all agree."

  "I'm not letting that bitch out of my sight," says Jo. But Bella has already shut and locked the bedroom door. "How do we know she isn't warning them right now?" she demands, rattling the doorknob.

  "Because there isn't a phone," sighs Martin longsufferingly. "Unless you think she's doing semaphore from the window."

  "You know," says Nick, "I really don't think this is such a good idea. We ought to approach something like this calmly and soberly, not just rush into it."

  "Normally I'd agree," says Martin. "Then again, mightn't we be throwing away a valuable opportunity?"

  "Well I'm going, even if you're not," says Jo.

  Nick turns guiltily to Simon. "Sorry mate. Looks like we've screwed it up for you."

  "I'm going to talk to Bella," says Simon. He knocks on the door. "Can I come in?"

  "Hang on a minute."

  Bella carefully replaces Simon's mobile phone in its carrying case and slips out of her skirt and blouse before letting him in. "I can't decide what to wear," she says. "What's the well-dressed eco-terrorist wearing this year?"

  "Bella, this is crazy! What on earth are you thinking of?"

  She begins to root through a drawer, throwing pairs of jeans in all directions. "I know what I'm doing."

  "No you don't, you're just in a paddy with that blasted woman. You're just reacting."

  "I know what I'm doing," repeats Bella. And, amazingly, she does. She has a plan, a magnificent, brilliant plan; sprung, fully formed, from whatever astral plane magnificent, brilliant plans spring. Already it is set in exciting motion; It feels good. She feels good. She holds up some black denims. "How about these?"

  "But why?" insists Simon. "What's the point? I don't understand. You could have done this anytime over the Christmas. Slipped in there, found what you wanted and no-one any the wiser. Why didn't you do it then? Come to that, why don't you just face her with it? I don't know why you don't just face her with it. She would probably admit it if you did. She'll have to tell you sooner or later, after all. And anyway, if you think trashing the office is going to put her off, you're crazy. She's more likely to dig her heels in."

  "You know all about my sister's psychology then?"

  "I think I know her that well. And what if we're caught? There goes our fifty grand for a start."

  "Oh well, if that's all you care about."

  "Of course I care about it! We're never going to get another chance like this. Besides, it's so . . . churlish. They couldn't have been kinder to us. Is this how you're going to repay them?"

  Bella rounds on him. "Look, Simon, this is nothing to do with you, okay? This is for the Stones. Remember the Stones? You don't have to be involved; you can just stay here. You won't have to risk your precious money. Anyway we won't get caught; they're both in London, shopping for baby stuff. There's no-one there except their new girl, Natividad, and she's at the other end of the building."

  Simon shakes his head vehemently. "You're not going anywhere without me, that's definite. I'm not letting you out of my sight, not with the mood you're in."

  "Oh, well, the boot's on the other foot now, isn't it!"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

>   Bella doesn't reply. She lied about Michael and Miranda. She hasn't a clue where they are, much less where their latest slave sleeps. She decides to tell him nothing. He has to prove himself first. He has to prove he loves her better than that creature in the living room. She pulls out a black sweater and a nice, black-leather bomber jacket. It'll probably get damaged, but it's starting to look a bit old-fashioned now, so it won't matter.

  "What are you two doing in there?" demands Jo, banging on the door.

  "Having a celebration fuck," mutters Simon gloomily.

  *

  The little pony lies on his side among the straw of the stable floor, trembling slightly, while Miranda in her fashionably tight maternity dress kneels awkwardly beside him.

  "I feel so responsible," says Bluebell, wringing her hands.

  "How long has he been like this? I mean, before you called me."

  "About ten minutes," says Bluebell. "I didn't want to leave him. He was really shaking and then he went down. He looked as if he was having a fit; it was awful. When will Mr Woodcock be here?"

  "I don't know. They're at a Rotary Club do. His daughter's trying to get hold of him." She strokes Percy's muzzle thoughtfully. "Could he have eaten something, do you think, while you were out?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so."

  "Are you sure? Did you leave him at all? Did he do any grazing?"

  Bluebell colours. "I don't think so. I mean, I did leave him for a few minutes while . . . while I went to talk to someone, but it wasn't long and he was never out of my sight. Oh dear, you don't think I've poisoned him do you?"

  "I don't know. It doesn't seem very likely at this time of year. Where did you go?"

  "Only on the heath, and in the churchyard. I mean, he didn't go in the churchyard, obviously. I tied him to the railings."

  Miranda frowns. "You don't suppose he could have eaten some yew? It does grow quite close to the railings in places. You really have to watch them, you know, especially if they're a bit bored."

  "I suppose he could have," admits Bluebell. "I can't say for certain that he didn't. Oh God, he's not going to die is he? They die if they eat yew, don't they?"

  *

  It is cold and wet in Finch's Coppice, and when the headlights go out, very dark. They climb from the van, now parked at the end of an overgrown estate track, and stand in a huddle by the driver's door while Martin searches for his torch. Here on the woodland floor the air is almost still, but above their heads a near gale is raging, lashing the treetops into a surf-like roar and driving ragged black clouds across the misty face of the moon. It has been raining hard for some hours and although it has temporarily stopped, fat invisible drops still patter steadily down around them.

  "Did I give it to you, Nick?" Says Martin, poking about under the seats.

  Nick, who has been uncharacteristically quiet during the drive over, looks up. "What?"

  "The torch. Did I give it to you?"

  "Nope."

  Martin sighs. "Okay then, no torch." He turns to Bella. "Which way now?"

  "There's a footpath over there," says Bella, pointing. "By that ash."

  "Eoh, bay thet esh," says Jo, nastily. "That's a lot of help I don't think." She no longer makes any secret of her hatred for her.

  "Can you really see that well?" says Martin, peering incredulously into the blackness.

  "You should eat more carrots," says Bella. "Come on." And she sets off down the winding woodland path at a cracking pace, leaving the rest of them to straggle along behind. Only Simon manages to keep up, stumbling over protruding roots and almost slamming into a young oak in his effort not to lose her.

  "I still don't understand why you're doing this" he complains. "Why didn't you just tell them to get lost? That's what I'd have done. I'd have chucked them out. We'd never have needed to see them again."

  "Really?" says Bella, not looking at him. "I thought they were your friends."

  "Not any more," says Simon fiercely. "I've had all that."

  Bella stops and turns to him. "You mean you'd give them up?"

  "Of course I'm giving them up, I'm sick of them; making free with our flat, acting like they own us, ruining our evening. As for that blasted woman: it's a good thing she is a woman, that's all I can say."

  "And you won't have any more to do with them — any of them?" asks Bella doubtfully.

  "I just said so didn't I? If I never see them again, it'll be too soon."

  "Even Nick?"

  Simon hesitates. "If that's what you want."

  "And Jacqui?"

  He shakes his head wearily. "Of course Jacqui. I don't give a toss about Jacqui."

  "Yes you do, you still want her. You may think you can fool me, but you can't."

  "Bella, for Christ's sake! I thought we'd got past all that. What does it take to convince you? If I fancied Jacqui, would I ask you to marry me? Would I?"

  "Your auras say different."

  "I don't care what our bloody auras say; I do not want Jacqui!" He grabs her by the shoulders (why are people always grabbing her by the shoulders? She's perfectly open to reasoned argument without that). "Listen," he says. "The only woman in the world I want is you, okay? I love you, okay? I love you to pieces, okay? I love you from your great, gorgeous, blue eyes —"

  "Violet. My eyes are violet."

  Simon sighs. "Okay, violet then. I love you from your great, gorgeous, violet eyes to your stone-cold, size-eight feet, and all the bits in between. You are the keeper of my heart. I'd kill for you, I'd die for you, I'd drink lavatory water for you." Turning the way they have come, he cries into the night. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Be it known, that I, Simon Owen Sheldrake, do most sincerely lurve Isabella Jane Hauteville, spinster of this parish, and will go on loving her till death us do part. Or longer, even."

  "What was that?" shouts a distant Martin. "Where the hell are you?"

  "Over here," says Bella, scarcely bothering to raise her voice. "Do you really, Simon? Do really love me that much?"

  "That's why I'm marrying you isn't it? What does it take to convince you? That's why I'm standing here in the rain, in the jungle, at one in the morning, about to commit some sort of felony, when by now I should be in a nice warm bed, sipping champagne out of your . . . shoe."

  "Dirty bugger," says Bella, kissing him. She finds she can't help loving him, even though she knows that he is lying, that his wanting to marry her has more to do with Michael's very generous offer than any genuine feelings for her. Really, of course, he would like to go to Jacqui; is probably aching for her pneumatic little body right now. Perhaps when she's shown him what a drip she is he won't be quite so keen.

  "So are you going to call this off?" says Simon, obviously thinking he's won her over. "It's madness and you know it."

  Bella glances at the others. They are still some distance away, their softly glowing auras bobbing about in the blackness like a bunch of lost souls. "No," she says. "I'm going to give them what they want. But first I'm bloody well going to make them work for it and then I'm going to make them pay. Just stick close to me and when I say run, run like hell."

  "But —" protests Simon.

  "Listen," says Bella, putting a finger to his lips, "Just think of the headline: 'Eco-activists raid company office: secret plans for endangered heathland revealed!' If we play it right, it would probably even make the national dailies. Okay, perhaps you're right about Miranda, but I do know that Aunty hates any sort of publicity. She was dreadfully upset when Mummy's death got into the Telegraph and she nearly blew a gasket when Julius set fire to the heath, even though it was only in the Bugle. If that's the price of reopening the pit, she won't pay. Trust me."

  "Maybe," sighs Simon. "But what did you mean about 'making them pay'? What are you going to do?"

  "Shush, they're coming," says Bella.

  "I want to know exactly where we are and what you're planning to do," says Martin, panting up to them. "I'm getting a bit fed up with this."

  "We're all soaked,"
says Jacqui. "And Jo's torn her anorak."

  Bella shrugs. "No problem. We're about twenty feet from the Manor wall, and what I'm planning is for us to climb over it."

  They all peer between the close-packed trees at what seems a greater blackness beyond.

  "Oh yes, so it is," says Jacqui. "Gosh, you're just like a cat. Cats can see in the dark."

  "But why here, in the middle of nowhere?" persists Martin.

  "Because there's more woodland on the other side. It goes right to the back of the stable yard, which is where the office is, so if we stick to it we won't be seen. It's not actually very far."

  "Why can't we just walk in?" demands Jo. "It's the middle of the night: there's not going to be anyone about."

  "Because they keep the yard gates chained up," says Bella patiently. They're only ever opened at Christmas, when they host the hunt. We'd have to go through the main entrance and right past the house and then the lights would come on and the dogs would start barking. And anyway, that's locked too, at night."

  "Bastards!" spits Jo, as if household security were a personal affront.

  "Are they big dogs?" asks Jacqui nervously.

  "Rottweilers, three of them. Miranda sometimes lets them wander the grounds at night but we'll have to chance that."

  "I don't like Rotties," shudders Jacqui.

  "Let me get this straight," says Nick, finally breaking his silence. "You're a director in this company, right? So it's your office too. Surely you can come and go any time you want?"

  "It's not exactly my office," says Bella. "I don't involve myself in running the estate. I haven't even got a key. And anyway, if we're going to do this, I want it to look like an outside job."

  "Yeah, so you can keep your nose clean," sneers Jo.

  "Of course so I can keep my nose clean. How can I work undercover otherwise?"

  "And you're quite sure you want to go ahead with it?" says Nick.

  "She has no choice," says Jo grimly.

  "Yes she has; we could stop right now. Suppose you get caught? Won't you get into a lot of trouble?"

  "Yes, probably, but I'm not planning to get caught. And neither will you if you do exactly as I tell you."