Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

"It wasn't my idea," protests Bella. "They wanted to break in and steal the plans for the clay pit. I told them I wouldn't have anything to do with it."

  "Bella, there are no plans for the clay pit."

  "Yes there are, you've been working on them. You're going to dig up the heath and start a war. You thought I wouldn't find out, but I have."

  "Bella, I've no time for all that nonsense. This is serious. I've got your sister in hospital at risk of losing her baby. The police are involved. Michael's baying for blood. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you weren't there."

  "There! You mean last night? Of course I wasn't there!"

  "Then that woman was lying was she?"

  "What woman?"

  "Some horrible, foulmouthed woman, Rat said, with a crew-cut. She said you were there. I just can't believe you'd run off and leave Miranda like that."

  "I didn't run off!" cries Bella. "I wasn't there! Of course I wasn't there!"

  "There's no need to shout. Where were you then? At home?"

  Bella's supercharged adept's mind races. If she says yes her aunt might ask Simon, and suppose he doesn't back her up? He obviously isn't even slightly trustworthy. He might even admit that he and Jacqui were somewhere else and then she wouldn't have an alibi. He might even admit she was involved. "No," she says. "I wasn't at home, actually."

  "Where were you then?"

  "I'm not telling you. It's none of your business."

  "Bella! Do you want me to fetch your uncle in here?"

  Her aunt's aura now fills half the room. In it's own way it is more threatening than Jo's. Bella quails. "All right, I was with someone else, actually."

  "Who?"

  "Julius Hawksmoor, if you must know."

  "Not all night, surely?"

  "Yes, all night. I slept with him. We're lovers. Ask him, if you don't believe me."

  Sometimes, Best Beloved, the bold stroke wins the day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Winters in Dorset are mild on the whole, but Windy Point is well named and for days at a time it can blow bitter enough off the leaden waters of the harbour to keep all but the hardiest indoors.

  Here, every direction of the wind has its special character, its own unique symphony of whistles, rattles and moans. One can lie snugly in bed in the morning and by the sound alone, accurately determine its compass bearing and what its force on the Beaufort scale might be; whether a mere breeze of force four, a yachtsman's gale of force six, a lean-into-it-and-hang-onto-your-hat force eight, or a screaming, spume-laden, stone hurling, terrifying force ten.

  Even when the wind falls low and largely silent, anyone with a nose can still guess its direction, for if it blows from the west, it smells distinctly of turned earth, chimney smoke and farmyards, while if it blows from the east it carries upon it, not only the restless smell of the sea but the rarified odours of nearby Bradport: a mixture of fish-dock, brewery and chemical plant. Sometimes, also, it brings the winnowings of the dusty heathland soil, a fine grey-black sand that works its way into clothes and cupboards and, grittily, into the food on your plate. The combination of a stiff easterly and a high tide can drive substantial waves far up the foreshore, even right under the old bungalow on its wooden piles. Here they break with a shuddering thump, spurting up between the floorboards of the summer room and giving great entertainment to the twins, who rush about screeching and laughing and pushing each other in the way of the salty jets until Veronica turns them out.

  In a full gale, wholesale flooding can result, leaving behind deep puddles with little crabs in them and, if the wind has any south in it, great piles of red, green and brown seaweed which must be carted away before they lead to a plague of sand-flies in the spring.

  When the wind is fully from the south, it is likely to be particularly gusty, funnelling through the gaps in the Bittern Hills, but it also has a wonderful, fresh, sea-washed clarity that makes you want to take deep breaths and fill your lungs with it and feel it doing you good. Finally, when it blows from the north, it smells strongly of pinewoods, which makes the cold seem somehow colder, as if it were the Russian taiga bordering the bypass, a wild place of snow and bears and wolves, rather than the dilettante plantings of a Victorian squire.

  But almost always it blows, and from November onwards life at Windy Point turns in on itself, centring on Veronica's snug kitchen and the permanently glowing brazier in the great boatshed. Here, the Rozes, the Shangri-las and the others lead a companionable if somewhat troglodytic existence in the semi-darkness, sitting on baulks of timber and staring into the flames while McNab and Denny entertain them on fiddle and banjo.

  Outside, the horizontal rain lashes the high, salt-encrusted windows and corrugated-iron walls as Rat, clad in oilskins and sou'wester, goes on his rounds, gathering up any loose thing in danger of being snatched away and frapping the halyards of the small yachts and dinghies, stored in their compound on the hard.

  For Bella this is a dull time, a time of waiting, though for what she is not quite sure. Winter does not suit her. She grows morose and puts on weight. Still under suspicion of complicity in the estate-office raid she finds the company of her aunt and uncle something of a strain, opting instead for the more relaxed and libertarian atmosphere of the boatshed.

  Here she spends long hours chatting to Pat and the others and watching Rat's Folly slowly transformed from a bare, unpromising hulk into a trim little ship. Over the weeks the Queen of Tenstone, as she is to be known, acquires a brightly painted hull; a gleaming, varnished cabin-top with bronze portholes; a long bowsprit; a rudder and a beautifully carved tiller, until she seems to want only a mast and rigging to be able to sail away. Bella would dearly love to see the accommodations, but McNab and Thurston resolutely refuse to let anyone on board until she is finished; which, they insist, is still a long while away yet.

  Bella's mother does not seem to care for this new regime. Removed from the temptations of female flesh – indeed, from vicarious enjoyment of any kind – she becomes strangely quiet, perhaps sulking, and Bella is almost able to forget that she is sharing her head with someone else. It seems odd, but a great relief, to feel normal again, to be confidently in control of one's own voice and body. For a while she is minded even to give up her job at the Ferryman and make her break with the past complete, especially as there is always the fear that she might run into, or even have to serve, Simon or one of the others. But as the weeks go by it becomes clear that they must be avoiding the place and, after all, a girl has to make a living. Beside which, it's her only chance to meet someone new.

  "You don't have to have a man," says Pat, unsympathetically. "You shouldn't have to define yourself through your relationship with a man."

  Bella is not impressed by this feminist nonsense. Of course she doesn't have to have a man. She doesn't have to have McVitie's chocolate digestives or fashionable clothes or Manolo Blahnik shoes either, but life would be pretty thin and mean without them. Anyway, it's all right for her to talk when she's got the prettiest man in the world dancing attendance on her. Not that she appears to appreciate it.

  Only her work at the Tenstones gives any real shape to her life. Despite the winter weather, she still religiously meditates every day. Alas, she is granted no further insights, either into the meaning of the Stones or her role as Priestess. Neither do her further attempts at spells seem to work. It sometimes seems as if her psychic inheritance has been snatched away, leaving her with nothing — just ordinary again.

  This is important, Best Beloved.

  One odd feature of this time is that she begins to notice Jellicle cats; not in town, where one might expect them, but on the heath. At first it was just the occasional sighting in the distance – it could have been anyone's black moggie – but more recently there have often been as many as two or three together, all with that distinctive colouring and compact shape. It becomes such a frequent occurrence that she begins to wonder if they have followed her there, perhaps still expecting to be fed. But i
f so, why do they always try to hide when they think she's seen them? She takes to swinging round occasionally to catch them out and sure enough there they would be, padding silently along behind. She waits for them to catch up but they melt immediately into the furze or bracken. Frustratingly, there is never anyone else around to convince her she isn't imagining them. Perhaps it is just her conscience, nagging her for leaving Sylvester behind at Railway Gardens, though as McNab points out, her aunt would never have allowed him back to Windy Point.

  In February, Miranda gives birth, slightly prematurely, to a rather sickly boy-child. Amid general rejoicing he is christened Alexander Charles Kenneth. Veronica holds him and cries. Four weeks later he is found dead in his crib. Bella bravely subdues her atavistic fears and goes to the funeral where her grey and lilac ensemble and sad dignity excite much whispered comment and admiration. Julius is particularly attentive. Natividad leaves, heartbroken, and is replaced by Dolores.

  Her own hopes dashed – she has, of course, lost more than anyone by the child's death – Bella looks forward to at least a few months of peace and quiet while Miranda mourns. Alas, far from forgetting about the pit, her sister throws herself even more vigorously into her plans. The secret meetings with her aunt become more frequent, their scheming bolder and more dangerous. When not plotting the rape of the heath she is either out shooting or riding to hounds. It's as if she wishes to punish Nature itself for her loss.

  There seems to be no place in this for Michael who is now seldom at home, finding more and more reasons to check on his business interests abroad. One day, however, he appears at the Stones, dressed for jogging. Bella is undressed for meditating and he tactfully withdraws while she makes herself decent, pulling on her tracksuit and running her fingers swiftly through her wind-tangled hair.

  "How often do you do this?" he asks curiously. "Don't you get cold?" He frankly admits to his frustrations. "God knows how long this is supposed to last. I mean, obviously you'd expect it to be a bit dodgy on the bed front for a few weeks, but dammit she won't even talk to me. Why won't she talk to me? If I walk into the room, she walks out. It's not my fault the poor bloody sprog died. He was my son too, after all."

  "She's bound to come round eventually," says Bella sensibly. "She'll have to if she wants another."

  Thereafter he often comes to visit her, waiting patiently while she runs through her positions and clearly pathetically grateful for her company and her sage advice. He becomes such a familiar presence that after a while she doesn't even bother to dress. He doesn't seem to mind, so why should she?

  Little by little, Bella broaches her own problem, eventually summoning up the courage to tell him everything: the Kabalistic origins of the Stones, their power, Miranda and her aunt's secret meetings. Michael seems genuinely surprised that Miranda is still so eager to reopen the pit.

  "Really? I thought she'd given that up."

  "You mustn't say anything," cautions Bella. "They mustn't know I've been watching them."

  "I just wish I could help you," he says. "Are you quite sure property isn't the answer? It wouldn't take much to raise what Miranda needs. We're a very efficient company you know, and with the land effectively free, every third unit would be profit. Thirty or so decent-sized family homes sees you a million quid. We could build in the old gravel pit. I saw a nice development in Germany like that, round an artificial lake. Since it's a hole already, it wouldn't matter would it? And no-one's likely to object on environmental grounds."

  Bella pushes herself up into the Wheel or Chakrasana, critically observing him from upside down. She is grateful for his concern, but of course it won't do. "I'm afraid it's not as simple as that," she says sadly. "The forces realign themselves to the new topography after a while; although by then, of course, the damage has been done. The gravel pit probably started the Great War. That and the railway embankment."

  "But surely a few foundations . . . "

  "It's not the foundations, Michael, it's the sewers and things. Holes! Why does everyone find it so hard to understand? I agree it's better than the alternative, but even if it only provoked the odd sectarian riot or revolution I'd still have blood on my hands and then I couldn't live with myself. If you really want to help, talk Miranda out of reopening the pit."

  One other thing happens. The chill weather has not been kind to the increasingly frail Phil, who in his dementia becomes subject to sudden bouts of violence and no longer appears properly to recognise his wife, let alone anyone else. It is impossible to keep their little caravan warm enough for their old bones, even after Rat tows it into a corner of the boatshed, and they spend much of their time in Veronica's kitchen, huddled together in a calming fug of marijuana.

  "I think you may have to consider a nursing home," Veronica tells Kiss. "You can't go on like this."

  The next morning they are woken by Bluebell's horrified cries. She has taken them their breakfast as usual and receiving no reply has let herself in. Rat discovers a white substance and quietly flushes it down the loo. It can be assumed they at least died happy. Two more little plaques join the others in the churchyard, side by side.

  *

  It has been a hard winter for everyone, but winter does not last forever, and buds begin to appear on the birches and elders along the Winterborne, while on the slopes of the valleys, fresh green croziers unfurl among the brown of the bracken. Glorying in the spring sunshine Bella and McNab decide on a picnic at the Stones: egg-n-cress sandwiches, packets of crisps and, of course, McVitie's chocolate digestives.

  "Ye've made a grand job o them, Bella," says McNab, taking a swig of his hooch and nodding appreciatively. He is referring, not to the sandwiches, splendid though they are, but to the Stones, for over the winter Bella has laboriously cut down and carted away all the invading furze so that now their true layout and mystic relations can clearly be seen.

  "The trouble is," sighs Bella, "it's not what I should be doing. What I ought to be doing is stopping Miranda. There's sure to be another board meeting soon and then I suppose they'll put it to a vote and Aunty will side with her and that'll be that. I wish I hadn't wasted my time messing about with FROTH and that stupid Gaia's Army. Even the petition was useless. The fact is, no-one cares. Why should they? All they see is a load of moth-eaten wasteland, covered in rubbish and dead cars; they don't know it's the geo-spiritual centre of the northern hemisphere.

  "As for all those rare species that heathland is supposed to have, according to Julius there aren't any. We seem to be a sort of desert here. Because we're so close to town I suppose. All we've got is about twelve pairs of Dartford Warblers and even they've disappeared. Perhaps we drove them away with all that rubbish clearing, which was a complete waste of time because it's all come back. Just look at it! It's absolutely hopeless. I mean, why on earth would anyone go to the trouble of dragging that mattress miles and miles from the road and dumping it here? I mean, what's the point?"

  Following her gaze McNab ambles over to the mattress and turns it with his foot. "Ach, useless. It's aa torn an' broukit an the stuffin's comin oot." He kicks at the rotten ticking, causing it to rupture further. "Did ye ken they're crawlin wi bed mites, feedin on flakes o skin an' bodily seecretions? Ah prefer clean straw mysel, or brachen. Ony mair biscuits?"

  Bella picks up the packet and counts them through the wrapper with her finger nail. "Two each, here you are."

  McNab sits and slowly nibbles each one, making it last. "Funny hou they ayeweys come in pairs," he muses.

  "What?" asks Bella. "Chocolate biscuits?"

  McNab closes one eye and looks her mock-suspiciously up and down with the other. "Birds, Bella — breedin pairs. Hou is there ne'er jist the yin?"

  "Oh I expect they don't count. You have to be part of a pair or you don't count."

  "Humph, typical!" snorts McNab. "Puir lanely wee craitur, left tae languish uncoonted for want o a mate."

  Nicely full of picnic, Bella leans back against the sloping side of Chokmah, which is Wisdom,
and lets the sun fall on her upturned face. McNab lies slumped on the heather beside her. Upending the hooch bottle over his lips he drains the last dregs. Soon, no doubt, he will be asleep. It really is a beautiful day, with the yellow furze all around and the harbour sparkling below. It seems impossible that all this peace and beauty could soon be replaced by heaps of spoil and dumper trucks and dust and noise, with the lines ruined and broken and some global catastrophe surely only months, if not weeks, away.

  Far above, in the clear, blue sky, two buzzards are slowly circling, calling to each other in sad, peeping voices. Perhaps they know what is going to happen. Are buzzards rare? She doesn't think so. Not around here anyway. They have kestrels too, of course, and hobbies and nightjars and stonechats and owls and wood-larks and adders and grass snakes, but none of these are really rare so they won't do; they might as well be bed mites for all anyone cares about them. It's got to be vanishingly rare and threatened with extinction or no-one will take any notice. Flowers? Insects? Has Julius considered these? Might there not be some obscure sundew, or ant, or dragonfly, found almost nowhere else? Motorways and housing developments have been stopped for such things, so why not a clay pit? But Bella knows that the land can be restored once the clay is worked out, and the heath will grow back as good as new, or nearly so, especially if the mining is underground. It has to be something that would never come back, that would be dead and gone forever. But what?

  Perhaps she shouldn't have taken the conservation tack at all. Perhaps she should have concentrated on educating people about the true nature of the Stones; brought them out here and showed them how to dowse, showed them the lines, like she did McNab. But people are so stupid and ignorant and hidebound. She's pretty sure they wouldn't listen.

  "Ye coud adverteese," says McNab. He is still awake, then, though beginning to sound a little fuddled. "If there wis jist the yin," he explains, "ye coud adverteese for a mate. A female or a male, y'see, as appropriate. Ah believe they're fair common on the continent; ye coud git yin from there maist likely."