Bella laughs. "A nice little French piece, Mademoiselle Warbler. Mail-order bride." Suddenly her jaw drops, her eyes grow even larger than usual and she gives a series of great nods as all the pieces fall into place. Her adept's supercharged mind, quietly churning away for months like a mainframe computer has finally thrown up the answer: a plan that will surely save her reputation as the two hundred and twenty-third Priestess of the Stones, not to mention millions of lives.
"But of course! How stupid of me!" she cries. "McNab, you're a genius!" And bending she gives him a big kiss on his rebarbative, unwashed cheek.
"Awch!" says McNab, much moved. "Awch, Bella!" He touches the spot and looks at his finger tips wonderingly. "But ah dinna comprehend."
"It's so obvious. I don't know why I didn't think of it before. We may not have any rare species but other people have, so why don't we just borrow some of theirs? We wouldn't need many because the whole point is that they're rare. And when we've got them, who's to say they haven't been here all along, lurking somewhere out of sight? Blow the bloody GA and blow FROTH. We don't need them, we can do this ourselves. It's easy!"
McNab slowly nods, trying, through a mist of inebriation, to take it in. "Och ay, ah see whit ye mean. An' then they'd likely mak it intae . . . nou whit are they called? Ach, I cannae remember."
"A Site of Special Scientific Interest," says Bella, knowledgeably. "An SSSI."
"Och ay, an esh, esh . . . what ye said. An' wad that stop 'em mynin the heath d'ye think?"
"Yes, I'm sure it would, if it was something rare enough."
There is a long pause, during which McNab almost nods off, then jerks himself awake. "Ay, that micht jist dae it," he agrees. "An' whit mainer o beast . . . " Here he definitely passes out for a moment or two. "Whit mainer o beast wid that be, Bella?"
"I don't know. I'll have to ask Julius. He's the expert on these things. I expect he'll know what to look for and where we can find it and everything. In fact, I think I'll go and see him now. Coming? . . . McNab, are you coming?" She gives him a shake. "I'd really like you to come, actually. I don't want to go by myself. McNab? Oh, blow you then."
For McNab lies sleeping peacefully in the warm sunshine. The bottle has fallen from his grasp and she picks it up and puts it safely on the altar stone in case it starts a fire. Then, shouldering her bag, she sets off for the Rectory.
Bella is a little fed up with Julius; he is becoming mercenary. It seems that the least help or advice now comes with a price attached. He doesn't actually ask, but the general prevarication, the heavy-handed allusions to the limitations of bachelor life and the suggestion that she might like to see his latest example of the taxidermist's art, which just happens to be upstairs, always lead to the same thing. Fortunately on this occasion it only involves a couple of masks, the usual old pelt, and a fox's brush.
But we won't bother ourselves with that, Best Beloved, it's not remotely relevant.
"Can we please take this thing out of my bottom now?" asks Bella.
"Er yes, of course. Allow me." With a small tug Julius removes the bushy, russet-coloured tail, wipes the silvered end with a tissue and carefully lays it back in its box. "It's rather a fine one, isn't it? And I must say you wear it very well. It's a pity you're not a redhead though. I'm really into foxes at the moment; such splendid, resourceful creatures. You wouldn't consider dying your hair, I suppose?"
"No, I wouldn't! Julius, I need to talk about the rare species, on the heath."
"What, now? Oh all right then. But as I've said before, there aren't any, apart from the Dartford warblers, and even they seem to have disappeared."
"Yes, but what if we had some? I mean, what would we need to become an SSSI?"
"Oh I see, a hypothetical case. Well, natterjack toads are good, or sand lizards or smooth snakes. Ideally all three. Now where did I put my dog collar?"
"It's there, on the Bishop's nose. And would that stop them mining the heath?"
Julius considers this. "Well, not necessarily. It would depend on the quality of the habitat and the size of the colony and so on. They might just decide to relocate them. Besides, there's absolutely no chance of finding any if that's what you're thinking. I've combed every square metre, and believe me I'd have found them if they were there. You'd be wasting your time looking."
"But isn't there anything really, really special?" asks Bella. "Something they wouldn't dare move in case it died out entirely? Something so rare it practically doesn't exist?"
Julius begins to pull on his trousers. "Oh well, the ultimate thing would be the European spotty frog, Rana maculosus. They're so rare there's only one known site. It would be wonderful to find another. Funnily enough, the conditions here would be quite suitable; the ponds you know."
That's it then! thinks Bella. The spotty frog! Sounds cute too. You could drum up a lot of sympathy for a creature like that. "And where is this one known site?" she asks, trying to sound casual. "Is it near here?"
Julius shakes his head. "Can't tell you, I'm afraid. Sworn to secrecy. Only a half dozen of us know about it."
Bella pouts. "What, not even tell me — your little witch?"
Julius shakes his head. "No I can't, sorry. Not without consulting the others. Why do you want to know anyway?"
"Because it's a secret," says Bella. "Witches collect secrets, secrets are power. But we're very good at keeping them, as I'm sure you know."
Julius smiles. He likes that sort of talk. Then the familiar, calculating look comes into his eyes. "I suppose . . ." he begins. "No, I honestly don't think I can. It would be a breach of trust."
Bella sighs. She is really not in the mood for this, but it has to be done. Reinserting the tail and adjusting the fur pelt, she crawls over to the bed and kneels in front of him. "Do lady foxes ever go down on gentleman foxes, do you think?" she asks, slowly unzipping his fly.
"Er, no. I shouldn't think so," says Julius. "It wouldn't be very adaptive, would it?" But his fingers are already tangled in her hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
To those who look only at the surface of things, Highton Heath is everything Tenstone is not. Deep in the Dorset countryside, it is, by comparison, a pristine wilderness. No power lines, urban litter or industrial archaeology disfigure its austere beauty, and no barking roar of motorcycles disturbs its almost primeval silence. Walking its stony byways one would scarcely be surprised to meet a Hardyesque furze-cutter plying his prickly trade, or a jolly tranter trotting past in his pony and trap. It is rich in wildlife; it has smooth snakes and sand lizards and natterjack toads and more Dartford warblers than you can shake a stick at. So many, indeed, that they are in danger of becoming not-rare. It even has spotty frogs. But for all that, it is missing one crucial thing: it hasn't got the Stones. And without the Stones, it has no soul. It is just a bit of heath.
As in Tenstone the ponds are scattered along the bottom of a shallow, marshy valley, linked by a meandering stream that dries up entirely in summer. Unlike in Tenstone they are not the by-products of clay mining but are wholly natural. They are marked on the O/S map and so are easy to find, but the spotty frogs inhabit only a small part of one of them, lurking in the dark, ferruginous waters with just their eyes sticking out. Without Julius's reluctant directions they could have searched for days without success. As it is, their problems have only just begun.
It is a dull, overcast day. The air is almost still, for we are now some distance from the sea, and the principal sound issuing from within the encircling thicket of birch and alder is that very particular sort of firm-yet-liquid slap which can only be made by someone casting himself full length into watery mud. This is followed, in precisely fifty percent of cases, by a good deal of vigorous cursing. First we have a relatively small slap, which is McNab, and then we have a much larger SLAP, which is Thurston; here a slap, there a SLAP, and so on. This has been going on for some considerable time; indeed, if the sun were visible, it would be seen to have risen on their efforts and now be starting t
o go down on them.
"Gocha y'wee booger!" cries McNab, triumphantly. He struggles to his feet with his hands cupped together. "Quick, the bucket. The bucket, dammit! Och, I dinna believe it! Hou the hell dae they dae that?" Further off, Thurston is having the same trouble, but without, of course, the constant verbalisation. Spotty frogs might be on the point of extinction, but they are not about to give up without a fight. It is as if they are copiously greased, with springs for legs and the ability to somehow shrink themselves to nothing when required.
"Just look at the state of him," says Pat, nodding towards Thurston. "I suppose it's me that'll have to wash those clothes."
Bella could hate her sometimes; the woman has no romance. Why has fate given to such a dull creature the only man she has ever truly fancied, the man she has waited many lifetimes to meet? Given the chance, she would jump at washing Thurston's clothes (well, putting them through the washing machine) so long as she could wash Thurston too, preferably under a nice, warm shower. She would start at his broad, heavy shoulders and work her way down to his great, square, manly calves, and the water would run down and straighten out the fine, blond hair on his body and she would leap up and wrap her long legs around him and he'd take her to bed, a bed freshly made up, perhaps with those nice lilac sheets and matching pillow-slips with the pretty white lace applique she saw in Barbets the other day. Better still, he could carry her off right now and lay her down on the tussocky grass among the bushes and despite her squirming, giggling protests – for the others might hear – make urgent love to her, and she would end up all wet and smeared with mud and then a spotty frog would jump out of his shirt and they'd laugh. Or better still . . .
"What are you thinking about?" asks Bluebell, looking at her curiously.
Bella jumps, startled. "Nothing, particularly,"
"Yes you were. You were thinking about Thurston. You were looking at him all funny." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Were you thinking about having sex with him?"
"No! Shush!" whispers Bella, colouring despite herself.
"It's all right," says Bluebell. "I won't tell Mum. I don't care who screws him."
Bella frowns thoughtfully at Bluebell in her chaste gingham dress and her Alice-in-Wonderland tresses and wonders, not for the first time, where she is getting this stuff. Not Percy, that's for sure. Then she remembers that Percy's dead. Now, she supposes, there will have to be a Percy III. You can't have the Manor stables without a Percy.
"Ah wis contemplatin some sortae net," says McNab, wading to the bank. "Mebbe a big butterflee net or somethin."
"You could use my shrimp net," volunteers Narcissus.
"He can't, because you haven't got it any more," says Pat, rather sourly. "You left it on the beach, remember?" It seems to Bella that Pat doesn't approve of their project. She has been very quiet and grumpy ever since they set off.
Thurston comes over and points enquiringly at the bucket. "How many have we got?" asks McNab, in his Thurston voice.
Bluebell lifts the cover – a towel – and peers into the murky pond water. "Er . . . none."
"But that's impossible," protests Bella. "There were five. I counted them in."
"Well there are none now. They must have jumped out again."
"Then ah'm giein ower," grumbles McNab. "Ah've bluidy haed it." And he throws himself squelchily down on the bank, dripping duckweed.
Bella hands Thurston a towel. He dries his face and hair with it, smiling at her shyly. Bella smiles back. She feels Pat's eyes boring into her back. She doesn't care.
"Mum," calls Primrose. "what's this stuff?" She has wandered to the other side of the pond and is crouching down, staring into the water.
"I don't know, do I?" snaps Pat. "You'll have to describe it. And keep away from that edge."
"It's like sort of white jelly with black bits in it."
"Frog spawn!" cry Bella and McNab, simultaneously.
They bump home in Roz, Bella cradling the precious bucket on her lap. Given a choice she would much rather have had adults. The spawn will take weeks to turn into tadpoles and then frogs, even supposing nothing eats them first, and time is of the essence. "I still don't see how we can be sure it's spotty frog spawn," she says. "It could be any old frog spawn." "It must be spotty frog spawn, cos it's spotty," says Primrose, logically.
"Frog spawn's always spotty, silly," says Bluebell. "Those little black bits are the baby frogs."
Primrose peers into the bucket again and her mouth drops open in awe. "But there must be hundreds!"
McNab, wrapped in Bluebell's dressing gown, nods in satisfaction. "We'd ne'er hae caucht that mony in a month o Sundays. Ah jist howp ah haena takken a cauld; ah'm a martyr tae the rhinovirus."
"Can we have some to keep?" asks Narcissus.
"No," says Pat. "They're not ours and we should have asked permission first. That's what I think, anyway."
"I thought you didn't believe in property," says Bella sarcastically.
"That's different."
*
At last, the day comes when the Queen of Tenstone is pronounced ready to return to her element. Pat and Bella are the first to be allowed down into the cabin, where they vie with each other in their admiration of the perfect joinery and neat layout. In the months since he arrived, Thurston has worked wonders upon the gloomy, rot and worm ravaged interior. By the use of gleaming varnished timber, cream-painted panelling and deep-buttoned, natural-coloured canvas he has managed to create an atmosphere both modern and authentically Edwardian. It is a work of art.
Bella gazes with delight around the main cabin with its navigation area, its neat galley and its long, fiddled table between comfy-looking banquets, and immediately transfers her affections from dowdy old Roz to this enchanting floating home, imagining swinging at anchor in some sun-kissed foreign port with the gulls wheeling and crying overhead and just her and Thurston aboard.
"But where's the bedroom? she asks. "Where do you sleep?" To her surprise, Thurston points to what she had taken to be mere stowage spaces, up behind the banquets. Bella is amazed. They are so close to the deckhead there appears scarcely enough room to turn over, let alone sit upright. "Gosh they're awfully . . . single," she blurts, and is gratified to see Thurston looking slightly crestfallen. Clearly he agrees.
"Well it's very nice," says Pat, turning to go. "Rat ought to be pleased."
"But ye haena seen the rest o it!" protests McNab. And sliding along a banquet, he disappears, like the white rabbit, through a little low door, so small that they hadn't even noticed it. Bella finds she can follow only by rather inelegantly crouching down. Inside, there is a further cabin, only about five feet high, its two berths coming together at the bows to form a vee shape. One is for Carol, who is sitting quietly upon it, and the other for McNab.
"What's in here?" asks Bella, opening a cupboard. "Oh, it's the lavvy. Gosh, all those pipes!"
"This is the McNab Marine digestin Toilet Mk 1," announces McNab, proudly. "Somethin o a mariteem brakthrou, ah shoud imaigine. Pits by the waste an gies baith heat an' licht; aa wi'oot pollutin the enveeronment." Then, putting on his Thurston voice, he evenhandedly adds: "Load of complicated rubbish, if you ask me. What's wrong wi' a galvanised bucket?"
Thurston nods vehemently, looking grimly satisfied with this translation of his thoughts. Clearly the lavvy is a bone of contention.
"It's very small," observes Pat, peering in.
"And dark," says Bella.
"Och weel, that's coz we're in the boatshed," says McNab defensively. "When we're at sea, it'll be fine. Leuk, there's a wee deck-light ye ken. An' tae mak mair space in here ye jist close yon door. D'ye care tae see hou it works at aa?" Without waiting for a reply he lifts the lid and positions himself realistically on the perfectly circular wooden seat. "First ye perform as ordinar," he explains. "The yin or the tither or, o coorse, baith. Then ye pit doon the lid an' pit these clampers ower an' screw 'em doun guid an' ticht; then ye open the blue cock an' pump this handle ta
e add a bittie watter, if required. D'ye follow?" They nod, mesmerised. "Then ye close the blue cock an' pump this ither wee handle – tae macerate the faeces, ye ken – then ye open this red cock, here, an' pump agin, except ye move the handle frae side tae side, tae transfer it tae the feermentation tank in the bilges. Then ye close the red cock agin an' that's that. The bacteria dae the rest."
"Fascinating," says Bella, raptly. She glances at Thurston, who places his index finger against the side of his head and turns it back and forth. Bella giggles.
The Queen may be ready for sea, but it seems the sea does not care to receive her. Owing to the years of silting, it would need an extra two feet of water to float a vessel of her considerable draught. Alas, Rat's strained finances do not run to a yacht transporter and a craning-in elsewhere. Or so he claims.
"We'll just have to wait awhile, I'm afraid," he says, and refuses to be drawn further; though he does spend hours scrambling over her and checking the work, with evident approval.
"I don't think he wants to let her go," says Veronica. "Don't ask me why."
But McNab is insensible of such psychological subtleties and after a few days' experimentation with various models and much bashing and drilling of scrap metal he comes up with an ingenious mini dredger that attaches to the rear of the launch.
For the next couple of weeks they trundle relentlessly up and down the creek, cutting a narrow channel just wide enough for the Queen of Tenstone's keel. They take turns to work the crank, basically an old mangle, and to empty the buckets. It seems their fate is to be covered in mud, this time the clinging grey ooze of the harbour. A nervous eye is kept on the barometer, for an onshore gale could quickly reverse all their work, but the weather remains, for once, benign. In mid June the little ship on her great, rusty trolley is at last dragged laboriously from the boatshed and down the slipway as far as they can get her, just in time for the highest of the spring tides.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 38
