Bowing to the inevitable, Rat decides to make an occasion of it and have a proper launching ceremony, with champagne. It is a beautiful day in what will prove to be a magnificent summer, with the sun shining brightly in a clear blue sky and just enough breeze to add an air of animation to the scene. The entire population of Windy Point has gathered to watch the fun and a great cheer goes up as Veronica, smartly turned out in navy-blue and white with little anchors on her jacket, swings the bottle of champagne on its long ribbon and at the first attempt cracks it against the Queen of Tenstone's towering stern. Rat, who is waiting in the launch, puts the engine into gear and as the tow-line rises out of the water the little ship begins to move majestically harbourward. Then, rather abruptly, she stops. A burbling roar comes from the launch as Rat piles on the power, but try as he might, she refuses to move any further. She is stuck.
Veronica turns to McNab. "Well, what happens now? I thought you said it would be deep enough."
"Nou dinna fash y'sel,' Veronica," says McNab looking complacently at his watch. "It's no high tide for five meenits yet. There's anither inch or twa tae come."
"You can't predict it to the minute!" protests Veronica. "Tides aren't like that. This may be all you get."
"You'll have to lighten her," shouts Rat, but Thurston is already aboard, hurling over the side anything not nailed down. Rat revs the engine again, but still nothing happens. More substantial fittings are sacrificed: both anchors and their chains, the galley stove, the cabin table, and, after a good deal of rending and crashing down below, the McNab Marine Digesting Toilet, Mk1. This, Thurston throws not onto the adjacent jetty but straight down into the mud, holding it over the side until he is sure of McNab's attention, then, with evident relish, letting it go. McNab, horrified, rushes into the water to salvage his brainchild, making anguished little whimpering noises as he collects up its shattered remains.
Once again Rat guns the launch's engine. Once again nothing happens. The tide is now visibly retreating down the slipway, leaving a widening strip of moist concrete. "Everybody push!" he cries. And after a moment's hesitation, for many are dressed in their finery for the occasion, they all rush into the water, throwing their weight against the Queen's stern and rudderpost. At last, the little ship begins to move, her keel audibly grinding along the bottom. Then, quite suddenly, she is floating free and with Thurston standing proudly at the helm Rat tows her slowly out to her mooring. Left behind in the shallows the pushers wave and cheer.
"And a closer run thing I've never seen," declares Veronica.
"Awch, he didnae hae tae cowp ma cludgie," grumbles McNab. "It wisnae necessar at aa."
"Oh, stop moaning," laughs Bella, and scooping up a handful of harbour she splashes him with it. Scowling, McNab attempts to splash her back, but misses and hits Bluebell. Bluebell, using both hands, immediately retaliates, but also wets Jason, who has squeezed his tubby frame into an ancient but much loved blue velveteen suit, the flared trousers now rolled up to his knees. Jason angrily kicks out and soon everyone is involved in a noisy water fight, even Veronica, up to her axles in water and evidently enjoying herself. Bella looks round for Pat, but she isn't joining in the fun. She is walking away alone towards Roz.
*
In the dry heat of the Winterborne valley, Bella keeps vigil beside the clay ponds, waiting for the first tadpoles to appear. Not being sure what is the best environment for the successful development of frog spawn she has prudently scattered it about; some in the sunshine, some in the shade, some in the shallows and some further out, all carefully tangled among the matted pondweed. She also keeps a little at home, in an old sweetie jar, and her first act each morning is to peer anxiously into it. One day she is excited to find that most of the wriggling black embryos have all at once hatched and are darting busily about. Raiding the fridge she gives them their first breakfast, cold diced chicken. For a week they live high on the hog: leg of lamb on Sunday, cold lamb on Monday, pork chops on Tuesday (and again, cold, on Wednesday, because Wednesday is curry, which probably wouldn't be suitable). Dover sole follows on Friday and fillet mignon (a special treat) on Saturday. Then the water becomes murky, and they die.
In the ponds, meanwhile, there is less and less spawn to be found with each passing day, and as yet no sign of any tadpoles at all. Are they starving? Are they hiding? Are they being eaten? She would dearly like to ask Julius for advice, but that would mean admitting what she has done and she is not sure if she can trust him. Nor does she wish to play 'fox and vixen' again, still less 'rutting stag' or 'raped by a bear.'
The only person she wants to have sex with, now or ever, is Thurston. From being simply infatuated with his beauty she has gradually fallen hopelessly in love with him; a love such as she has never known before, in this or any of her many lives. He is the sun and moon to her and she can think of little else. When she is with him, she is in heaven; when apart, bereft. Even her perceptions have changed: colours are somehow brighter, more intense, and the world more three-dimensional than it was before. It is an extraordinary passion considering they have never had a proper conversation, nor even touched each other (except when their knees once became entangled under the table during a game of Scrabble, and even that was like an electric shock). She has become a lovesick teenager again, drooping and sighing about the place with an unread book in her hand or spinning sweaty fantasies in her lonely bed, with the handle of her hairbrush standing in – surely inadequately? – for the object of her desire.
For a while there is a certain bittersweet pleasure in this revisiting of her virgin years, but eventually she begins to tire of waiting and becomes annoyed. She knows very well that he fancies her, for his wonderful, golden aura reaches out to her daily with an eagerness to match her own, so why doesn't he do something about it? When he first arrived, she was always catching him looking at her with lust in his eyes, but now he even seems to avoid being alone with her. So calm and impassive is his customary expression and so casual, albeit unfailingly polite, his treatment of her that if she were not an adept she would probably be unaware that her feelings were reciprocated. And, of course, he never utters a word.
Surely it can't be for love of Pat that he spurns her? Dull and dowdy Pat, with her ridiculous grey pigtails and shapeless, second-hand clothes. Pat the prude, who probably won't even sleep with him. It is all very odd. She could, of course, precipitate matters with a spell, but that would be cheating, and she doesn't want to cheat, she desperately wants it to come from him. If this is for life, as surely it would be, she doesn't want to remember in their dotage that she had to trick him into loving her.
To add to her troubles, her frustration seems to have transmitted itself to her mother. Or perhaps it is just the warmer weather. Whatever the reason she has returned from her winter absence with a vengeance, discomfiting her with her inappropriate sexual responses, including, to Bella's huge embarrassment, flirting shamelessly with one of the Ferryman's prettier female regulars. They are, she begins to realise, a type: young, blonde and jutting of bosom, like Jacqui. And, now she comes to think of it, like the long lost Hélène. She now knows, of course, that this is why she was abandoned as a child for weeks at a time — for the delights of Hélène's bed. Thanks a bunch, Mummy.
But there is worse still. Underlying all the doubt, frustration and emotional turmoil is an obscure but growing ache or urge, a sort of soggy, dissatisfied feeling, like missing something you never had, which she gradually comes to identify – horrors! – as broodiness. It most certainly isn't coming from her; she isn't nearly ready for babies. Clearly she is being subtly nagged to start thinking about her replacement. Well, tough. At this moment in her life it would be highly inconvenient to say the least.
Bella in the village, posting letters for Aunty. Bella cycling back from work along the high-hedged lanes. Bella going to and from her duties at the Stones. Wherever she is, there, too, is John Rook, riding by on his big roan gelding or slouching towards her, his gun over his arm, his dog
s at his heel. Does he ever actually work, she wonders? Something always happens when they so tiresomely meet, some strange, involuntary chemistry. On his part, an awkward, stiff propriety, quite unlike his manner with, say, Miranda. On hers, a coquettish condescension, a touch-me-not come hither; all in the eyes, the set of the head, neither of them seeming to have much say in the matter.
"Good morning John."
Touching his cap: "Miss Bella."
"Lovely day."
"Looks like rain ter me."
"Oh but rain can be so cosy, if you're in a hayloft or somewhere. I think so anyway."
"Don't get much time for that, Miss."
She would avoid him if she could, duck behind a furze bush or affect not to see him; but something always forces her to confront him, to say these stupid things, to put herself in his way
"Mummy."
"Yes dahling?"
"Is it you, doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"You know — with John."
"It's time, dahling, that's all."
"But I'm not ready!"
"Ready or not, it's time. He knows, even if you don't. They always know."
"Well blow him! And blow you! I won't do it; not unless it's with Thurston."
"He isn't suitable; you know that."
"He's tall, and strong and beautiful and I love him."
"He's the wrong colouring! He's got to be dark for goodness' sake. And he's stupid. Do you want the next Priestess to be stupid?"
"He is not stupid! He's just built a boat. Could you build a boat?"
"He's got tattoos," contemptuously.
"That doesn't mean anything!"
"Anyway, he doesn't want you, he wants Pat."
"That's not true! It's me he loves, not her. He's just shy, that's all."
"He's not the one. You know who it is, get on with it. You can have Thurston afterwards if you must, but no good will come of it, mark my words."
Resignedly. "I'll do it soon, okay? Just don't hassle me. What do you mean, no good will come of it?"
A few days after the launching of the Queen, now rocking gently on her moorings, Veronica invites Thurston and McNab back to lunch. Bella looks forward to these occasions. They are a chance to have Thurston to herself for an hour or two, without Pat. In her room she dresses with eager care. She has it in mind to try a nautical theme today: a pair of old espadrilles, some piratical-looking sawn-off trousers and a red and white striped top. Who knows, perhaps they might ask her to join the crew?
She is just pondering what colour lipstick goes best with the stripes when she suddenly finds herself tearing it all off again, hurling it into a corner in disgust. This is hopeless, a complete waste of time! The way things are going she could be pregnant in a few weeks, serviced like a mare by a man she doesn't even like. She is entitled to a little happiness first, surely? Going to a drawer she gets out her grimoire, a scrapbook filled with spells clipped or copied from books and magazines, and sits leafing through it.
"Bella," calls Veronica. "Are you going to help me get this lunch?" Bella locks the door.
The weather is now so hot that meals are mostly taken on the balcony, with the gulls squabbling noisily on the roof above them and the water sparkling below. It is Saturday and the great harbour is filled with a multitude of sails. Many of the yachts on the nearby moorings have also come to life, and dinghies laden with dogs, children and groceries are plying between them and the shore. Rat is kept busy waving his pipe and exchanging greetings and banter with the various skippers.
Against this lively backdrop Bella sets out the meal as usual. (Ever since she took up waitressing everyone seems to think this is her role in life). Only professional discipline prevents her dropping the plates she is holding when someone where no-one should be suddenly clears his throat behind her. It is McNab. Turning to the balcony railing, she finds that most of his improbable elevation is due to Thurston, her love's great, leonine head caught between his scraggy thighs. The effect is of a totem-pole of rather uneven quality.
"If ah've seen further, it is by sittin on the shoulders o giants," declaims McNab portentously.
"You made me jump!" chides Bella, then remembers herself and smiles winningly at his reluctant mount. "Hello Thurston; or should that be Sinbad?" Thurston smiles hesitantly back, looking her up and down.
Veronica appears, shaking her head in disbelief. "You haven't lost the tender again?"
"Och weel, mebbe a bit," admits McNab. "But it wisnae ma fault! The stupit bluidy thing jist wandert aff in the nicht." He tugs at Thurston's pigtail. "Ah wish tae disembark."
Nothing loath, Thurston deposits him, none too gently, onto the balcony.
"Poor Thurston," says Bella sympathetically. "He's got you all muddy again." Thurston nods mournfully before going off to wash.
"Lucky it wasn't high tide," laughs Rat. "He'd have needed a snorkel."
They sit at the wrought-iron table, McNab shovelling down his lunch as if he has just returned from a long and punishing voyage instead of spending a quiet night on the moorings. Thurston, as usual, eats very little. Now and again, when he thinks she isn't looking, he sneaks a furtive peak at Bella. It's working! she thinks. And so quick too! At last he nudges McNab and nods meaningfully towards her.
"Bella? Whit aboot her?" says McNab, with his mouth full. Thurston frowns, nudging and nodding harder. McNab turns to observe her more closely. "Och ay! Ah see whit y'mean." And in his Thurston voice says: "Er, would that be my old rugby shirt, Bella? It looks very like it."
"Yes it is," says Bella, standing up to do a twirl. "What do you think?" She is wearing a narrow white belt, to make it more of a dress, and matching shoes.
"I think it looks tarty, that's what I think," says Veronica. "I can see your bottom."
"Don't be silly, Aunty, I've got my new bikini on. Would you like to see it, Thurston?" Thurston looks embarrassed, smiles and shrugs, all at the same time. Bella thinks that perhaps he really is a little shy. She decides to model it for him later.
"Well, I hope you wouldn't go to the village in it," grumbles Veronica. How are you enjoying life afloat, McNab? It must seem strange after all those months in the boatshed."
"Och it's a fine life, Veronica," enthuses McNab. "A wunnerfu life. Gang whaur ye want, whan ye want, and the wind tae tak ye there. Ah believe ah wis shapit for it, a natural seaman. An' Carol's takken tae it like a duck tae watter."
Everybody laughs.
"Is there anything in the bilges yet?" asks Rat.
"No a drap, Ratty."
"And the rigging?"
"Fine. Stretchin' a bittie, like ye said."
"And you're happy about adjusting it? The deadeyes and everything."
"Ay, suir, nae problem. But will ye no be comin aboard yersel? Whan can we stairt the trials?"
"I suppose we could go Tuesday, if you like," says Rat, rather obviously trying to sound casual. "I can't manage Monday. That's if the forecast's all right. Suit you Thurston?" Thurston nods eagerly.
"Can I come too?" asks Bella. To her delight, Thurston turns to look at her, quite boldly and openly now. How amazing that the answer should lie in her wardrobe all along. And of course she could easily have worn that old shirt again anyway, so it isn't really cheating at all. Of course, she had to say the right words as well, but she decides to gloss over that. It was really a very simple spell, as spells go. She wonders if his underpants would have done, or his socks, or even one sock. Perhaps it would have taken longer with just one sock.
"O coorse ye can come, Bella," says McNab for both of them. "It'd be an honour."
"I think they ought to put a few sea miles behind them first," cautions Rat. "An untried ship and an untried crew. They've got a big learning curve ahead of them." "Awch!" complains McNab, clearly affronted. He already considers himself a seasoned voyager.
Thurston turns to him. He puts his thumb and forefinger together, raises a pinky and waggles his hand delicately in front of his lips. "Tea?" says Mc
Nab. "Och weel, ah guess that's better'n naethin." He turns and says in his best Thurston voice. "Bella, McNab and I request the pleasure of your company for afternoon tea." Thurston smiles at her, then looks away, suddenly shy again.
"I should be delighted," says Bella, formally "When?"
"Whit aboot tomorrow?" says McNab. "We coud hae a party: Ratty, an' Veronica, an' Pat o coorse, an' mebbe Bluebell, if she's interestit."
"I'm afraid I can't make tomorrow," says Rat.
"It sounds lovely, but I think you'll have to count me out too," says Veronica, a little sadly, "It wouldn't really be very practical I'm afraid."
"More wine, Thurston?" asks Rat, by way of changing the subject.
"Yes please," says McNab automatically, but Thurston shakes his head. He is getting up to go.
"Then I'd better take the launch out and look for that tender of yours," says Rat. "You coming?"
"No, Thurston's going to help me do the washing up," says Bella.
"He doesn't have to do that!" cries Veronica. "He's our guest."
"He wants to, don't you Thurston?"
In the kitchen, Bella gives Thurston a tea towel. He stands holding it awkwardly in front of him, very ill at ease. He seems completely out of place in an ordinary house, a bit like bringing Bucephalus indoors. Bella smiles at him fondly. Putting her arms round his neck she reaches up and kisses him. How wonderful it is to be able to kiss a man without first having to kick off one's shoes, bend at the knees, collapse all one's vertebrae. Thurston looks furtively out of the window. He holds her for a few moments then gently pushes her away. "What's the matter?" asks Bella. "You want me without the shirt, is that it?"
*
The dim headlights barely penetrate the driving rain as Bella cranes forward, peering through the windscreen. There is something there, something on the road. Two yellow eyes stare up at her. It's a cat! Bella, braking fiercely, steers hard right. Cat scampers right. Bella steers left. Cat scampers left.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 39
