"Look out, we're going to crash!" cries Jacqui, grabbing at the wheel.
"Of course we're going to crash," says Bella. "We always crash. You should know that by now." She waits calmly for the impact. She has no control, she will just have to let it happen, wants it to happen.
"Blimey, a bear!" exclaims Jacqui wonderingly. "Gosh, he's a bit moth-eaten, isn't he?"
Bella, falls drunkenly backwards onto the bed. "That, I'll have you know, is the Right Reverend Geoffrey Godwit, Bishop of Penchester."
"Really?" giggles Jacqui, starting to undress. "Well I hope he's broad minded."
Bella's slumber is disturbed by the high, scolding voice of a woman. It is Pat, somewhere outside in the darkness.
"I told you!" she declares. "It's the way I am. I can't help it, so you'll jolly well have to lump it." And a little later: "Why? Why do you want to? You never wanted to before. You've never shown the slightest interest in that sort of thing until now." And later still: "No, I won't try . . . Because it's pointless, that's why. I'm not in the slightest bit interested and never will be . . . Well you'll just have to do it on your own, won't you? . . . All right, clear off then, see if I care."
Still half asleep, Bella is at first confused. No-one else seems to be speaking, or rather shouting, only Pat. Is she having a row with herself? Then she realises the other person must be Thurston. But what can it be about? Sex? Is she denying him sex? Wow! But why has he waited until now to ask for it? Is it because she, Bella, kissed him today? Has the touch of her sensual lips stirred a dormant passion, so great it cannot be denied? Double wow! But if he wants sex, why doesn't he come to her? She could really, really do with some right now. And where is he proposing to go? Pat said he should clear off on his own. Where to? And why won't she go with him?
Frowning, Bella gets out of bed and noiselessly opens the window. She contemplates astrally projecting herself into the vicinity of the boatshed, where Pat's uncharacteristically angry voice suggests they are walking back and forth, but that would take time; it might be all over by then and she'd miss it. She wonders how on earth Thurston manages to communicate on these occasions. Sign language? Mime? A notepad? Surely it's too dark for a notepad?
"You're becoming obsessed with her!" cries Pat suddenly. "D'you know that? You never think about anything else! It's very boring. You're, you're . . . infatuated."
It's me! thinks Bella triumphantly. She can only mean me! It's me he wants and now he's trying to break it to her. The spell really worked!
"It, I should say," rants Pat, correcting herself. "You're becoming obsessed with it, an inanimate object, a thing. It's just a stupid lump of wood and metal – someone else's lump of wood and metal, I might remind you – and you've fallen in love with it, haven't you? Head over heels in love with a stupid old boat. What would you say if I fell in love with Roz? You'd think I was mad."
Well if she thinks she has to compete with a boat she's pretty sad, thinks Bella, going back to bed. Her contempt for her rival knows no bounds. Doesn't she know anything about men?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Reclining in the sternsheets of the Queen of Tenstone's tender, Bella trails a languid hand in the water, occasionally entrapping a fragment of floating seaweed or a tiny, translucent crab. For this very special occasion she has chosen a lovely high-necked blouse and matching skirt, very much like a female guest might have worn in Edwardian times, and to complete the effect she is holding a pretty little lace-trimmed parasol that she found in Bradport Oxfam.
Thurston is rowing: long, lazy, deceptively powerful strokes that send the little dinghy fairly flying over the water. With each pull on the oars the muscles of his naked arms, thighs and torso ripple quite delightfully, while under the hot sun the seductive aroma of fresh male sweat begins to mingle with those of salt marsh and heath. McNab, of course, is wearing his usual disgusting anorak, as if exposure to sunlight might kill him. He is crouching in the bows, a rebarbative figurehead, occasionally calling out directions.
Ordinarily the Queen's mooring is an easy, five-minute pull offshore, but it is again a spring tide, with not enough water left in the bay even to cover the ankles of the wading birds, let alone float a dinghy. Rather than wait, and waste half the perfect afternoon, they have decided to follow what remains of the creek as it meanders in long, leisurely curves among the poppling mud banks.
"Will she be afloat?" asks Bella, eyeing doubtfully the grounded vessels all around them. Some stand solid and upright on stubby twin keels, but others, deprived of their element, lie on the mud at uncomfortable-looking angles. She doesn't think she would like to take tea in one of those.
"Och ay, she's fine," says McNab. "She titcht bottom for mebbe an oor yestreen, that's aa. Hey, ca'canny o that withy, man!"
Glancing behind him, Thurston lifts an oar and they glide safely past. Every twist and turn of the creek is marked by one of these drunkenly leaning, age-blackened posts, and every withy has an equally dark cormorant perched upon it, its wings hung out to dry.
Clearing her throat dramatically, Bella recites:
"The cormorant or common shag,
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason you will see no doubt
It is to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds
Have never noticed is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs."
She glances coquettishly at Thurston, wondering if he noticed her special stress on the word 'shag'. He is certainly grinning. He has a particularly wide, rather cruel grin, displaying what seem like several octaves of strong white teeth. Bella feels a delicious little anticipatory shudder. Today it will happen; she knows it. She has even taken the precaution of bringing a packet of condoms (having reluctantly given up the pill in preparation for her presumably imminent impregnation by Rook). There is only one impediment to her plan, the ever present McNab.
"Have you got your fiddle with you, McNab?" she asks, innocently.
"Ay, o coorse."
"And plenty of hooch?"
"Ay, ah've a bottle or twa. Why d'ye ask?"
"Oh, I just thought you might like to give us a tune or two later. You know, sea shanties and things."
"Och ay, suir. Glad tae obleege, Bella," says McNab amiably; and an instant later: "Tak tent, y'lubber! Mair tae starboard! Gae 'er some starboard air, d'ye hear?"
Thurston winks at Bella and obliges.
"No that wey!" cries McNab, waving his arms wildly. "Port air then, dammit! Ye'll hae us on the clabber in a meenit yer great numpty!"
At the mouth of the creek, beside the ever-flowing current of the estuarine Wimble, is a cluster of moorings for deeper-keeled craft, and on the last of these, looking very much the new girl in her fresh, dark-green livery, lies the Queen of Tenstone. Turning under her graceful stern, Thurston hands Bella solicitously up the side, then follows, leaving McNab to make fast.
"Welcome abuird, Bella!" cries McNab, following them into the cockpit. And in his Thurston voice: "Ay, welcome aboard, Bella. Eh lass, I almost forgot me manners."
Thurston scowls at him.
Clinging awkwardly to something large and wooden, she knows not what, Bella gazes about her. It is all very different from the dusty darkness of the boatshed. Where before there was a ten-foot drop to the floor there is now sparkling water, and where there were roof beams and corrugated iron, there is now a stout mast rising vertiginously above her head, its lofty top describing small circles against the sky. Indeed, everything is in motion: the water, the shadows, the cotton-wool clouds reflected in the gleaming, varnished cabin top, even the deck beneath her feet. It engenders the same slightly out of control feeling as dancing when tipsy.
"What's this thing," she asks, eager to begin learning. "A pillory?"
"That, Bella?" says McNab. "Er, the boom gallows, we call that."
"Gallows? Goodness! Is that the same as a yardarm?"
<
br /> McNab shakes his head. "Och naa, it praps the boom, ye ken, when ye dinna happen tae be usin it."
"And this thing is the boom?"
"Ay, a fine, sturdy spar; somethin' tae evite whan we're unner wey."
"Oh, why?"
"Why? Coz it can tak yer heid aff, that's why! Or pit ye owerbuird."
"I see. I'll have to remember that. What's it for, exactly?"
"The boom? Och, surely ye ken that!"
"No, I don't. I don't know anything. I wouldn't be asking if I did."
"Hmm, weel. It hauds oot the bottom o' the sail ye see. An' that ither stick, we call that the gaff. It dis the same at the top."
"Like a curtain rod?"
"Ay, if y'like."
Thurston nods in eager corroboration. He indicates the new, red-brown sail neatly stowed twixt gaff and boom with its pile of hoops encircling the mast and begins a comical mime suggesting the hauling of much rope while looking aloft.
"Hornpipe!" cries Bella, laughing.
"He means there's no a bluidy halyard winch," says McNab cynically.
"And what are those ladder things?" asks Bella, pointing at the rigging. "Do I have to climb them?"
"Ratlines," says McNab. "Ratty says ye hae tae climb tae the verra top an' staund on the truck o the maist. Then ye're a sailor."
"Gosh! And have you done that?"
"Och ay, mony's the time."
Down below, the table is already laid for tea. The bright sunshine, streaming in through the skylights, slides across three sorts of sandwich, a Battenberg cake, and, of course, McVitie's chocolate digestive biscuits. There is even a trifle.
Everything is remarkably neat and shipshape, far more so than ever it was ashore. She supposes they must have made a special effort to please her, especially with the tea. Fancy making a trifle! What a pity the others couldn't be here to enjoy it . . . not!
"Ah'll pit the kettle on," says McNab. "An' then ah'll see if Carol's ready. She'll still be titivatin hersel maist likely." He reaches into the cupboard under the stove and turns a tap. "We're haein tae use bottled gas the nou; jist till ma digester comes on stream. It'll tak awee tae hicht the pressure ye ken. Will ye no use the heid, at aa, while ye're waitin? That's whit we sailors ca the shunky. Ivery bittie helps."
"Not just at the moment, thank you," says Bella. "I thought you'd decided to do away with all that stuff."
"No at aa!" says McNab indignantly. "'That stuff,' as ye call it, is an inteegral part o the design. He glowers balefully at Thurston, "Efter it wis temporarily dismantled ah teuk the opportunity tae expand the system somewhit. It's linked tae the engine nou, wi a special carburettor. As lang as there's fuid aboord we'll hae motive power. Wad ye like tae see?
"Perhaps later," says Bella, glancing at Thurston. Thurston raises his eyes to heaven and despairingly shakes his head.
After tea, the four of them sit together in the cockpit, enjoying the cooler air and a bottle of wine. McNab and Thurston discuss the merits and demerits of every passing vessel, occasionally engaging in mild argument on some arcane point – with McNab, of course, taking both parts – while Bella observes their crews through Carol's splendid brass telescope. McNab has also found her a pirate's hat complete with a skull and crossbones. She looks very fetching in it.
When there are no interesting people to look at, Bella turns her attention to the distant Bittern hills, observing the ancient barrows that dot their skyline and the grey bulk of Bittern Castle, quite sharp and clear today in its steep-sided pass. In the other direction, she can just make out the manor house, almost hidden among the trees, and, away to the right, the greyish circle of the Tenstones. It is two whole days since she was last there and the sight of them makes her feel edgy and guilty. Tomorrow, she promises. Definitely tomorrow. Turning the glass closer to hand she focusses instead on the bungalow and buildings of Windy Point. Here she is rather surprised to see Pat. She is standing on the foreshore and apparently staring in their direction. This is unusual. Pat never seems to go near the water's edge, except on special occasions like the launching of the Queen. In fact, she seldom strays far from Roz, unless to go shopping or visit the library or have coffee with Aunty.
Bella is about to say, "Look, there's Pat," when she thinks better of it. McNab would probably want to go and fetch her, which would be embarrassing for everyone. In any case she has already turned away from them and is walking slowly back up the slipway. Is she, perhaps, regretting last night's quarrel? Well it's too late for that now. It already seems almost laughable that such a dull, mousy creature ever seriously thought she had a claim on someone as wonderful as Thurston. She must surely have known that such a terrible mismatch could only end in tears. But with her adept's deep empathy, Bella realises her rival might nevertheless be feeling quite upset, if only for what might have been. She resolves to make a special point of being nice to her.
Gradually, the encroaching tide transforms the bay. The creek and the mud banks disappear beneath the lapping water; the grounded yachts and other craft float off and the cormorants recommence their fishing. It is wonderfully peaceful and quiet on this, their very own floating island, surrounded by the little silvery wavelets and bobbing gulls, and it occurs to Bella that here, if nowhere else, the blasted Jellicle cats cannot follow. Over the past weeks they have slowly become more numerous and she is seldom free of their oddly sinister presence. Even now she cannot help turning and peering suspiciously along the deck, almost expecting to see one disappearing behind the cabin top. She wishes she had never gone to Mrs Wren's. If she hadn't, she might never have known about them. Why have they battened so firmly onto her? She isn't feeding them any more, so what is the attraction?
She wishes, too, that she had never met Jacqui; not just for the obvious reasons but because of her constant intrusion into her thoughts and dreams. Sometimes she wonders if her mother's and her own mental processes are truly separate, so frequently do images of that odious young woman present themselves. She often recalls that first journey home from London. They definitely weren't separate then, they were all mixed up. Has she been lying to her all this time? Bella shakes her head crossly. She shouldn't be brooding on these things now; she should be thinking of Thurston.
As the midsummer sun dips towards the western end of the Bitterns and the shadows lengthen across the bay McNab needs little encouragement to turn from wine to hooch and get down to some serious drinking. Then, tuning up his fiddle he treats them to a splendid concert of rousing sea shanties, with those who will – which is to say, Bella – singing enthusiastically along. It seems an unusually long while before he begins slowly to sway back and forth as he plays and his eyelids start to droop.
"Sleepy time?"asks Bella hopefully.
"Ay, ah micht jisht tak a wee nap the nou," slurs McNab. "It musht be the sea air." He attempts to stand, but instead topples forwards. Bella gently catches him before he can fall to the deck. Taking his fiddle off him, she swings his legs round so that he is lying on the cockpit seat. Within moments he is snoring peacefully. They are free! Suddenly wet with desire she picks her way forward.
Thurston is sitting by himself on the foredeck, gazing shoreward, with his legs dangling over the side.
"I thought he'd never go off," says Bella in a comic voice. Settling herself beside him, she reaches down and wriggles a toe in the water. It's surprisingly warm, almost as warm as the evening air. "We could go for a swim later," she says, adding suggestively, "to cool off."
Thurston doesn't look up. He seems rather quiet and pensive. "Hey, what's the matter?" says Bella. "We're all by ourselves at last. Isn't that great?" Thurston half glances at her then looks away. Has he been sulking? Was it because she was having a good time singing, and he wasn't? She decides to ignore it. "I know what's the matter with you," she says. She pulls him towards her and kisses him passionately. "There! That's for starters."
Thurston sighs. He sits back, his hands flat on the deck behind him and gives her a long, speculative stare, a
lmost as if he hasn't really seen her before. Reaching out he brushes a stray lock of hair away from her face, then runs his fingers surprisingly delicately down her cheek. Bella shivers. She is reminded of that old television series, 'The Hulk,' such a huge, potentially dangerous creature, yet so gentle. Then, quite suddenly, he breaks into the same wolfish grin she saw earlier and pushes her to the deck.
"I think we'd better go below, don't you?" says Bella as they come up for air.
The Queen is not designed for love. Her accommodations, previously so charming, now seem very small and cramped, with an abundance of sharp corners. The two banquettes are hard and upright and set uncompromisingly close to the table. Even the irregularly shaped floor is out of the question. They are forced to embrace standing under a skylight, the only place with sufficient headroom. Thurston glances desperately at his narrow, coffin-like bunk. "I don't think so," says Bella, firmly. Then, simultaneously, they have the same idea — the forecabin!
Shedding clothes as they go, they duck through the Alice-hole into McNab's cramped and foetid lair, right in the eyes of the boat. The carnal possibilities of the V-berth are immediately obvious. Sitting with her back against the yacht's broad stem, Bella swings one long leg onto McNab's tumbled bedding and the other, shamelessly, onto Carol's as Thurston, kneeling between her wide-spread thighs, pulls her urgently onto him. Bella groans happily. He is magnificent, all she has dreamed of, definitely an advance on the hairbrush.
Are you there, Mummy? Can you feel it? We're being fucked! We're being fucked by the most beautiful man in the world, with the biggest, hardest cock in the world, and if you don't like it you can jolly well find another body.
In the hot little cabin, time stops. There is no hurry now; they have forever. Sweat glazes their bodies. The only sounds are their breathing and the gentle slapping of the wavelets against the hull. In the soft twilight they gaze raptly down at their lovemaking, the gentle rolling and pitching of the boat adding a delicious counterpoint to their own slow rhythm.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 40
