Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

"Bitch . . . bitch . . . bitch . . . bitch!" he grunts before finishing with the usual series of little jerks.

  That'll do nicely, thinks Bella with grim satisfaction. She is suddenly aware of an unusual noise. It's one of those noises you can immediately identify, even if you've never heard it before — the full, rich sound, filled with complex harmonics, of a fiddle violently contacting a pair of naked buttocks. "McNab, no!" she cries.

  Rook explodes out of the Land Rover with an angry roar, then immediately falls over his trousers. Bella begins to laugh. She feels oddly hysterical.

  "Och, it's ruint," sobs McNab, pointlessly trying to re-fit the fiddle's fingerboard to its splintered body. "Look at it; it's ruint. It'll ne'er play agin."

  "Well I'm not surprised, if you go around hitting people with it," says Bella, unsympathetically. "You shouldn't have interfered." A familiar feeling reminds her that she hasn't heeded her mother's advice. She ought to be lying down.

  "That's no fair!" cries McNab. "Ah thocht . . . Ah thocht . . . Och, ah dinna ken whit ah thocht."

  Bella is chastened. She bends awkwardly, trying to hold her thighs together, and puts an arm round him. "Oh look, I'm sorry. That was a horrible thing to say. I'm really sorry, okay? You were very brave, defending my honour and everything, and I'm a horrible ungrateful wretch. Look, I'll buy you another fiddle, how about that? A better one."

  McNab brightens. "Will ye, Bella? Ye'd really dae that?"

  "Yes, we'll go tomorrow. There's a place in Pinebourne I think. Just so long as you promise not to tell Thurston. About tonight, I mean."

  McNab considers this, a calculating look appearing on his rebarbative features. "An' a bow an' a spare set o strings?"

  "Yes, all right. Look, I've got to go. Will you be okay?"

  The little man fetches out a scrap of tissue and dabs at his now even more misshapen nose. "Ay, ah daursay."

  After she has gone, McNab remains sitting on the kitchen steps, alone in the darkness.

  "Bella an' Simon," he mutters, "then Bella an' Julius, then Bella an' Thurston, then Bella an' Rook! Except she's mairit nou — mairit on Thurston! Then hou can it be Bella an' Rook? Ah dinna comprehend it at aa."

  With which, belatedly, he keels over and goes to sleep.

  *

  A peaceful Sunday aboard the Queen, the soft reflections of little wavelets playing gently on the walls and ceilings of the cabin. It is well past ten but Bella has not yet fully risen. She is still in her jimjams, reclining against Thurston on the starboard banquette. She has already planned her day: she is going to do nothing, just laze about and wallow in a wonderful warm, gooey feeling of contentment and happiness. And why not? Hasn't she earned it? By her own efforts she has a job she likes, a gorgeous new husband, a lovely little floating home and, best of all, her period is late. She is going to have a baby!

  Bella looks down and covertly pats her still perfectly flat tummy. Amazing to think that somewhere in there, a little bundle of cells is developing into the two hundred and twenty-fourth Priestess of the Stones. After a certain amount of soul-searching she has decided to pass her off as Thurston's. She doesn't see why she should have a conscience about it. Hundreds of women do it every day without even the excuse of duty. Anyway, he's hardly likely to find out. John won't talk, and what could be more natural than that the daughter should resemble the mother? Theoretically, of course, she might just be Thurston's – they haven't exactly been careful – but she knows somehow that John is the father, that another generation of the dark, brooding, solitary Rooks, hereditary progenitors of priestesses, has done its brief duty; albeit with an astonishingly bad grace.

  She doesn't, as it happens, actually feel very pregnant yet, no sore breasts or anything like that, but she knows it's the real thing all right from the almost immediate and very exciting change in her aura; it positively hums with new vitality. Probably it will take a few days for the merely corporeal part of her to catch up. She will have to get a book on it, or ask Miranda. No, on second thoughts perhaps she won't ask Miranda.

  It is McNab's turn to cook breakfast. Usually she lets him off and does it herself, but she doesn't see why she should put herself out in her condition. He has unwrapped the bacon – laying it, with enormous concentration, in the pan – and now, with his big clumsy fingers, he is attempting to peel the mushrooms. Bella, her mouth watering in anticipation, is already smelling in her mind's nose the lovely, yummy smell that will soon spread though the ship. Food always smells and tastes better on board than on dry land.

  Thurston is reading, studying a thick tome on celestial navigation. The forthcoming voyage has become his new obsession and with the aid of what seems like half of Wimbleford library he has embarked on a crash course in navigation and seamanship, even proposing to sign up for evening classes. It is odd to see him doing something so cerebral, and surprising to note how quickly he turns the pages. Surely, thinks Bella, he cannot be that fast a reader? She lifts her head and checks that he has the book the right way up. He has.

  It crosses her mind that among the many things she doesn't know about him are his previous career and scholastic achievements. But in truth she doesn't much care. After her initial burst of curiosity about him she has decided that she prefers the mystery of not knowing. Most people are pretty boring, after all, and this way he can be whatever she wants him to be; a blank canvas upon which she can paint her own rich fantasies. He can be a brain surgeon with amnesia, a hunted criminal, a saint. He can be a sexual adventurer, a serial bigamist, or an escaped monk eager for life's experience and she his first lover. She can have a different husband every day if she wants. He, of course, knows practically everything about her. She has told him her whole life story. Well, almost.

  McNab seems to have stopped getting the breakfast. Instead, with the help of his toolkit, he is performing some lengthy operation under the sink. This is slightly annoying as she is becoming rather hungry. Perhaps her body is already telling her to eat for two.

  "McNab, what are you doing?"

  "Hmm? Jist makkin a wee adjistment. Ah'll no be lang."

  "What sort of adjustment?"

  "Ye'll see suin eneuch."

  "Well can't you leave it till later? We want our breakfast."

  "An' ye shall hae it, Bella, a verra speicial brakfast. Jist as suin as ah've finished."

  Bella looks up at Thurston. "Do you know what he's doing?"

  Thurston peers studiously over his book at McNab, now crammed half inside the sink-cupboard, and sighs. He mimes turning on an invisible tap with one hand while holding his nose with the other. Then, striking an invisible match on an invisible matchbox, he throws himself violently backwards, covering his eyes with his arms.

  "He's changing over from bottled gas to that stupid, home-produced methane of his," interprets McNab from inside the cupboard. "And of course it'll never work."

  At last he stands up again and strikes a match, a real one this time. Thurston immediately throws himself across Bella, shielding her body with his. Bella giggles and kisses him.

  "Verra funny," says McNab.

  They wait, but after a while it is clear that nothing is coming out. McNab tries all the other taps. Nothing there either. He frowns and ducks down again under the sink, adjusting this and that. "Ach, whit's the maiter wi it? It shoud be fine."

  Thurston sits up again, grinning broadly and shaking his head. Bella makes a 'don't be cruel' face at him.

  "Ha!" says McNab, stabbing a finger in the air. He falls to his knees, lifts a grating from the floor and reaching into the bilges, plies his spanner. Suddenly a distinct hissing noise comes from the stove. Jumping up, he strikes another match. There is a small pop as the gas catches and a nice blue flame. "There!" he cries. "Oh ye o little faith!"

  "It really works!" exclaims Bella. "Real poo gas! Isn't that amazing? McNab, you're a genius."

  "Nou ah jist hae tae fill the kettle," says McNab casually, "set it on the hob, thuslywys, an' proceed tae ebullition. Nae problem." He sp
oons coffee into their three mugs and goes to the McNab Mk III evaporating cooler. "Ach, damn!"

  "What's the matter?"

  "There's nae milk. It'll hae tae be black."

  "It's all right," says Bella getting up and stretching. "I'll go and get some. It'll give me an appetite for breakfast. Aunty's bound to have some left, and I'll see if I can't cadge a Sunday paper at the same time. I'm getting to quite like rowing."

  "Your aunt will sink the ship at this rate," says Rat, staggering under the weight of two bags of donated provisions. What's this thing?"

  "Mr Grumpy," says Bella. "I'm missing him."

  "I thought you had McNab for a mascot."

  "I'd gladly swop. It gets a bit crowded with three."

  Bella abruptly stops and gazes across the water at the Queen. Something has drawn her attention; an odd stillness, as if the old ship has taken and held a breath. Afterwards she will tell how she was halfway down the slipway and running, even before the explosion. As she reaches the dinghy there is a great, rending crack, like fabric torn violently asunder, and all the yacht's deck-lights and hatch covers are simultaneously hurled into the air.

  "What the blazes!" cries Rat, removing his pipe to stare.

  It seems to take forever to reach the mooring. Apart from a quantity of floating debris they are relieved to find the Queen superficially unharmed – she is not, at any rate, sinking – but even at some distance there is a terrible, terrible smell. McNab, or what they take to be McNab, is found draped over the rail, noisily throwing up. He is entirely black from head to foot.

  "Where's Thurston," cries Bella, shaking him. "Where's my husband?" But McNab cannot hear her. He is deaf.

  Down below, everything is covered in the same stinking, glutinous filth that coats McNab. The further in they go, the worse it gets. Crouching through the Alice hole, coughing and retching, they find him. He is sitting on the loo, his trousers round his ankles and a startled look frozen onto his blackened face, the whites of his eyes contrasting sharply with the rest of him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Though somewhat jet-lagged, Michael Broadmayne rises early, slipping silently out of bed so as not to disturb Miranda. There is no-one about. Not even the grim, mustachioed Dolores is likely to be up yet, though in any case he has no time, or appetite, for breakfast. Contenting himself with a shower and a shave he pulls on shorts, tracksuit and trainers, and leaves the house quietly by the back way, jogging swiftly through the tithe barn, down past the milking parlour, with its faint lowing of cows and rhythmic thrum of machinery, and out onto the empty village street.

  He looks at his watch. When was dawn? Not long ago, surely? It would be a disaster if he were late. On an impulse he turns through the churchyard, saving perhaps a minute by weaving swiftly between the gravestones, and out again through the kissing gate onto the open heath. Here he pauses, heart already pounding from the effort, and briefly debating which is the best and quickest route plunges directly across the heather, panting doggedly up the hills and bounding, arms raised, down the bracken-covered sides of the little valleys.

  After the overnight rain (and a miserable, wet, solitary drive from Heathrow) it promises to be a lovely morning, fresh and bracing, with the air washed so clean that even the distant Bitterns are without their customary blue haze. It is the sort of morning when anything seems possible, when it should feel good to be alive, but Michael merely acknowledges this in a preoccupied sort of way – puts it on hold, as it were – for the focus of his hopes lies some distance ahead. It is what happens there, not the weather, that will set his mood for the rest of the day.

  Now the Tenstones loom above him, a grey, almost-silhouette against the bright sky, and feeling suddenly a little nervous he stops for a moment to compose himself and catch his breath. Assuming the outwardly casual persona that he tries to project on these occasions he trots up the steep, winding path through the furze, eager for his first sight of that slim, elegant figure, sitting so still, with her long black hair fluttering in the breeze.

  "Oh, hello, Bella," he hears himself saying. "Lovely morning, eh? Been here long?"

  But where is she? Not in her usual place at any rate. Perhaps she is bending or lying down in some interesting yogic pose. No, he would be able to see her by now. Giving up all pretence of casualness, he breaks into a run, bounding up the last few yards of track and gazing disbelievingly, almost desperately, about him. How can she not be here? She's always here. He needs her!

  His energy suddenly spent, Michael flops down despondently on the altar stone. It had never crossed his mind that she wouldn't be here. He had imagined it so clearly, the two of them together, those few precious minutes of idle chat. All he could think of was seeing her again.

  Perhaps he is too early? He jumps up and looks back towards Windy Point, shading his eyes, hoping, against all sense, to see her striding with that confident, slightly boyish gait of hers towards him. But of course she isn't there, she is far more likely be have been and gone by now; except he has no sense of her having been here at all today, can find no precious scent of her in the air.

  Michael sighs deeply and sits down again, burying his head in his hands and massaging his brow with his fingers. The jet-lag has caught up with him with a vengeance. If he had taken the trouble to think about it, he would have realised it was a waste of time. She is married now, scarcely out of the honeymoon stage. What on earth would she be doing here? Probably she will never come here again. Probably, now that she has something better to occupy her, she has tired of the Stones at last. She is hardly likely to think of him, 'just happening by.' She is hardly likely to think of him at all. He is a fool. He is being utterly foolish and pathetic, like some lovesick teenager. He should pull himself together, get real. Nevertheless he lingers a few more minutes before making his way slowly and disconsolately back down the hill, crossing the summer trickle of the Winterborne before heading for home via Long Ridge.

  Halfway up the slope of the ridge, Michael is surprised to hear the clear, plangent voice of a fiddle. It is a slow, sad tune that seems to catch his own mood perfectly, as if the fiddler is suffering something of his own frustration and loneliness. His curiosity piqued, and with time on his hands – he doesn't care to get back until Miranda has left the house – he turns off the track.

  The sound appears to be coming from a small stand of towering Scots pines. Though only a few yards away they are quite surrounded by a dense thicket of furze, with no obvious means of access. It is only when he has circumambulated the whole thing, and is thinking of giving up and going on his way (it seems crass, somehow, to call out) that he notices a narrow, tunnel-like path with the furze branches almost meeting over it at shoulder height. It surely cannot be the proper way in, probably just a game trail, but perhaps it will do. Looking both ways, for he suddenly feels a little foolish, he ducks into it.

  A few moments later he emerges, almost crouching, into a little clearing, essentially just the dry, vegetation-free patch of bare earth immediately beneath the pines. The ground slopes steeply away, giving a marvellous view of harbour and heath over the surrounding furze. In the centre of the clearing is a sort of sprawling polythene tepee, a camping stove, with a saucepan bubbling on it, and a line of grubby washing. The rest of the clearing is dotted with a number of odd-looking constructions of wood, plastic and rusty scrap metal, while more of those materials are piled in heaps or just scattered untidily about.

  Sitting cross-legged in front of the tent is McNab, apparently wearing only a grubby anorak and some absurdly large hobnail boots. He is so absorbed in his playing that he doesn't notice the interloper, who is able to stand, captivated, for the length of another lovely, melancholy air before breaking into spontaneous applause.

  "Awch," growls McNab, jerking round to look at him. "Whaur did you come from?"

  "Michael Broadmayne," says Michael, putting out a hand. "We haven't properly met, but I've heard a lot about you and I had the privilege of seeing you perform that
marvellous set at the wedding reception."

  McNab, ignores the proffered hand. "Whit've ye haurd?" he demands. "Wha's bin blabbin aboot me?"

  "Only Bella. She's a great fan of yours. I hope you don't mind me just barging in here, but I heard you playing."

  McNab softens a little. "Ye ken Bella?"

  "Why yes. I'm her brother-in-law. Sorry, I should have explained."

  "McNab frowns, appearing to struggle with this simple family relationship. "Then ye'll be her brother's husband?" he says, doubtfully. "Och, that cannae be richt. She hasnae gat a brother."

  "I'm Miranda's husband," says Michael. "You'll have met her I expect?"

  McNab looks blank.

  "Bella's sister?" suggests Michael helpfully. "Looks a lot like Bella? Rides to hounds? Runs the estate?" He is inclined to add, "Can emasculate a man with a glance," but thinks better of it.

  "Och, that Miranda!" cries McNab. "The one as wants tae dig up the heath."

  "Er, bits of it," agrees Michael.

  "Ah cannae say ah've haed the pleisur," says McNab, gazing at his visitor with renewed suspicion.

  At this moment an odd clattering starts up. Under one of the pine trees a strange assemblage of pipes, cogs, chains and rusty angle-iron has burst into frantic motion, sending a big, concrete flywheel steadily turning. From its open top a pulsating length of stout line runs straight up into the branches overhead. Michael wanders over and peers at it.

  "What's this thing, then?"

  "Wind pump," grunts McNab sourly.

  "A wind pump," muses Michael. He turns his gaze upwards. "Oh I see; the tree moves about in the breeze and this thing harnesses the power. Ingenious! What do you use it for?"

  "Naethin' yet," admits McNab. "Ah thocht tae run a wee licht aff it, for ma tannock ye ken, but ah cannae airt oot a suitable dynamo, dammit."

  "And what's this?" enquires Michael. "No, don't tell me, let me guess. A solar shower! Hmm yes, quite warm already. And the reflector helps to focus the sunlight on the hose. Nice touch."