"Awch," says McNab sympathetically. "There's time eneuch suirly?"
Michael shakes his head resignedly. "God knows, I don't. The main problem at the moment is keeping her in the same room. You can't make babies if you're at opposite ends of the building. Anyway, you don't want to hear about that."
They make their way slowly along the landing, gazing silently at one darkly varnished ancestor after another. They seem to be hung in no discernible order, stocks rubbing shoulders with wing collars, high-necked Victorian lace with daring embonpoint. Rain lashes the lattice windows, obscuring the gardens and the woods beyond.
"It's a funny business really," says Michael, returning to his theme. "If we took the mother's name instead of the father's – matrilineal is it? – they'd be an ancient family. Makes a lot of sense when you think about it. It's a bloody wise man, after all, that knows his great, great grandfather, but there's not usually much doubt about who your great, great grandmother was, apart from adoptions and foundlings and so on."
"Ay, that's verra true, Michael," says McNab, uncomprehendingly. "Look, there's anither Bella person." He scrutinizes the little brass plate on the frame. "Tabitha Durrington-Walls 1752-1797."
"Oh, they go right back. It's very odd, very odd indeed. Only just made it, didn't he, old Sidney? Hardly had time to wet the baby's head before he snuffed it. Second marriage, very likely; or else he was a late starter, like me. Doesn't look remotely like him, does she? Just looks like an eighteenth century Bella or Miranda. They're not all like that of course, but it runs right through. Every generation has one. Very odd things, genes."
He moves on a little. "Here's the missus. He was bloody ages at it. Friend of her cousin. Gave us a discount, allegedly. God knows what it would have cost otherwise; even the frame cost a packet. So does this hunting business. I hate to think what it costs me to slaughter one of her bloody foxes. She's a high maintenance woman, my wife. Bella's not into all that of course; got more sense. How's she getting on with that husband of hers?"
"Er, weel eneuch ah believe," says McNab, who has been gazing out at the leaden sky, wondering if he will still be paid.
"Yeah, well they'd better make the most of it, that's all I can say, because it doesn't last." Michael looks up at the picture again and sighs. "God, when I think what she was like when I first met her. Bloody 'ell, talk about coming on strong! 'What do you think of our house then?' she says, 'Are you going to buy it for me?' There she is on her horse, all dolled up in her hunting gear, just nineteen and absolutely bloody stunning, and this fucking beautiful old house behind her. Well, I didn't stand a chance. You're quite a close friend of Bella's, aren't you?"
"Och ay, suir," agrees McNab, jerked out of his reverie. "She's a braw lassie."
"What do you think of this Stones stuff, the Kabbala and all that?"
"She telt ye aboot that?" says McNab, surprised.
"Oh yes, I know all about it. Do you believe any of it?"
McNab shakes his head. "No the speeritual stuff; ah cannae be daein wi that. But the lines are real eneuch; ah've dowsed for 'em. Ah'm plannin tae design an instrument tae measure 'em direct, as a maiter o fact."
Michael nods. "I'd like to help her too, I really would. Sometimes I think she's the only one in the family with any sense – she's certainly the brightest – and I'm disposed to believe she knows what she's talking about, though I admit I don't understand much of it either; but I can't shift Miranda, that's the problem. She's dead set on getting the pit reopened, almost irrational about it sometimes, and when Miranda is dead set on something it takes a hell of a lot to change her mind. If Bella would just accept a few acres of building I might be able to talk her round, but of course she won't."
McNab shakes his head. "Nae chance o that. Ower her deid body that'd be."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Then suddenly it went right over and there we were in the water," says Pat.
"You poor thing!" exclaims Veronica. "You must have been terrified."
"No, not at all. I was a bit shocked because I wasn't expecting it, but we'd done the drill and I just got on with it. I'm quite pleased it happened, really; I feel like I've passed some sort of test. Mind you, I don't know if I'd have felt the same without a life-jacket; I haven't swum out of my depth yet."
"He might have done it on purpose," says Veronica. "That's what he does with the cadets. Or rather, did; he's getting a bit old for those tricks."
"He says we can go out in the Queen next week, if I want. She's just about ready apparently. He's going to let me take the helm."
"Oh good, that'll please Thurston."
Pat looks at her sharply. "Thurston? Why Thurston?"
"To get back on board, I mean. Bella too, I expect. I don't think she likes him in her room very much."
"Her room? Why on earth not? She's married to him."
"Oh, nothing must disturb Bella's precious room. It's a shrine to her childhood. I even get into trouble for putting her teddies and things away. Dusting them, even. She doesn't like change, not that sort anyway."
"Goodness, really? I'd never have thought. It doesn't seem to fit at all."
"She's a very complex young woman, my niece. You don't know the half of it. Hello, what's this?"
There is a loud bang as the screen door is thrown violently open.
"Mum, Mum, guess what!"
"You can't tell her," cries Narcissus, trying to put his hand over Primrose's mouth. "I want to tell her. I saw them first."
"No you didn't, I did,"
"No you didn't. You weren't even there."
"Hey! Hey! That's enough! This is aunty Veronica's private kitchen," says Pat crossly. "You mustn't just barge in like that. You should knock."
"It's all right," says Veronica, who is well used to such interruptions. "What is it, twins?"
"They're coming!" says Narcissus, breathlessly.
"All of them!" says Primrose.
Everyone currently at the Point gathers on the hard to watch the amazing sight. Winding down the track towards them is an immense train of coaches, vans and lorries of all kinds. There is even a double decker bus. Riding ahead on a magnificent chopper-bike is a very tattered Superman with the St. Trinian behind him. The womble, the scarecrow and the Pierrot clown are clinging to the ladder bar in the back of an open truck, and gambolling about the slow-moving vehicles is the pantomime horse, now so swift, natural and coordinated in its movements that it almost resembles one of God's own creatures.
"Oh no, definitely not!" says Rat, coming out of the boatshed. "Enough is enough. Jason, Thurston, come with me." Crossing the hard he plants himself firmly in the middle of the entrance, feet apart, arms folded.
The foremost vehicle is a flatbed lorry with a boat-shaped shack fixed to it, decorated with a row of shields. It stops inches from them and a tall Viking, complete with horned helmet steps out.
"This Windy Point?" It is difficult to hear him above the tumultuous noise of revving engines.
"Who wants to know?" growls Rat.
"We got an invite," says Superman, pulling up beside him.
"Not from me, you didn't."
"What about them, then?" demands the Viking, pointing at Roz, Shangri-la and the rest.
"They have our permission to stay. You most definitely have not."
"Yeah, so fuck off," says Jason, boldly.
Rat gestures him to silence. "I'm afraid I must ask you to turn round and go back the way you came. There's nowhere for you here. You've been misinformed."
"All right," shrugs the Viking, "we'll go on the heath then."
"That's private property."
"Oh yeah, sure. Come on lads."
The convoy ponderously turns and after a certain amount of confusion heads towards a relatively flat patch of open heather, some three hundred yards away.
"I don't believe this!" says Bella. "Who on earth asked them here?"
"Well it certainly wasn't me," says Pat defensively.
"Nor us," says
Sandy. "And I know Crystal and Denny wouldn't."
They all look at McNab, who is staring nervously up the track. The last vehicle has just turned onto the heath leaving behind an immensely fat woman of forty or so, wearing what appears to be a small marquee and surrounded by bulging bags and suitcases.
"Prommy!" she cries, opening her arms. "Prometheus McNab! Come to me, my little Chickadee!"
"Goodness gracious!" gasps Veronica, for all of them.
"Carol?" says McNab in a very small voice. "Och, it cannae be. She's no the same at aa!"
"Of course it's not Carol," says Narcissus sensibly. "She's in Aunty Veronica's airing cupboard."
Thurston, eager to make a contribution but finding himself without an interpreter mutely petitions Jason.
"Don't get many of those to the pound?" hazards Jason. "Seen prettier things on a fishmonger's slab?"
Thurston shakes his head in frustration. Though undoubtedly true it is not what he wanted to say.
"Prometheus eh?" says Rat. "He kept that quiet."
Thurston smiles broadly and nods his agreement. That was it.
Tired of waiting to be greeted, Carol II waddles over, dumping her luggage unceremoniously onto Rat. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends then, Prommy? What's the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?"
*
"More tart, Carol?" asks Veronica. "There's plenty left."
"Ay, I think she can manage anither slice, if ye dinnae want it," says McNab automatically.
"I can speak for myself, Prommy dearest," says Carol II. She turns to Bella. "Tell your poor aunty I'd like some more, please and that it's very nice. I think it's wonderful how she cooks and everything, don't you?"
Bella cravenly nods and smiles. Can this really be McNab's true, original love? Where is the gentle, beatific smile? Where are those lovely, wise-innocent eyes that so seduced her – or rather, her mother – on first seeing them? Some very large people have a certain balloon-like lightness and grace, but this creature resembles nothing so much as a barn-raised troll; coarse and bottom-heavy, with little piggy eyes sunk deep into puffy, grey-tinged flesh. Does drugs, she opines. You've only got to look at her nasty, mucky aura to see that. One thing is certain; McNab shamelessly skimped on the stuffing, unless she has just about doubled in size in the interim.
". . . and he hasn't changed a bit," Carol is saying, having scarcely stopped talking since she arrived. "I don't know how you put up with him."
"We've gradually evolved coping mechanisms," says Rat. "Trial and error."
"Ooh, all those big words!" exclaims Carol, staring at him in wonderment. "You must be a proper brain box."
Veronica glances at the clock. "I expect you'll be wanting to show Carol your new house, McNab," she says, "before it gets dark."
"Er, ah'm wirkin the nicht," says McNab looking terrified. "Mebbe the morn, if ah hae the time."
"Tomorrow!" cries Carol. "But I want to see it now, you silly boy. I want to see our dear little house. Is it as nice as this one? You should have sent me a photo."
"Och, ah widnae say that," says McNab with uncharacteristic modesty. "In fact it's, er . . . weel, tae tell the truth it's no quite feenisht yet. Nae roof, ye ken. It's enteerely open tae the elements jist the noo; an' nae furniture naither."
"But you said it was all ready for me. You said it was to be our little love-nest in the treetops."
"Och weel, it wis. Ah mean, it is, but —"
"There was a gale," explains Bella, "a freak storm. We often get them here. It took the roof clean away, whipped it off like the lid of a box. Quite terrifying really."
"What, and the furniture too?" says Carol, frowning.
"Ruined, by the rain. Came down like stair-rods."
Carol looks as if she might cry. "But you promised!"
"Och, ah cannae be the deed o the weather," says McNab, clearly believing it a little himself.
"I'm very sorry," says Veronica. "I'd ask you to stay here, but I'm afraid we haven't the room at the moment."
"Then how long will it be?" demands Carol. "How long will it take to put right?"
"Er, mebbe a week or twa," says McNab hastily. "Nae time at aa really."
"And then we can be together?"
"Ay, och ay, suir."
"That's all right then," says Carol, brightening. "Two weeks is nothing. I can stay where I am for now, and it'll give me time to get my trousseau together."
"Trousseau?" says McNab, weakly.
"Yes, you know, fancy undies and things, for the honeymoon. Not that I'll be wearing them much I daresay." She nudges Bella with a fat elbow and winks. "We know what these men are like, don't we, eh? Dirty little buggers! Now, I gotta go to the looloobells, I'm bloody bursting. Can someone show me where it is?"
"Through there, second right," says Veronica stonily.
There is a long silence. Thurston, who has been growing slowly redder and redder, begins to rock on his rubber ring with helpless laughter.
"It's no funny!" cries McNab.
"You owe me one, Prommy," says Bella, stabbing a finger at him. Rat gazes gloomily out of the window at their unwanted visitors. "He owes us all one," he mutters.
*
"Michael, are you awake?"
"I am now, yes dear."
"That McNab — he's no good. I want a proper gardener."
"What's wrong with him? It all seems perfectly shipshape to me."
"Then you're not looking. The place is a disgrace. He never does what I tell him, he just pleases himself."
"So did Fieldfare."
"Well he wasn't much better, but at least he got it done, eventually."
"What hasn't he done, exactly?"
"It's not so much what he does or doesn't do, it's how he does it. He's already ruined most of my topiary and today he cut the top lawn diagonally."
"Diagonally?"
"Yes, diagonally; the pattern now goes from corner to corner. He said he thought it would make a change."
"Well, I suppose it would."
"I don't want that sort of change, thank you very much, it looks ridiculous. And he hasn't a clue which are weeds and which are garden plants, except he seems to favour the weeds if anything, and he spends most of his time having bonfires. When he's not having bonfires, he just stands."
"Stands, dear?"
"Yes, stands! I timed him once and he stood for forty-eight minutes, not moving, holding a hoe. Once I found him standing in the lake."
"Perhaps he was thinking, like Socrates. He's a very clever chap."
"I don't pay him to think, Michael, I pay him to garden. I want you to get me someone else. And if you don't mind I'm going to sleep now. I'm very tired."
*
"Coming along nicely," says Michael, "I'm not sure what you'd call it style-wise. Deconstructivist?"
"Ay, ah daursay," agrees McNab indifferently. "Ye'll hae noted the numerous enveeronmentally friendly features, o coorse."
"The recycling, do you mean?"
"Ay that, an' the use o local materials, whaur possible, but ah wis thinkin o the fou-hicht sitooterie wi the circulatin fan, an' the solar watter heater on the ruif, an' cavitie wall insulation, an' a rain-catcher, an' o coorse McNab's composting earth closet, Mk VI, which ye micht care tae pruive afore ye gang awa. That's no tae say ah've gien ower the methane by ony means, but ah'm boun tae concede it's wantin a wee bittie development first."
Michael nods thoughtfully. "I particularly like the way you've built it up on wooden stilts; almost as if it's floating on air. Certainly nil environmental impact there."
"Ay weel, that wis on accoont o the slopin site ye ken. Whit d'ye think o ma thatchin? D'ye see ma wee pheasie on the ridge? It's tradeetional appearantly."
But Michael doesn't answer. A wonderful idea has come to him, complete and fully formed. No digging! No mains sewerage, over-ground pipes for the water and services. A little unusual, but why not? "McNab," he says, "you're a genius!"
"Fowk aften say that,"
agrees McNab modestly.
"I was wondering, seeing all this," says Michael, recalling the reason for his visit, "whether you might like to help me with a little project of mine. You ought to be uniquely qualified I should think. You'd have to give up the gardening, though, as there wouldn't be time for both, but I'll see you're not out of pocket."
*
A few days after the arrival of the travellers, Bella is wandering the still-growing encampment, catching up with all the news, when she is overjoyed to see Lizzie's little motorhome. They embrace warmly. Lizzie, she can't help noticing, is looking a bit neglected. A grubby toddler is sitting on the floor, smearing himself and his immediate surroundings with chocolate.
"Hello Olly," says Bella.
"Say hello to Bella, Olly," instructs Lizzie.
"Lo, la," says Olly, and magnanimously proffers a half-eaten biscuit.
"Not just now thanks," says Bella, recoiling. She gazes with concern at the filthy, chaotic interior of the van, once so neat and clean, and at her scarcely recognisable friend. Lizzie has put on weight, there are dark bags under her eyes, and the first inch of her dishevelled green hair is a faded brown. "Where's Rupert?" she asks.
"Gone. It didn't work out. It's just me and Olly now, isn't it Olly?"
"What about the cards. Don't you read them any more?"
Lizzie shrugs. "Sometimes. They haven't done me much good have they? Other people perhaps, but not me."
"I think I'd better make us a coffee," says Bella.
They sit looking out of the open door at the harbour and hills. The ballerina and the executioner are painting a panorama of the same scene on their bus. It's remarkably good. They keep bobbing comically up to look at the real thing through the windows.
"He fancied you, you know," says Lizzy. "I always notice. I don't need the cards for that." She smiles sadly. "You could have had him; I wouldn't have minded. Lots of others did. I was never jealous. I just wanted him to stay."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 47
