Isabella
R. A. Bentley
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain 2018
Copyright © R. A. Bentley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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CHAPTER ONE
Welcome, Best Beloved! Welcome indeed! I'm so glad you've come. I'm so glad that you've found your way here; that you chose the left-hand path when you could so easily have chosen the right. Do you know who I am? Yes of course you do. I can't see you unfortunately, but I know you can see me, and hear me too.
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans . . ."
Are you afraid? You mustn't be afraid. I was too, when it happened to me. I thought it was the drugs! Or a waking dream. It isn't a dream, Best Beloved, it's real. You're in a very special place that not many people find. Only very special people find it — people like you.
"Beans . . . Beans . . ."
Can you see the garden? Can you see the ducks on the lake? Can you see Aunty in her wheelchair? Yes, Aunty's here too! Great Aunty, I should say. It's a bit like watching the telly isn't it? Except it's in your head — pictures and words, in your head.
"Beans . . . Beans."
I'm frightfully glad you've come, Best Beloved, because I want to tell you all about me and why I can't be with you any more. Especially, I want to tell you my secret. It's a big, important secret that only I know. It's probably the biggest and most important secret that ever there was, and I'm going to share it just with you. That's exciting, isn't it? I'm going to show you lots of things, just like on the telly, and I want you to promise that you'll watch very carefully right to the end. I want you to promise you'll really see and not just imagine. That's very important — you mustn't imagine. If you imagine, that's cheating. I'm sure you're not a cheat.
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans."
Are you ready then? Good, because I'm going to start. This is it, okay? The programme is starting. Here is a room. Not the room with me and Aunty but another room, a long time ago. Dark, isn't it? And cold. What can you see? Can you see the man? If you can, you're imagining; it's too dark to see him yet. You must wait awhile and then you'll see him. Listen! Can you hear his thoughts?
Well before dawn on the morning of the execution, Commander Kenneth Aubrey-Hole RN allows himself to be wakened by the milk lorry, the clatter of empty churns providing a timely and discreet alarm-call. Turning onto his back he links his hands behind his head and lies for a while, staring into the darkness.
So this is it, he muses. It is Time — march to the scaffold, canting priest, half a guinea to the man in the mask and tights.
Executioner: "So please ye, my lord, prithee place thy hedde upon the blocke."
Prisoner (kneeling): "Have a care for my whiskers, sirrah. They have not offended the King."
Or rather the Queen, in the present case. Queen of Tenstone. Ha! Suits her.
The Commander smiles wryly, then gives a little sigh. Shouldn't be flippant of course. Death a serious matter, no matter whose. Sentence harsh in his opinion, damnably harsh, even considering the charge. Shouldn't have agreed to it. Stuck with it now. Never hear the last of it otherwise.
"I'll do it my way though," he mutters. "Damned if I won't."
For the last time he runs through his plan, laid with the meticulous attention to detail for which he is known in the Service. Up and ready by 0640 hours; collect prisoner and leave house by, say, 0650. Essential to be out of village by 0700 at latest to avoid meeting Mrs Bunting on her bicycle. A tight schedule, he admits, even if all goes well. He glances at the clock. Five minutes and he'll have to get started. God, listen to it out there! Not what you'd call inviting. No crowds at the prison gate this morning, I'll be bound.
It almost always blows here – the sea is not far off – but overnight the wind has risen considerably. It rattles the windows, gurgles in the drainpipes and flutes across the chimneys of the great house, sending little puffs of ice-cold air into the already chill room. About a six, northeasterly, he opines, gusting seven. Probably get worse before it gets better. Snow too, very likely. It makes the bed seem uncommonly cosy all of a sudden. Not a bad bed really, for a monk's cell. Nice, firm mattress, plump pillows. Only a single of course.
The Commander turns over, drawing up his knees and wrapping the covers more tightly about him. Five more minutes, maximum. Make it up on the drive in. Damn and blast Mrs Bunting for a bloody old busybody; if it wasn't for her, he could've had another half hour.
Just five minutes. Perhaps six . . .
Ten minutes later he wakes with a jerk, the luminous hands of the clock offering a silent reproach. 0640 hours already! Come on man, show a leg there! Out or over!
He begins to question the whole undertaking. What seemed a noble resolve the night before now appears foolish, sentimental. No one likely to care except him for matters of honour and decency, least of all the prisoner.
A particularly fierce blast sends the curtains billowing, ghostlike, into the room.
No look, forget it. Just forget the whole ridiculous thing and doze until the gong. All over in moments, so what does it matter?
He begins to think of breakfast: the blazing fire, the silver covers on the sideboard concealing crispy bacon, fat sausages, fried bread and if he's lucky, kippers — Spithead pheasant, one-eyed steak. Mrs Bunting, bless her, knows his fondness for kippers. A light doze, then, and down for breakfast. Forget the whole stupid, harebrained scheme.
Instantly he is out of bed, feet on the freezing lino, stripping off his pyjamas. A sporting chance! He promised the little bugger a sporting chance and that's what he's going to give him, or be damned. Besides, he's getting soft, putting on weight. A stiff walk will do him no harm at all.
Speed is now essential. Stealth too, for the consequences of discovery would be dire, and he takes the precaution of washing and shaving by the light of a carefully shaded table-lamp. Minutes later he is at the bedroom door, warmly clad in oiled-wool sweater and duffle coat and well supplied with pipe and tobacco.
It is here that he encounters a small obstacle. Normally, the pitch-dark landing with its minefield of loose boards holds no terror for him, long practice having taught him exactly where to place his feet to avoid the creaks. But his usual destination is the door opposite – some ten, careful, paces away – always with the excuse, if challenged, of a nocturnal visit to the loo. Of the ancient staircase he has amassed no such detailed knowledge, save for the loud, multiple cracking, like small-arms fire, that comes from the third tread.
The Commander hesitates, but not for long. He is a man of action. Supremely so. Known for it. Only seconds pass before displaying the originality and initiative for which he is legendary in the Service, he steps boldly forward, cocks a leg over the bannister rail and slides, with slow dignity, down to the hall.
At a little after 0655 he emerges from the kitchen, somewhat flushed and sucking the knuckles of one hand, but stoutly booted, with a shotgun over his arm and carrying a wicker picnic basket. Hurrying across the deserted stable-yard he places the basket and gun in the estate's Land Rover, releases the handbrake and gives it a push. Leaping in, he allows the vehicle to roll silently out of the high, ornate gates of the yard and down the sloping track that passes through the farm,
only starting the engine when he considers himself out of earshot. A hundred yards, two hundred, and he leaves behind him the still-sleeping village. No Mrs Bunting. Done it!
With time to make up, the Commander puts his foot down, his headlights sweeping over empty fields and winter-bare hedges as he turns along the country lanes. There is no other traffic, he is alone, and with every passing mile his mood lightens. Presently he begins to sing. There is something about the noise and motion of the Land Rover that always makes him want to sing.
"My object all sublime,I shall achieve in time;
to let the punishment fit the crime;
the punishment fit, the crime . . ."
And after a while even the occupant of the basket joins in, supplying a somewhat plaintive descant not envisaged by Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan.
Ten minutes later he is passing through the town of Bradport. Another five and he is bowling along the narrow sand-spit, dotted with holiday homes and wooden bungalows that protects and encloses the great harbour. It is late December, and the boxy little chain-ferry that plies the harbour-mouth lies empty, save for a couple of cars and a Post Office van. He is the only foot passenger. Moving forrard he stands in the shelter of a throbbing corridor and gazes out at the occasional flash of foam in the slowly lightening darkness. Presently, the service bus for Swan Regis arrives, and they cast off on their brief, storm-tossed crossing.
"Morning, sir!"
The Commander, automatically searching for his ticket, glances at the deckhand's eager expression and inwardly groans. It was, he supposes, inevitable. Law of Sod.
"Don't suppose you remember me, sir. PO Fieldfare, sir."
The Commander attempts desperately to cast his mind back over a dozen ships and twenty years of peace and war, knowing what it might mean to the man.
"HMS Dorking, sir. Crete, sir," prompts Fieldfare helpfully.
An image of sun-drenched hell slowly resolves itself: whistle and crump of shells, metallic stench of blood, mixed, for some forgotten reason, with the reek of olive oil.
"Yes of course! Hello Fieldfare, how's the leg?"
They both look down at the limb in question, or rather its replacement, Fieldfare suitably gratified.
"Can't complain, sir. They fitted me up all right. Bit of a nuisance in this job, though."
"I can imagine."
They stare at each other awkwardly for a few moments. The Commander has a sudden urge to tell this long-lost shipmate, this fellow sailor, that he's chucking it in, swallowing the anchor, just weeks, maybe, from his promotion. Wouldn't do, of course. Instead he gropes for some suitable pleasantry, all the while willing the basket to remain silent.
Skipper was tellin' me you live local now, sir," offers Fieldfare.
"Yes, that's right. Lots of changes. Married now you know."
"So I heard, sir. Congratulations, sir. Belated, like."
"Thank you, Fieldfare."
There is another, longish, silence. The ferry pitches heavily, seawater squirting through a gap in the bow doors to puddle the deck beneath their feet. The Commander moves the basket out of the way of it with his foot.
"Rough old day for rabbitin', sir," says Fieldfare, eyeing the shotgun.
"Er, well you get used to it you know."
"Yes, I suppose you do."
The thud of the engine slows, and the ferry, scarcely moving now, begins to yaw and snatch violently at her chains; they have, thank God, arrived.
Fieldfare grins apologetically. "Better have your ticket, sir; got to open the gates. Nice to meet you again, sir."
The Commander watches the man swing awkwardly across the wildly slewing deck, trailing his tin leg. Damn! He'll be into the Ferryman when he finishes his shift and it'll be: 'Guess who I saw out rabbiting on a day like this?' It'll be all round the bloody town by lunch time.
The western shore of the harbour is not unlike the one he has just left, but without habitation of any kind; just a long, curving beach, backed by high dunes. The road from the slipway crosses the beach, here very wide, and passes through a gap in the dunes, marked by a couple of shed-like wooden buildings. There is nothing else. The two cars, the Post Office van and the bus drive off the ferry, each with a double, metallic clang, and are soon lost to sight. He is alone.
As he moves out of the shelter of the departing vessel he takes the full force of the wind. It tugs at the hood of his duffle-coat, throwing it back, and the hissing sand stings his face, forcing him to turn away and shield his watering eyes. It is now a grey, sunless dawn. The cold is piercing.
Snow in the offing, or I'm a Dutchman, thinks the Commander as he makes his way purposefully towards the dunes.
He is already beginning to feel a little grumpy and hungry for his breakfast. The deeply drifted sand on the road makes it difficult to walk and the basket has begun to seem heavy and unwieldy, its reluctant cargo continually and inconsiderately shifting from side to side. He didn't sleep well last night. The court marshal unaccountably disturbed him and he was surprised to find himself tossed and turned into the small hours by complex and previously unconsidered issues of retribution, justice and morality. The matter might seem trivial to some, but a life is a life after all. Any life. She can be remarkably hard when it comes to it; a bitter, vengeful creature these days, is the Queen of Tenstone.
"Scapegoat, really," he mutters. "You're a scapegoat, pussy cat. Fanciful? Maybe. Anyway, what did we expect? Play that sort of game and you pay the price. Or someone does."
He is nearing the gap in the dunes now, where a small beach-café sits boarded up for the winter. Blue-painted chairs and tables are stacked, rusting, outside. Turning, he begins to climb the nearest hill of sand, grabbing at tussocks of dry marram grass with his free hand. The dunes here are remarkably high, well above the roof of the café. There is a path, of sorts, and the Commander makes his way along it, parallel with the beach. Here, everything is in motion: the sea, the grass, the low, scudding clouds and the sand, driven like smoke before the wind. The wind buffets him mightily. It is quite difficult to stay upright.
He recalls his last visit. All a bit different then: barbed wire, tank traps. They swam and picnicked, probably even used this same bloody basket. He can see Vron now in her yellow costume, larking about. Larking about! Hester not much more than a child, of course. Must have felt a bit of a gooseberry, thinking about it. It all seems much longer than, what, seven years? Only seven years!
Dignity is the thing. There ought to be dignity. Some deaths have dignity, some have not. What she wants has not. It's a nasty squalid business and he'll have nothing to do with it. Couldn't possibly explain of course. Wouldn't know what he was driving at. Take a man to understand, probably.
It's six and a half years, actually, because Hester had just had her sixteenth. God she was a looker, even then, and knew it. No figure though. Flat as a bloody pancake. Not much better now, come to that.
What is needed is an element of personal volition, a certain degree of control. You can march boldly enough to the scaffold or stake but after that the matter is taken out of your hands: no dignity, and a brutalising experience for all concerned. You can't die with dignity, in his opinion, without some active involvement. Getting yourself stung by an asp, that's all right, falling on your sword, fine. Here's a gun, here's a cup of hemlock, get on with it. None of these applicable in the present case of course. All he can offer is a sporting chance, Which he will, and damn the consequences.
After a while the path descends into a sandy bowl, surrounded by dunes. Here, sheltered from the worst violence of the wind, is relative silence and calm. This'll do as well as any, thinks the Commander. He puts down the basket and half sitting against the steeply sloping side of a dune, sets about lighting his pipe. A good deal of expenditure in matches is required and much bending about and cupping of hands, but after a while a thin blue smoke drifts from between his fingers. That done, he turns his attention to the matter in hand. Taking the shotgun from its cover, he proceed
s to load it with cartridges from his duffle coat pocket. Next, he kneels and unbuckles the basket, throwing back the lid. Returning swiftly to his perch he holds himself in readiness.
The cat jumps out almost immediately, clearing the edge of the basket in one controlled, muscular bound. He seems to show neither fear nor any particular surprise at his unusual surroundings, only a sort of wary curiosity, and quickly begins to circle about, sniffing at this and that. When he has gone a few yards, threatening to disappear over the nearest hill of sand, the Commander cocks his gun. Hearing this slight sound, the cat turns towards him, as if noticing him for the first time. Padding over, he settles down just a few inches from his feet and gazes expectantly up at him. The Commander, somewhat discomfitted, lowers the gun and glares back.
He is, as cats go, an unprepossessing creature: mostly black, but with a white dickey front and white spats, none too clean. Small for a tom, his head and paws are disproportionately large, giving him, at first sight, a slightly whimsical, cartoon-kitten look. But this is no kitten, for every part of him bears witness to a long and dissolute life. There are patches of fur missing from his flanks revealing blotched and puckered skin; his snub nose is criss-crossed with battle scars; his small, round ears are much torn and scabbed – the left one three parts missing – and the last inch or so of his stubby tail is curiously bent, almost to a perfect right-angle. He now sits with it stuck out untidily behind him, all the while observing the Commander with opaque, unblinking yellow eyes.
"So it's come to this," says the Commander severely. "Your filthy habits have brought you to this." He draws heavily on his pipe, the smoke immediately whipped away by the wind. "It's entirely your own fault, I hope you realise that. Conduct prejudicial; attacking a senior officer, not to mention that nasty business with the teddy bear. Not much of a record is it? You've had plenty of chances, goodness knows: nice berth, nothing to do but eat and sleep, mousing not required – not that you ever did any, that I noticed – but no, you had to muck it up, didn't you?"
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 1