The cat makes no answer to these charges, only turning away briefly to vigorously nibble and lick at his back. Flea, thinks the Commander.
"They wanted to put you to sleep, you know," he continues. "The Big Sleep. What d'you think of that? Quick jab and into the bin with you — no dignity. Lucky you had me around, wasn't it?"
If the cat agrees, he makes no sign of it, only continuing to gaze upwards with seemingly infinite patience.
"Yes, well, there we are then," says the Commander, glancing at his watch. "Best get it over with, eh?" Knocking out his pipe on his shoe he tucks it carefully into his pocket before standing up and clapping his hands twice in a businesslike manner. "Off you go then." The cat flinches, half rises, then sinks slowly back onto his haunches.
"Go on, shoo!" The Commander takes a brisk step forward, causing the little animal to beat a strategic retreat, only to settle again a few feet further off, if with less aplomb.
The Commander scowls irritably. This is not going entirely according to plan. "Look, bugger off, will you!" He now advances on the cat in a sort of threatening, stamping shuffle while banging his arms vigorously against his sides. "Go on, clear off. Scarper! sling yer 'ook!"
At this, the cat finally turns and moves sharply away up the slope of the dune. He pauses for a moment at the top, struggling belly-deep in the soft sand, looks behind him in a reproachful manner, and is gone.
Gun in hand, the Commander immediately follows. Throwing himself to the ground he takes careful aim at the bobbing, scurrying animal, now some thirty yards away, closes his eyes, counts to three and fires both barrels. Rising slowly to his feet, he gazes at the small black shape on the next slope and nods grimly.
A sporting chance, he thinks. That was the thing. He looks at his watch again: 0740 hours. He has cut it a bit fine, but if he hurries he can be back in his room by, oh, 0815 at the outside, ready to come down, yawning and stretching convincingly, in time for breakfast. All without loss of his kipper.
The Commander stands on the upper deck of the ferry. Leaning on the rail, he watches the beach and the dunes receding into the distance. The wind has now abated somewhat, but the air has become even colder and it is at last beginning to snow. For an instant he fancies he sees something moving on the distant shore, but it is quickly swallowed in a more substantial flurry. Not that it matters. They call it an island, the Isle of Bittern, though strictly it's a peninsula, the river Wimble cutting through its stubby neck, but for a small animal with six inch legs it might as well be Van Diemen's Land.
"Ah, Fieldfare, there you are. I want a word with you."
"Sir?"
"Look, I've been thinking. Any good at gardening?"
"Don't know, sir. Never done any. Daresay I could learn."
"Well come up to the estate office if you're interested. Know where it is?"
"I can find it, sir."
"Two o'clock suit you?"
"Today, sir? Yes all right, sir. Thank you, sir!"
"And Fieldfare."
"Sir?"
"I'd rather you didn't mention your seeing me here today, if you don't mind."
"Mum's the word, sir!"
*
"I forgot to tell you," says Fieldfare, "what with the Manor job and everythin'. You'd 'ave larfed! There was this fuckin' cat, see. Came marchin' up the ramp, all confident like, as if 'e done it every day. I said, 'Oi, you 'aven't got a ticket, mate.' Made the skipper smile, that did. 'Oi,' I said, 'You 'aven't got a fuckin' ticket mate.'
"Chased the bugger all over the ship we did, but it got down behind one of them stanchions on the upper deck. We could see it, like, but we couldn't get at it. Old Eddie Turnstone was all for pokin' it out with a broom 'andle – 'e's a cruel bugger, that Eddie – but Skip said ter leave the poor fuckin' creature alone, so we did. And d'you know what? When we gets this side, it comes straight out and marches off with all the other passengers, nice as bloody ninepence. Seemed to know where it was goin' an' all."
"No houses on that side. Got shut in a van or something I expect."
"Maybe, and maybe not."
"What then?"
Fieldfare gives them a knowing wink and taps the side of his nose. "I aint sayin', mate. More'n my job's worth."
CHAPTER TWO
Did you get all that, Best Beloved? Did you really see and not imagine, like I told you? I hope so, because it's terribly, terribly important. It's terribly important that you know it's real, that all I'm going to show you is real
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans."
I have to warn you, Best Beloved, that some of this is going to disturb you. It's going to upset you and sometimes embarrass you and I'm very sorry for that but it's essential that you know. Your life depends on it frankly. You may refuse to believe it at first. You may wonder if you really saw, rather than imagined. You may even question the Record, which cannot lie. You will, I'm sure, have many sleepless nights before you finally accept what you have seen, before you finally accept the terrible hidden truth about the world; and then you'll feel frightened, as I do — and very alone.
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans . . ."
But I know you'll be brave, Best Beloved. I know you'll be brave and strong and clever and resourceful, and when you've seen what I have to show you, when you have fully grasped the horror of it all, then I think that you'll know what to do. I truly believe you'll know what to do.
"Beans . . . Beans. . . Beans . . . Beans."
Because I know you have the Gift, Best Beloved. With those huge eyes, so preternaturally wise, with that extraordinary aura, so strong already, you must surely have the Gift.
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans."
And at least you'll be free. At least you'll belong to yourself. At least you'll be able to make up your own mind. At least you won't have someone forever trying to mislead you. She'll be dead, at last — properly dead. And so shall I.
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans."
"Bella, dear."
"Yes, Aunty?"
"Do you have to say it out loud all the time? It's terribly wearing."
"Say what? I wasn't saying anything."
"Yes you were. You were saying 'Beans, beans, beans.' It's very wearing."
"Was I? I'm sorry, I didn't realise."
"Well you were."
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"Good. I'm very glad to hear it."
Did I say it was the beginning, what you have just seen? It wasn't really, of course. There isn't really what you'd properly call a beginning —
"Can you see the clock from there?"
"Er, yes."
I know I said it was the beginning but actually I've chosen it quite arbitrarily, though of course it might have been — the beginning, I mean. There must have been one, at some point, obviously. Or there must be going to be one. I have to start somewhere, after all.
"Well, what time is it then? Honestly Bella!"
"Sorry, Aunty. It's nearly ten-thirty."
"Right, then I'd better stop. I expect they'll be back in a minute. I expect he'll be a little grumpy-boots after his jabs. He's always grumpy anyway when he comes back from there. In fact, he's a thoroughly grumpy baby. I don't remember either of you two being like that. "
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans."
You have to put the name on, Best Beloved, otherwise they won't know what's in them. The bilge-water gets everywhere and soaks off the labels and then you don't know what's in them; except the corned beef because you can tell from the shape. I'm not going to bother with the corned beef. Or the sardines.
"You know, it's a funny thing, but after you've written the same word billions and trillions and squillions of times it goes all flat and grey and doesn't mean anything any more. It doesn't even look spelled right. Have you noticed that?"
"Can't say I have. Pass me those scissors will you? On the little table. I don't care for this clinic business myself. All those mothers and babies crammed togeth
er in that pokey little room. They're just about bound to catch something. I'm surprised she goes. I should never have thought she would, especially after last time. She could easily have had Snipe come here for the jabs."
"Beans . . . Beans . . . Beans. There! That's the last. Cross off beans."
"No it isn't, there's another case behind you."
"Another! Oh God, so there is. Well that's too bad because I'm sick of them. I absolutely refuse to do another tin of beans."
"Don't, then. No-one is forcing you. You don't have to do any of it if you don't want to. Anyway, they'll be back shortly. You ought to pack up now."
"I don't mind doing them, I'm just sick of beans. Let me see, what else is there? Ah, peas. I'll do those."
How long will it take, I wonder? Four hours? Five? A day? There's a lot to get through. It's not something you can hurry. I shall need to concentrate. I shall need to trawl the Record for the pertinent sections, leaving out all the dross, all the irrelevancies. It won't be easy. I'll need time.
"Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas."
They'll try to kill me, of course. I've seen their power and I know they can. They might kill me before I can show you everything. Or they might try to subvert Mummy and get me that way. It wouldn't take much; she wants to live too much. She'd betray me to save herself. She'd betray the world. I know she would.
"Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas. What exactly are you doing, Aunty?"
"Shortening these curtains. They can go in your Uncle's room; he won't care."
"Yes, but why? They're these ones, aren't they? I mean, they're for in here. What will you put in here?"
"I've got some on order, from a catalogue. I can't look at these for the rest of my life; they're horrible. I can just about live with the carpet and the furniture but I can't face these curtains every day."
"It's quite a nice flat though, isn't it? And you've got a nice view, with the rose garden and the lake and everything."
"It's all right, I suppose."
"You could always ask about the furniture. She'd probably change it if you wanted."
"I suppose so. I don't suppose it matters. I daresay I'll get used to it."
"Please, Aunty, don't be sad. You sound so sad all the time. I really am awfully sorry. You know that, don't you? I'm really, truly, terribly, awfully sorry."
"I know you are. You don't have to keep saying so. I know you are."
"Do you really, really forgive me?"
"Yes, I forgive you."
"You do understand, don't you, why I did it?"
"Yes, I understand. Just so long as you promise to keep taking those tablets. Have you taken them today?"
"Of course I've taken them today. You don't have to keep asking me. Of course I've taken them. I always take them."
"Just so long as you do."
I'm not taking the stupid tablets. There's nothing wrong with me. There never was anything wrong with me. They make me feel ill. I'm not taking them. Besides, I'll be dead soon, they're going to kill me.
"Peas . . . Peas . . . Sorry, I forgot."
"They ought to be back by now. I expect they had to wait. It's ridiculous, all crammed together in that horrid little room, all coughing and sneezing on each other, and all they ever do is weigh them and poke them about. He'll come back with something, you see if he doesn't, and then she'll be up all night with him. She ought to have got Snipe to do the jabs; I don't know why she didn't. Bella, don't you think you should stop now till they've gone? They're bound to be here in a minute. How about if we move some of those cases so they can sit down?"
"Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas . . . Peas."
"Well I'm going to get ready for them, even if you're not."
"Peas . . . Peas . . . Hey look out, you bumped me!"
"Sorry. I just want to make a bit of space, that's all."
"You bumped me! It's ruined now!"
"Well it doesn't matter, does it? Write on the other end or something."
"I can't do that; it's ruined! What am I going to do?"
"Wipe it off then. Use this bit of lining. Wipe it off and do it again."
"It's not coming off. It's just making it worse! It's a big, horrible black smudge now! What am I going to do? It's ruined!"
"Bella, it's just a tin. It's just a tin of peas. You're getting yourself upset again for nothing. Are you sure you took your tablets today? Listen, there's the car. Let's clear this up now and have a nice calm atmosphere for baby. You don't want to upset him, do you?"
"Of course I've taken the tablets! I always take the bloody tablets. And for goodness' sake will you shut up about the baby? All you ever talk about is that bloody baby. Baby, baby, baby. I'm sick of it!"
"Bella, please don't shout, dear. I've hardly mentioned him today."
"Yes you have, that's all you ever talk about. Baby! Baby! Baby! Baby! Baby! That's all I ever hear about, day in, day out. Baby this! Baby that! Baby the other! As if nothing else in the whole world matters. The world is facing disaster and all you can talk about is that baby. I'm sick of it. I don't care about the bloody baby. Can't you get it into your head? I don't want to know about it! I don't want to hear about it! I don't want to talk about it! I'm sick of it! I'm sick of it, and I'm going!"
I'll never get any peace here, Best Beloved. I'll never be able to tell you my story here. I'm going somewhere quiet, somewhere where they won't be able to find me.
"Bella, wait! At least wait for Miranda. You don't have to see the baby if you don't want to, but at least wait for Miranda. She specially wanted to see you today. There are so many things to sort out. We've got to get them sorted out. Bella, you promised, please don't run away again . . ."
*
Bella running, flinging through the kitchen, grabbing in passing a new packet of McVitie's chocolate digestive biscuits, out across the stable-yard and up into her secret place, her little nest of straw, high under the clock tower, pulling up the ladder behind her, curling into a ball — safe.
My hidey-hole, Best Beloved, where I'm never disturbed, where they'll never find me. And I'm not coming down again until I've finished, until I've shown you everything. After that, nothing matters.
Just let me settle down a bit, Just let me get my breath. Just let me open my biccies. It's nice here, so quiet. I didn't want to do the stupid tins anyway. I thought perhaps they'd leave me alone if I did the tins. They never will leave me alone. They never stop going on about that baby.
Where was I? Where did I get to? Oh yes, Uncle. Uncle's big mistake. It wasn't really the start, but we'll say that it was anyway, for the sake of convenience.
After that, nothing much happens for years and years except I get born and grow up and do all the things you do when you're growing up, like a lot of swimming and riding and having my tonsils out and going away to shitty Bendingdon School for Girls and getting a cycling proficiency certificate and six O levels and one A and losing my virginity to Jeremy Finch in his MG and bumming around Europe doing all sorts of silly jobs, like a chalet-maid and a holiday rep and a bit of modelling – tights, mostly – and moving to London and getting my own flat, which was really great, and meeting Terry and Simon and having lots of fun and really enjoying life and then it happened — the Horrible Thing. Which is what I'm going to show you, which spoiled everything forever.
I'm going to show you now, okay? This is it — the Horrible Thing.
Now.
It's starting.
And don't forget to really see, not imagine.
Bella driving through the night.
No. Earlier than that. I must start earlier, or you won't understand.
Bella on the telephone, dragging the cord behind her as she paces about the room.
"Yes, Simon Sheldrake, please. Oh please make him hurry. Come on, come on . . . Simon is that you? . . . Thank God! Simon, I want you to come home immediately; something very peculiar is happening to me."
Simon, against background of noisy office, sounding concerned. "W
hat sort of something?"
"It's really weird. I'm experiencing the most extraordinary psychic disturbance. My head's all over the place . . . Simon, are you there?"
A small but nevertheless discernible sigh is followed by, "What sort of disturbance, exactly?"
"I don't know! I've never felt this way before. I think . . . Look, I know it sounds really stupid, but I think Mummy has died."
"You think your mother has died."
"Yes. I think I may be downloading her soul."
"Your mother has died and you're downloading her soul."
"Yes! Simon, please don't keep repeating me, this is serious! I feel like I'm going crazy."
"Okay, right," typically businesslike. "Let's unpick this. Putative death of mother. Am I correct in thinking she's only, what, fifty-something?"
"Fifty-four. She's fifty-four."
"And in rude health, last we heard? It hardly seems likely. Unless she's had an accident of course."
"I know all that. I just can't think of anything else that would make me feel this way. What should I do? I don't know what to do!"
"Bella, I'd love to discuss this with you, but I've got the presentation in less than ten minutes. Remember the presentation? Merganser and Stint?"
"I know, and I wouldn't have disturbed you for anything, but . . . Simon, I'm frightened!"
"Look, why don't you just ring her up? Ring your mother and ask her if she's all right. End of problem."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 2