At this point in the ritual she ideally would require a sample of Michael's semen, but having no way of obtaining any, at least at short notice, she has had to settle for some of Julius's, harvested into an aspirin tub during a post-coital trip to the bathroom. Transferring a dewdrop of the stuff to the business end of Michael's twig, Bella gives herself a few quiet moments to make the all-important psychic link between the real and the symbolic. Then taking hold of Michael by the buttocks and without troubling herself with the niceties of foreplay she stuffs him up Miranda, thrusting him vigorously in and out while declaiming her specially devised incantation:
"Oh Stones who rule the earth and sky;
My sister doth our patience try.
Of her plans we've had enough;
So kindly get her up the duff!"
After what seems a suitably authentic period (one minute), Bella withdraws Michael and sets him aside, his duty done. Already she can feel her energy draining away into the link; it is working. Careful to keep her mind focussed, this time on the future, she rolls some yellow Plasticine into a ball (she's run out of pink) and moulds it onto Miranda's tummy, adding a pair of nice big milky breasts for good measure, and intoning:
"As this child doth thrive and grow;
May her pit plans be brought low."
All I need to do now, she thinks ruefully, is to repeat the thing daily for as long as it takes. She wonders if Michael is really up to the job. After all, he's over forty now and sex for weeks with Miranda hardly bears thinking about, even for the young, vigorous and undiscriminating. She decides to do a spell for him as well. What, she wonders, rhymes with stiffy?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chill dawn, and a dense mist hangs low over the slipway at Windy Point, spangling the hair and dripping the noses of the little knot of well-wishers gathered there. The only sound in the unaccustomed stillness is a muffled clunk of wood on wood, as Rat, standing in the sternsheets of a little dinghy, sculls slowly away down the narrow, winding creek between the mudflats and the ghostly shapes of the withies. In the bows, hunched over his belongings, is a subdued McNab, tightly clutching the gunwales as if expecting momently to be pitched overboard.
It's like some dark Wagnerian myth, thinks Bella. The Red Dwarf takes ship for the land of the setting sun in search of his lost liege lord, Thurston the Large. Cue dry ice and a chorus of warriors with shields and horned helmets singing a suitably lugubrious farewell as the curtain falls on Act One.
They watch without speaking, straining to pierce the murk, as Rat makes his leisurely way out to where the yacht, a grey phantasm, lies waiting. No sooner has he handed McNab awkwardly aboard than the thump of a diesel shatters the spell of silence. A clattering winch raises the anchor and swinging round to reveal her broad stern the yacht immediately departs, taking advantage of the remains of the ebb. McNab stands unsteadily to wave, and as if waiting for this signal they all begin to wave wildly back. Even Sylvester, in Bluebell's arms, is made to raise a valedictory paw, and the twins rush out along the jetty to get a little closer, crying, "Goodbye, Uncle McNab, goodbye," though it's doubtful if he can hear them.
"You two come back from there," calls Pat. "It's dangerous."
Carol, leaning on the dewy rail of the veranda, waves and waves until Bella's arm aches. She waves until the yacht and McNab are swallowed up in the all-enveloping whiteness and her curling wake breaks at last upon the foreshore with a prolonged slap.
"I'll miss him," says Bella, wistfully. "He's a proper handful, but I'll miss him." They go back inside, shutting out the fog. Bella gratefully lets Carol slump into an armchair and throws herself onto the creaking wicker sofa. "So here I am with one abandoned girlfriend, slightly mildewed, and a battered old moggie of unsavoury habits. He's taken to following me everywhere. What on earth am I to do about him?" She waves towards the French doors. "Look, he's out there now." Sure enough, Sylvester, having eluded Bluebell, is sitting patiently in the sun-room, staring through the glass.
Veronica visibly shudders and turns away from him. "Well, Carol's no problem. If there's really nowhere in Roz she'd better come and live at the back of the airing cupboard. She'll be safe enough in there. As for that disgusting creature, I'd recommend a one-way trip to the vet; that's if I thought I could trust anyone to take him. I've a good mind to do it myself this time."
"Oh poor thing!" cries Bella. "You can't do that; Bluebell would never forgive you."
"She'd get over it," says Veronica callously. "Put it in a sack if you like and I'll drop it off the end of the jetty. I'll crawl there if necessary."
"Gosh, you really don't like him, do you!"
"No, I flipping well don't."
"Why not?" asks Bella curiously. "I mean, apart from his spraying your chair."
"Isn't that enough?"
"I'm sure we could house-train him, given time. McNab says he's remarkably bright, for a cat."
"No chance. He's got to go."
Seeing her aunt's mind is made up, Bella sighs resignedly. "All right then. But if you want him put to sleep, you'll have to get someone else to do it."
"Then you'd better take him to Mrs Wren," says Veronica. "She'll take anything, even him. Just so long as he doesn't come back here."
"Mrs Wren, of course!" cries Bella. "Gosh! I'd forgotten all about her. Is she really still alive? She must be awfully old."
"She's the same age as me, thank you very much. Unless you call that awfully old."
Bella's eyes grow wide in appalled reminiscence. "Do you know, I think I can actually smell her! Just thinking about her I can smell her, after all these years. She always wore the same filthy old coat, with a bit of string for a belt, and she was really dirty: her skin, her hair, everything. I shouldn't think she ever washed."
"Yes, but she wasn't always like that," says Veronica. "It was the war I think. Her mother . . . Now what was her name?" she wrinkles her brow. "No, gone. Not that it matters. Wanda! That was it, Wanda Wren; although everyone called her Jenny too, of course. I don't know why they bother to give female Wrens Christian names, because they all end up being called Jenny. Anyway, she died. She just had this little scratch while gardening, and got septicaemia and eventually died. It used to happen a lot then. Then a few weeks later we heard that Jimmy Wren, her father, was dead too, shot down over Germany. He was our engine driver at the pit, which is how I came to know about it. So of course Jenny – who is actually Ruby, though no-one ever calls her that either – was left alone in the house. I was very struck by it at the time, given that your mother and I were in the same boat; although naturally our circumstances were very different. In fact, I even had Bunting drive me over there to see if there was anything I could do, but she made it very clear she didn't want any help. She seemed a bit odd I thought, even then, although at seventeen you don't really know much about people. Anyway, she just went totally wild. She was bad enough before, apparently, but with her parents gone she just did as she liked. People used to say she was on the game, though I expect it was just a string of boyfriends really."
"She had boyfriends!" cries Bella, incredulously. "Yuk!"
"Oh yes. She was quite a looker in those days, if you can believe it; very popular with the Yanks by all accounts, the parties were legendary, but after they went home she gradually began to let herself go, and in the end became more or less a recluse. I expect it all caught up with her. She was only a girl after all, and there she was, all alone in the world. Or perhaps someone let her down badly, I don't know. That was when she started to collect the cats, among other things. She had donkeys and all sorts at one time, but mostly it was cats. She never married. She's Miss Wren really, not Mrs."
"Gosh, really? We used to think her husband must have run away or something."
"No, she never married, and never worked either, that I know of. It was always a bit of a mystery what she lived on. Social security, I suppose."
Bella giggles. "We used to say she ate the cat food."
"I shouldn't b
e surprised. People used to give her tins. I expect they still do."
"And you really think she'll take Sylvester?"
"Never known to turn one away." Veronica leans over the side of her chair and pours herself a coffee. "Aren't you going to have some breakfast?"
"Yes I suppose so. I thought I might go into town later." Bella becomes suddenly serious. "Aunty."
"Yes dear?"
"You couldn't lend me a fiver could you? Only I'm completely and utterly skint."
"What, after all that money your uncle gave you? You haven't spent it already, surely?"
"That was for a dress! I can't go around naked, can I?" She is about to say, "Whatever Miranda thinks," but stops herself just in time. "It's just that I don't fancy my lipstick any more, not since Carol's been at it, and I need some foundation and some Tampax. Ah, now that reminds me." Here she suddenly falls to her knees before Carol and starts rummaging beneath her skirts. "It would only be a loan," she continues. "I'll pay you back."
"You won't get all that for a fiver, surely?"
"All right, ten then. I'll pay you back when I start working. I'm going to get a job."
"What sort of job?"
"I don't know — something. You couldn't just hold this lot up for me, could you?"
"What on earth are you doing?"
"I just want to see if she's, you know, fully equipped. I want to see if he uses her carnally. I've waited ages for this."
"How utterly disgusting!" cries Veronica, who nevertheless leans eagerly forward. "Well?"
"Hang on a minute, I'm having trouble with the old unmentionables. I think they might be . . . No, they don't seem to be. I thought for a moment they were sort of part of her skin, but they're just stretched tight over her bum. What enormous thighs. I bet they slap together when she walks."
"Don't be horrid. We can't all be skellingtons like you. Where on earth did she get that frock? It looks like something out of the fifties."
"Oxfam in Bradport. I was with her. I wouldn't be surprised if it's collectible. We had to really lean on McNab to buy it as it was two pounds fifty. The shoes came from there too. 'Ello, 'ello, what's this?"
Veronica sniggers. "From where I'm sitting it looks like a piece of fake fur."
Bella stops and looks thoughtful. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't."
"Go on, you might as well, now you've got this far."
"Okay, but you can take the blame." Bella arranges her face in a severe expression and peers over an imaginary pair of half glasses. "Now then, hrrumph, hrrumph, do you have a steady boyfriend, Miss er, um, or is it to regulate your period? I see. And does your mother know about this? Hrrumph, I see. Well in that case I'm just going to shove half my arm up your, er, hrrumph, hrrumph. No, it's not strictly necessary, but I enjoy it."
"Dr Snipe!" laughs Veronica delightedly, then frowns. "But you didn't? I mean . . ."
"I'm not telling," says Bella. "Oh look, how very disappointing: it's just a load of ugly stitches."
"What did you expect exactly?"
"I don't know really. Something rubbery I suppose, like a sex-doll." She probes deeper, pulling out a length of turquoise thread. "What a mess! I shouldn't fancy him stitching up my episiotomy. Hey, you don't suppose he restores her virginity every time do you, like they do with geishas?"
"I'm sure I don't know," says Veronica, pulling a face.
Rat comes in from the balcony, bringing with him a waft of fresh, salty air. "Well, they've made a good start. The fog's clearing nicely and they picked up a bit of a breeze off Bradport; she was well heeled as she passed the ferry." He hangs his binoculars on their hook by the door. "What's for breakfast? Oops, sorry. Come at a bad time have I?"
"It's all right," says Bella, getting up. "She's decent again now."
"I must say, I've wondered about that myself," chuckles Rat, taking out his tobacco pouch.
"Oh have you!" cries Veronica.
"Wondering about what, Uncle?" asks Bella coyly.
"You know perfectly well what I mean."
"Oh, thanks a bunch."
"Intacta, actually," says Veronica, "since you're so interested."
"Well that's rather curious, don't you think?" says Rat, commencing to stuff his pipe. "Doesn't seem a lot of point, does there?"
"Now isn't that just like a man," declares Veronica. "Sex, sex, sex. I happen to find it rather touching. Clearly McNab is the perfect gentleman."
There is a diffident knock at the summer-room door.
"Come on in, Pat," booms Rat. "No need to stand on ceremony."
"Watch out for Sylvester," says Bella, but Bluebell has already scooped him up.
"I'm sorry to bother you," says Pat anxiously, "but there's this man outside. He says he wants his van back, and, er, his costumes."
"I'll handle this," says Rat, fiercely.
"No, no, I'll go," says Bella, feeling suddenly sick.
But unnoticed by any of them, Simon has crept in via the kitchen and is standing there between two suitcases with a silly grin on his face. Suddenly sensing his aura, Bella turns and with a little gasp, halfway between joy and annoyance, throws herself into his arms. Then to everyone's surprise, including her own, she bursts into tears.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bella in housewife mode loads her basket with detergent, oven chips, fish fingers, baked beans, McVitie's chocolate digestives (three packets) and the Daily Bugle, and leaning her bike against the window of 'T & J Dunnock. Butcher & Poulterer. Fresh Game in Season,' joins the short queue inside.
"The usual, my plum?" says Thomas Dunnock of the flickering greenish aura. (Bad heart, Best Beloved, as I'm sure you will agree). He reaches under the counter and takes out a large plastic tub in anticipation of Bella's likely reply.
"Yes, five pounds of melts, please," says Bella giving him her special, extra half-pound, smile.
Placing the tub on the scales the butcher plunges both hands into a tray of slithering offal and fills it almost to the brim. "Call that five okay?"
Bella notes with satisfaction that it's nearer six. "Lovely," she says. "Thanks very much."
"Anything else?"
"No, I don't think so, thanks."
"What about some nice frozen turkey pieces? Special offer: only sixty pence a pound. I've got a lady, her poodle lives on it. Won't touch nothing else."
Bella considers this. "Yes, all right, it'll make a change I suppose. I'll take five pounds."
"Two packs is six pounds, all right?"
"Yes, okay."
"Could you get 'em for me, Jack?" calls Thomas Dunnock. "Two packs of the turkey. How many is it this week then? Full house?"
Bella shrugs. "About forty-something I should think. Five more last night, under our bed unfortunately."
Thomas Dunnock laughs heartily, making his many chins wobble. "That'll cramp yer style then!" He turns to his brother and, necessarily, the shop at large. "I said, that'll cramp their style then, under the bed, eh! Anything else love?"
"No thank you," says Bella politely.
"How's Jenny?" asks Jack, the thinner one, handing over the turkey.
"The operation's tomorrow, if they don't cancel again."
"Wish 'er luck for us, then."
Bella weaving her way homewards through the lunchtime traffic, the chocolate biscuits already open in her basket and the tub of melts jiggling precariously on the handlebars, turns into the maze of narrow, draughty streets that make up the Old Town. The shops and corner pubs give way first to cobbled squares of Georgian townhouses and then, as she nears the quay, to a rather run-down neighbourhood of red-brick Victorian villas, once grand, now mostly turned into flats or bedsits, their small front gardens derelict or concreted over to accommodate elderly, rusting cars.
With several hundred yards still to go, she begins to tense a little, half imagining a slight movement behind a parked builder's van, a shadow unfolding beneath a high wall. Please, she prays, let them not be here today. But turning a corner, her heart si
nks at the sight of a gang of skateboarding youths, their baseball caps worn jauntily sideways, busily testing their skill by leaping on and off the curb. Don't they have anything better to do? Shouldn't they be working or at school or something?
The boys stare at her insolently, exchanging leering glances, and only get out of her way at the very last moment. Even as she passes, she senses, rather than hears, something drop behind her, a barely perceptible thud. One of them calls out – a stupid meowing noise – and the others laugh. Bella, groaning inwardly, accelerates a little, but she can tell by the sound of their wheels that they are following, scooting their boards along the road.
As she passes a dark alley, a scrawny patchwork cat with only one eye and a stump for a tail, steps out and begins to trot along beside her. Bella ignores him. He is quickly joined by a limping tabby; then a Persian with filthy, matted fur, then a fat ginger tom. All plod rapidly in line abreast along the pavement while a young tortoiseshell and an ugly, crossbred Siamese follow more circumspectly, keeping to the gardens. Bella ignores them all. Standing on the pedals she again increases her speed and the cats, fearful of being left behind, break into a bounding run. The limping tabby, unable to keep up, begins a high, insistent wail but Bella, hardening her heart, goes faster still.
Others come. Leaping down from gates and fences, from shed roofs and sun-warmed bonnets, they step boldly into the road and stream along behind and beside her, some almost under her wheels, an urgent, scampering, furry horde. Bella, staring fixedly ahead, denies them utterly. They do not exist.
Passers-by wave and smile. A child cries: "There goes the cat lady!" and the skateboarding boys laughingly take up the refrain: "Cat lady. Cat lady." Bella colours and scowls.
At last, joined by yet more cats from all directions, she banks sharply into Railway Gardens, a long street of soot-stained terraced cottages, their front doors opening directly onto the pavement. Stopping at number thirteen, she fumbles for her key, opens the door and still straddling the bike walks it into the hall. Tails erect, the cats pour in around her.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 21