Isabella: A sort of romance

by R. A. Bentley

  "She's in hospital."

  "Typical!" grumbles the parka.

  "Er, would you mind if we come in?" says the balaclava. "Only it's rather important."

  "I thought you already were in," says Bella acidly.

  Down on the first-floor landing they discover a frenzy of activity. The two men and a young woman rush back and forth, watched by a few of the bolder cats. They have opened up the unused front bedroom, pushing all the furniture into a corner, and are now stacking the boxes in it. Bella bends down and peers at one. It is, in fact a metal cage about two feet long. "There's a rat in here," she says accusingly.

  "Scuse," says the girl, bringing another.

  "Scuse," says the balaclava, staggering in with two more.

  The man in the parka looks around the cage-packed bedroom with grim approval. "Better get a bit of air in here," he says, struggles with the window catch. "Does this thing open?"

  "No idea," say Simon, still lacing his trainers.

  "Here's the feed," says the girl, dumping down a large paper sack. She is wearing a black sweatshirt, black cord jeans and a black bobble-hat, all of which appear to be soaking wet. A few draggled blonde locks protrude from the hat. She turns to look at Bella and does a distinct double-take, as if she has encountered some well-known personality in an unexpected place. "Gosh, hello!" she says, "I'm Jacqui."

  The man in the parka scowls at her. "That wasn't very clever, was it?"

  "Oops, sorry," says the girl, chastened.

  Half a head shorter than Bella she is pretty in a youthful, characterless sort of way. Her aura is of that fugitive, softly-shimmering kind occasionally found in young women. She smiles shyly, then looks down. For no obvious reason, Bella decides to dislike her. "I don't care who you are," she says, addressing the parka. "I don't like finding people in my house in the middle of the night."

  "Mrs Wren gave us a key," says Jacqui apologetically.

  "ALF?" suggests Simon, clearly amused by them. He peeks inside a cage and runs his finger nails along the bars. "You're a nice fat chap."

  The parka and the balaclava exchange glances. "Not exactly," says the parka.

  "Not exactly?"

  "Not exactly ALF."

  "Warm, though," says the balaclava.

  The parka scowls at him. "When does Mrs Wren get out of hospital? What's the matter with her?"

  Bella shrugs. "Not soon. She's had a hip done, but then she caught some sort of bug. She's not at all well."

  "Oh dear, poor thing!" says Jacqui.

  "Then who's looking after the cats?" asks the balaclava.

  "We are."

  The parka appears to relax slightly. "You . . . care about animals?"

  Simon answers for both of them. "Yes, very much."

  Bella raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

  "Good, that's enough of this nonsense then," says the balaclava, pulling off his disguise. "I'm Nick, this is Martin."

  "Simon and Bella," says Simon. He and Nick smile at each other. Martin reluctantly lowers his hood.

  "I don't suppose there's any chance of a coffee?" says Nick. He is a dark, heavy-set man of about Simon's age, prematurely balding. His face, now flushed and mottled from the balaclava, seems surprisingly honest and open for an urban terrorist, and his aura is the usual uncomplicated beige. Bella decides he's quite nice.

  "You'd better come up," she sighs.

  They sit in a circle in the flat's tiny living room, warming their hands on their mugs. Sylvester has already found his way onto Nick's lap. "Hello, pussy cat," says Nick, scratching him under the chin. "You are a battered old thing, aren't you? What happened to him? Do you know?"

  "He was in a fire of some sort. He's actually much better than he was, though he still looks a fright."

  Jacqui, peers at him with interest. She has pulled off her bobble hat revealing a mass of sodden curls. "Gosh, that must be about forty percent burns. I don't think we've ever had one that bad. Usually it's just their feet."

  "We?" asks Simon, coming in from the kitchen.

  "I'm a veterinary nurse," she says, half turning. "Well, a trainee. Ooh, choccy biccies. My favourite."

  "Help yourself," says Simon, proffering the plate.

  "So just you be a good moggy," says Nick to a now-purring Sylvester, "Or nasty nursie will stick a needle up your bum."

  "Neck, mostly," corrects Jacqui.

  Deliberately ignoring her, Bella addresses herself to Nick. "He's rather accident-prone, I'm afraid. I'd already run him over before this happened."

  "You ran him over?"

  "By mistake, in the night. That's how we came to be here really."

  "Is this anything to do with you?" says Martin, interrupting. He has been closely studying a draft of the forthcoming FROTH press release which was lying on the coffee table.

  "Yes, I wrote it," says Bella, not much inclined to elaborate. She thinks it rather rude of him to read bits of paper in other people's houses. In contrast to the voluble Nick, he is a narrow, brooding, beaky little man with deep-set eyes and an aura of palest jade-green, cold and brittle as arctic ice. She decides she doesn't much care for him either.

  "Do you run it?" persists Martin. "Was it your idea?"

  "I'm Secretary, that's all. Julius Hawksmoor is Chairman. He's the Vicar of St Ethelfleda, Tenstones."

  Martin makes a soundless "ah" and nods.

  "Chocolate biscuit anyone?" says Simon.

  "Ta, great," says Nick

  "Er, no thanks," says Martin.

  "He's a vegan," whispers Jacqui, who is now visibly shivering. Martin glowers at her.

  "Can't we find something for this poor girl to wear?" says Simon. "She's dripping all over the carpet."

  "Oh, I'd be awfully grateful," says Jacqui, turning to Bella. "I don't mind what it is; just something to get me home."

  "I doubt if I've got anything your size," mutters Bella, standing up. "I can have a look I suppose."

  "Where have you pinched them from, then?" says Simon. "Bradport College?"

  "Not even slightly warm," says Nick, and they laugh.

  "I don't think we want to discuss that, do we?" says Martin, firmly. He passes Nick the press release. "Sort of thing we ought to be interested in, d'you think?"

  "What is it?"

  "Friends of Tenstone Heath, pressure group."

  "Come to the next meeting if you like," says Simon. "The more the merrier."

  In the bedroom, Jacqui pulls off her sodden clothes. "I really am most awfully grateful," she says. "Oh, yuk! Even my knickers are wet."

  Bella throws her a towel and opens the wardrobe, gazing along the rail. "How come you got so much wetter than the others?"

  "I was keeping watch. It was really scary, but exciting too. If anyone came I was supposed to act like a damsel in distress and distract them. Can you imagine? I wouldn't have a clue. Jo will be ever so cross she missed it."

  "Who's Jo?"

  "Oh, just someone I share a flat with; though she's at Greenham at the moment."

  "Greenham?"

  "You know — the missiles. I'm just sort of standing in for her really." She comes over and peers into the wardrobe beside Bella, still towelling her hair. Her pink, blonde's skin smells moist and slightly scented and her girlish aura mingles with Bella's own, setting up an odd sort of chromatic vibration or harmonic. Bella feels a little uncomfortable; she's not used to being so close to a naked woman.

  "This is nice," says Jacqui.

  "What, the black? I don't think it would fit you."

  "Goodness no, I'd never get into that; you're much slimmer than me." She sighs and looks admiringly at Bella. "I always wanted to be tall and thin and elegant, like you." She glances down at herself as if to draw attention to her deficiencies, then shrugs and wrinkles her nose.

  Bella observes her coldly. Her bottom is certainly rather large, as are her breasts, which are, moreover, ridiculously high and jutting, as if they have just this moment erupted and not yet succumbed to the for
ce of gravity. "I know a few men who'd approve," she says.

  "Oh they do," agrees Jacqui. She appears about to add something else but instead bites her lip and looks down again.

  "How about this?" says Bella, taking out a rather shapeless dress in grey wool-jersey. She holds it up and frowns. "I can't think why I bought it really." She immediately senses Jacqui's aura drawing away. The harmonics stop.

  "Yes that's all right," says Jacqui. "Anything'll do."

  Bella gazes at her for a moment, then, despite herself, relents. "No, tell you what." She goes to a chest of drawers and after some rooting around takes out a plain white tracksuit, still in its plastic bag. "It's a Medium, so I suppose it should fit. I bought it because I thought the legs would be longer, but they weren't. I never got round to taking it back."

  Jacqui puts it on and twirls in front of the mirror. "Fantastic! That's really fantastic. Thanks ever so much."

  "You're welcome."

  "I only live in Pinebourne. I'll bring it back as soon as I can."

  Bella shakes her head. "Keep it. It'll only sit in the drawer otherwise."

  "Really? Gosh, thanks. That's fantastic!"

  They are gathered in the hall with the door open. Cats that were outside take the opportunity to come in, bedraggled and muddy. Cats that are inside hover indecisively on the doorstep, either plunging into the wet and darkness or slinking away into the sitting room.

  "Not you," says Bella, scooping up Sylvester as usual. He struggles a bit, then gives in.

  "Doesn't get any better does it?" grumbles Martin. Putting up his hood, he makes a dash for the van.

  "Bye, thanks for the coffee," mutters Bella.

  Nick grins apologetically. "Man of few words, our Martin. Are you quite sure about the feeding?"

  "Yup, no problem," says Simon.

  "I'll come back in a day or two and see how you're getting on. It shouldn't be for long."

  "I'll come too," says Jacqui.

  "Where do they go when they leave here?" asks Simon.

  Nick taps the side of his nose. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." They laugh, clearly already friends.

  Martin draws forward in the van, winding down the window. "You'd better tell Mrs Wren we've been. She was expecting us."

  "Only if she's well enough, obviously," says Nick.

  Jacqui reaches up and kisses Bella shyly on the cheek. "Thanks ever so much for this. See you soon."

  Bella closes the door, this time bolting it top and bottom. "What a bunch of monkeys," she says. "It's a wonder they get away with it. And that Martin — creepy!"

  "Nick's okay though," says Simon.

  "Yes, he's okay I suppose."

  "What were you talking to Jacqui about?"

  "I'm not sure really," says Bella, musingly.

  "Not sure?"

  Bella shrugs. "Oh, you know, clothes and things. Girl talk."

  "Nice bit of totty that," says Simon appreciatively. "Not what you'd expect."

  "Nice bit of totty!" cries Bella, punching him. "You're not supposed to look!"

  Simon chuckles.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Veronica leads the way into the kitchen. "We've literally just had lunch. Do you want something? There's some salad left."

  "No, I'm okay thanks," says Bella, throwing herself onto the window seat. "Phew, hot! Hello Uncle."

  Rat, who is lighting his pipe, winks at her, his usual greeting. "I gather you've had a visit from your sister."

  "Yes, isn't it wonderful? I'm going to be Aunty Bella."

  "She was ever so pleased you were pleased," says Veronica. "She was quite nervous about telling you."

  Bella frowns. "But she said I was the first to know."

  "Oh you were; I was completely in the dark until yesterday morning. I wish you were on the phone, I've been going mad! I've had twenty-four hours with no-one to talk to about it. Your uncle's no use at all."

  Rat grins amiably, his yellowed teeth gripping the pipe-stem as he strikes a third match. "She's pregnant. What else is there to say?"

  "You see? Hopeless!"

  "What about Pat and Bluebell?"

  "Oh no, I don't think Miranda would like me to tell anyone outside the family, not yet anyway. Doris came with the parish magazine and I was ever so tempted, but I resisted."

  "Never mind," says Bella. "We can talk babies all afternoon if you want. But first . . ." She roots in her Tesco bag. "This is for you."

  "Ooh, a pwessy!" cries Veronica. "All wrapped up, with a bow. Look, Ratty!" She assumes an exaggerated expression of doubt and confusion. "But it's not my birthday is it?"

  "Of course it's not your birthday. Don't be sarky. And you don't have to save the paper."

  "Oh I always have to save the paper," says Veronica, setting it carefully aside. "Goodness, it's er . . . what is it, exactly? Some sort of doily?"

  "It says what it is, round the edge."

  "'A round tuit'," reads Veronica doubtful. "I'm sorry, I don't understand. What's a tuit?"

  "Well," says Bella, "you're always saying you'll do this and that when you get around to it, so I thought I'd buy you one. A round tuit. See?"

  "Oh yes, I see."

  "It's a joke."

  "Yes. I can see that now."

  "And this is for you, Uncle."

  Rat opens his gift, a suspicious expression on his weatherbeaten features. "Hmm, a carved pipe." He holds it at arms length and peers at it. "I'll have to fetch my glasses. A sailor, would it be?"

  "Yes," says Bella, eagerly. "And look, he's smoking a pipe too. Isn't that nice? It's real: you can really smoke it. I asked in the shop."

  "Er, yes. I'm sure you can," agrees Rat. He leans across the table to kiss her. "Thank you my dear. I shall cherish it always."

  "And here's something to put in it."

  Rat's eyes light up. "Black Rum! Goodness me, Bella, there's a pound here! Have you found a money mine?"

  "Enjoy," says Bella, airily. "And here's what I owe you, Aunty."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yup, no problem. Thanks very much for the loan of it. Do you like my top?"

  "I was just admiring it."

  "It's hand-embroidered. Twelve ninety-nine from that new boutique on the quay."

  "Well that's not bad, considering the work in it."

  "And while I was there." She fetches out a brown paper bag. "I got this for you."

  "An Aran sweater!"

  "You didn't think I'd got you anything, did you?"

  "Well . . ."

  "I know it's too warm for it now, but it'll soon be autumn, and I thought, I know who'd like that."

  "Yes, it's lovely. Thank you very much, dear."

  "How's Simon," asks Rat.

  "He's fine."

  "Got any sales yet?"

  "Not as such. It's difficult until he gets a shop. We've been looking at a little lock-up in Cable Street. It's a bit grotty but it's really cheap. He thought he might call it 'SOS Computers,' and just paint everything matt black."

  "I'm sure it'll be a roaring success," says Veronica reassuringly. "He's very enterprising."

  "I hope so. We're pretty broke until his house goes through and it's taking ages; there's a chain or something."

  "Then you shouldn't go buying us presents!" protests Veronica.

  "No, no, all this came out of my tip money; I don't count that. We did a Rotary Club luncheon last week and I made nearly fifty pounds. Of course, you have to play up to them a bit, but with my performance skills . . . What's the matter, Uncle?"

  "Thought I heard something," says Rat, peering out of the window.

  "It's just the twins, I expect," says Veronica.

  "No, it's not the twins."

  Bella turns to follow his gaze, then goes quickly to the kitchen door. Waddling distractedly about the hard is a dumpy, vaguely familiar figure in plastic flip flops, red shorts and a faded 'Terry's Party Hire' T-shirt. Her face is a swollen, snotty, tear-stained picture of misery, and from her pe
rmanently open mouth comes a terrible, high-pitched keening, like eastern mourning. The general effect is of a huge toddler that has wet itself and lost its mummy.

  "Crystal?" asks Bella, uncertainly.

  "Who is she, and what on earth is the matter with her?" demands Veronica, trundling down the ramp.

  "It's Crystal. She's a Shangri-la."

  "A what?"

  Pat appears, followed by Bluebell, who gets too close and is dragged, struggling, to Crystal's great, shapeless bosom. "Crystal, I can't breathe," protests Bluebell, pushing her away.

  "She doesn't seem to be hurt or anything," says Pat, examining her carefully from all angles. "Crystal, it's all right, dear; you're quite safe now. Just tell me where you left Jason and Sandy, there's a good girl. Crystal, are you listening to me? Oh dear, I hope nothing awful has happened."

  Veronica intervenes. She has a low tolerance of histrionics, especially in the lower classes. "Stop that stupid noise immediately," she barks, "and tell us what is the matter." Crystal ceases wailing as though slapped and stares down at her in shocked surprise. "Well? What is it? Where have you come from? You can talk, I suppose?"

  "Of course she can talk," says Bluebell indignantly. "She's a very good talker."

  "Crystal, the Shangri-la, where is it?" says Pat, taking hold of her hands and gently shaking them. "We need to know." Crystal turns and waves a fat, blotchy arm vaguely in the direction of the village. With the other she wipes her nose.

  "I'll get the car," sighs Rat.

  They find the purple removal van near the old pit entrance. It is half in the ditch and canted well over. Attached to its tow-bar but still more or less upright, is Kiss and Phil's tiny caravan. They can be seen inside, moving about.

  Jason is gazing absently at the lorry's detached front wheel, his hands in his pockets, while Sandy busily gathers the roadside heather, now in full bloom.

  "What happened?" asks Rat.

  "Wheel came off, dinnit?" says Jason, as if to an idiot.

  "Where's Grampy Phil's car?" asks Bluebell.

  "Got pinched, dinnit?"

  Rat scrambles down into the ditch and peers under the lorry's mangled wheel arch. "Have you a jack?" Jason shakes his head.

  "Sold it, dinny?" says Sandy, her arms filled with heather. "See this? People pays good money for this. I'm gonna get a bucket for it." She nods a greeting to Bella and Pat, but completely ignores her daughter, shaking her off when she comes for a cuddle. Crystal, who was quite serene in the Range Rover, begins to wail again.