"Oh I know all about knocking on doors; you don't want to hang about. How many have you done? Is this your first day?"
"Yes. About thirty I think. I've lost count."
"Takes an age doesn't it? Bet you thought you'd do more."
"Well yes, I did," admits Bella.
"Never mind. How many have you got?" He tots them up. "Twelve. Twelve out of thirty's not bad. Have you ever sold double glazing?" He taps the plastic front door with his nicely manicured fingernails. "That's my line, double glazing. Would you like a job? I'm one short on my team. You might do very well, with your looks and everything."
"Er, I don't know. I don't think so," says Bella, not wanting to put him off entirely. "I'm not —"
"Oops, there's the 'phone. Gotta go. Let me know if you change your mind. Bye."
"Bye," says Bella, rather regretfully.
He turns back. "Oh, by the way."
"Yes?"
"I wouldn't bother with next-door, if I were you."
38 The Crescent
"Good morning. I'm from —"
"Hello, dear. Conservatives is it? You're very young for a Conservative lady."
"No, I'm not a Conservative. Actually I'm —"
"You're not a Conservative? Then why are you wearing a blue suit?"
"It's not blue. It's mauve."
"I'd call it blue."
"No, it's mauve. To go with my eyes, see?"
"Ooh yes, what an unusual colour! Are they contact lenses?"
"No, they're not contact lenses. Actually I'm representing —"
"I like your shoes. Where did you get them?"
"Pochard's in Oxford Street. I just wondered if you'd like to sign my —"
"I don't think I'd want them in blue, though. I don't like blue. Have you come about the drains? The smell's been something awful."
Bella pauses to collect her wits and take stock. Twelve signatures in nearly an hour seems a pitifully small score, though no doubt adding up to an awful lot of double glazing. At this rate it would take all day to collect even a hundred. Moreover, she has clearly used up her best addresses, for the road ahead is about to change from asphalt to concrete, indicating an area of 'social housing.'
On her left now stretches a series of identical, flimsily constructed terraces: a disheartening vista of scaffold-pole porches, sagging ridges, and faded panels beneath the windows, painted alternately red and blue, while away to the right, in a waste of threadbare grass and concrete paving, stand three tower blocks, similarly decorated. Bella's heart sinks at the sight of them. She has to remind herself forcefully that the Stones, and all her myriad past selves, are depending on her. At least, she thinks, I won't have to strip to my underwear this time, or sing 'Happy Birthday,' or kiss some drunken bloke with halitosis and six hands.
1 Nare Avenue
Outside the first house a white-haired woman in a pink cardigan is bent double over a drain – it seems to be a problem area for drains – poking a stick down it. Her drawers are clearly visible through the skin-tight material of her flowered leggings.
"Good morning," says Bella, politely. "Oh dear, did I make you jump?"
The woman straightens with some difficulty, one hand in the small of her back. "Just look at that! That's the Council done that. I'll bloody Council them if I get hold of 'em." She brandishes the stick suggestively, making small thrusting movements.
"Er yes, annoying, isn't it?" says Bella, not knowing quite how to respond. "Actually I'm doing a petition to stop them digging up Tenstone Heath. Would you like to sign?"
"Is that what they're going to do?"
"Yes, if we don't stop them."
"You can't keep upsides with 'em, can you? Got a pen?"
Another woman – bottle blonde, nice leather jacket, probably the daughter – appears at her elbow. "Why would anyone want to dig up the Heath? Are they going to build on it?"
"To get the clay out. There's clay underneath." Bella waves an arm at the furze and heather slope, here rising steeply behind the houses. "All that'll go. They'll scrape off the topsoil and just leave the clay; then they'll take that. It'll look awful and all the birds and animals will be killed or driven away. The noise will be terrible."
This isn't strictly true of course, but she decided early on that the prospect of underground clay mines, largely silent and invisible, would be unlikely to provoke much protest. She hasn't even told Simon about that. It's only a little lie after all, and isn't it worth it to avoid a war?
The younger woman looks her up and down. "You don't live round here."
"No, Tenstones, actually."
"You'll be right in the middle of it then," says the older woman.
"Yes, but it'll ruin your view too."
The younger woman laughs. "She won't notice. She never takes her eyes off the telly."
"They muck up everything don't they?" says the older woman. "Do you want my friend to sign as well?"
"Yes please, the more the merrier."
"Dorrie! Come and sign a petition, dear."
Salt of the earth, thinks Bella, as she diplomatically walks down the open-plan garden path only to turn immediately up the one beside it. Perhaps it won't be so bad after all. Perhaps they're actually more environmentally aware here. Who knows? I'm not prejudiced; I'll leave that to Miranda.
Three long terraces and four signatures later she is not so sure.
27 Nare Avenue
"Good morning. I'm representing . . . Oh, bugger you then." Bella puts her hands on her hips and glares at the slammed door. They're more inclined to slam them here, she notices, rather than just close. She resists the temptation to kick over their milk bottles. Why do people leave their milk bottles out all morning anyway? Why don't they take them in and put them in the fridge? Morally degenerate, that's why.
Desperation sets in.
71 Nare Avenue
"And another thing: not only will you be doing your bit to save the heath but we're giving away some jolly nice prizes. Every hundredth signature wins a bottle of wine."
"How many you got so far?"
"Er, I'm not sure; about ninety-something I think."
"Okay, give it 'ere then."
73 Nare Avenue
"Good morning. I'm representing the Friends of Tenstone Heath. We're getting up a petition to stop the —"
"Sod off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You cloth eared or what? I said SOD OFF!"
Bella retreats smartly. Nasty looking brute, and still in his pyjamas at this time of the day! She is surprised to find herself shaking, though whether with anger or fear she is not sure. Nevertheless she turns immediately up the next path. It's like getting chucked off a horse, she thinks, you have to climb straight back into the saddle or you've had it. Anyway, this one's bound to be better. Law of averages.
75 Nare Avenue
But no sooner has she knocked on the door than there is an explosion of barking and a very large dog hurls itself repeatedly at the thin, reeded glass. The man in the pyjamas opens his bedroom window and hurls not only further abuse, but an empty beer can, striking her a glancing blow on the shoulder. Thoroughly unnerved, Bella turns and flees, not stopping until the barking is drowned by the roar of traffic on the nearby overpass.
She suddenly feels very tired. Also, she wants the loo. Also, her shoes are beginning to rub. Also, after drizzling for an hour or so, it has begun to rain quite hard. She wishes she had worn her nice warm Benetton jacket and a pair of trainers instead of a silly pinstripe suit and high heels. It occurs to her that these might even be counterproductive in the present environment. She wonders how the others are doing. How awful it would be if they were to get more signatures than her.
Unable to face any more nasty terraces and their brutish inhabitants she decides to cross over and try the flats. I'll just do a block, she thinks, and then I'll call it a day, no matter what. At least there aren't likely be any dogs in there. They're probably not allowed them.
Bet
ween her and the flats an elevated section of bypass soars high over both the estate road and a marshy inlet of the harbour before descending to skirt the town centre. The rain, now coming down in stair rods, causes Bella to make a dash for its draughty, echoing shelter. She is busy repairing her makeup when a gang of small boys on bicycles appears, the tallest, clearly the leader, hurtling up to her in a controlled skid.
"Wocher doin'?" he demands, aggressively.
"We've been watchin' you," says another.
"You done me gran, dincha?" says a third.
"I'm collecting signatures for a petition, if you must know," says Bella.
"What's a petition?"
"What's a signature?"
Bella explains.
"How many signatures you got?"
"Oh, about sixteen."
"Can we sign too?" asks the smallest eagerly.
Bella considers this. "I don't see why not. But you'll have to do a proper squiggly one, like a grown-up, and write your address."
"How much do we get?" demands the eldest boy.
"Get?"
"How much will you pay us to sign?"
Bella laughs. "I don't buy them, people give them to me for nothing. Isn't it worth it to save the Heath?"
"You must be jokin'. We're not doin' all that writin' for nothin,'" says the boy disgustedly. "C'mon, gang."
Bella does a quick headcount. Twelve boys equals twelve signatures, nearly doubling her total. "Ten pence each," she says, "and not a penny more."
"Fifteen," says the boy.
"Oh, all right then." She waits impatiently as each child kneels in front of the clipboard and laboriously makes his mark.
"We could get more," says the gang leader, suddenly inspired.
"Yeah," says his lieutenant. "There's loads of kids. We could pay them five pence each and keep ten for ourselves. A hundred kids would be ten pounds!"
Next stop the City for that one, thinks Bella, handing out spare sheets. She can never understand how even quite small children's computational powers greatly exceed her own. It must be something to do with having to retain five thousand years of memories and experience. It stands to reason there can't be room for everything.
1 – 20 The Horace Dunnock Memorial Flats
The entrance to the flats is set in a gloomy canyon of weather-stained concrete. The wired glass in the double doors is smashed, as are the lights behind their protective grills. Complex graffiti, like exotic hieroglyphics, adorn the walls and even the ceiling.
For a moment Bella wonders if the place might be derelict, an impression heightened by the fact that the ground floor seems to consist of nothing but large, empty cupboards. Then, reassuringly, she finds one with washing hanging in it to dry. She tries the lift, but discovering an 'Out of Order' sign, scrawled on the wall in lipstick, she heads instead for the dark, urine-smelling stairs.
No.1
"Hello, I'm sorry to bother you. I'm getting up a petition to stop them digging up Tenstone Heath."
"Sorry dear, you'll have to speak up."
"I SAID, I'M GETTING UP A PETITION TO SAVE THE HEATH."
"Oh, you've brought the teeth!" The old woman touches Bella's arm in a 'silly me' sort of way. "Thanks ever so much. He's been like a bear with a sore head without them. I thought I'd have to get them myself and it's two buses and a wait in Bradport station, which I don't fancy since my sister got mugged in the underpass. She's never been the same since, poor lamb. Course, I expect you've got a car. All you young people have got cars. Do I pay for them now?"
No.3
"Tenstone Heath? Where's that to then?"
"Just beyond the bypass," says Bella, rather sarcastically. "I believe you may be able to see it from your window."
"Oh that. That's the Common. We call that the Common."
Voice a slow monotone. Face like a camel. Why do these people exist? She's just about had it really; can't take much more. "The Common, then," she says brightly, as if to a child. "We're trying to stop them turning it into a clay pit. Would you like to sign?"
The woman takes the clipboard, stares at it bleakly for a moment, thrusts it back. "There's snakes on the common — adders. They can kill you, can adders. I wouldn't let our lot play there."
"They could drown in a clay-pit, come to that," says Bella. "Dangerous things for children, clay-pits. And then there's all that unguarded machinery. You don't want them running amok with a JCB do you?"
The woman looks confused. "Oh no, they've all gone now, dear. Grown up and gone. Our Nicky's in the Seychelles; she's a courier. Course, I expect they've got snakes there too. They've got snakes everywhere, haven't they? Except Ireland."
"You after No.5?" says No.6.
"Yes. But it doesn't matter. Actually I was —"
"You won't make her in. She probably thinks you're from the Social."
"No, I'm not from the Social. Would you like to sign my petition? We're trying to stop the —"
"You already done me. You done me when you done me mum."
"Oh yes, so I did. Sorry. I've seen so many people today."
"You can do me again if you like."
"All right, but you'll have to make your signature a bit different. Can you sign for two and four too? They're out."
The door of No.5 now opens slightly. "Was it that bitch from the Social?" She sees Bella and jumps violently. "Oh shit."
"I'm not from the Social, honestly," says Bella. "I'm doing a petition about Tenstone Heath, that's all."
The young woman looks Bella suspiciously up and down. "Thinks she's Lady bloody Muck, that one. You sound just like 'er."
"Hello, what's all this then?" says a brassy voice. It is No.7, who is suddenly to be found leaning in her doorway, arms folded. "Been entertaining gentlemen again, have we Brenda?"
"What's it to you if I have?" says No.5, retreating a little into her lair. She perhaps feels at a disadvantage in her rather grubby bathrobe and novelty rabbit slippers. Bella is impressed by the size of her calves. However does she find boots to fit? "Anyway, they're just friends," she adds sullenly. "They don't stop all night. They never stops all night. I can have friends, can't I?" She seems to be addressing herself mainly to Bella, perhaps not entirely believing she isn't connected with the 'Social.'
"No, they don't stop all night," confirms No.7. "Just ten or fifteen minutes, usually." She bursts into coarse laughter, in which she is joined, after a moment's reflection, by No.6.
"What d'you reckon she charges?" says No.6. "Can't be much."
Without warning, No.5 now flies into a paroxysm of rage, terrifying in its intensity. "FUCK OFF YOU!" she cries. "FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF!" each time crouching a little, her fists clenched, the sinews standing out in her neck and her suddenly mad eyes nearly popping out of her head.
"Well, I can see you're all busy," says Bella, heading for the stairs. "I'd better be getting on."
"Mind the cat-shit," calls No.6, still laughing.
"No problem, just like home," says Bella.
"Yeah, I'll bet."
Carrying her clipboard and a tray of pizza and chips, Bella emerges from the kitchens of the Ferryman into the afternoon peace of the lounge bar, the meet-up point for the petitioners. Simon and Nick have yet to arrive, but Martin, Jacqui and Jo, who have been working the exclusive Links estate, are already there, gazing morosely into their glasses. Julius couldn't come, but at the next table is a quietly arguing group of his little helpers. It is rather surprising that they are back so soon, having been banished to the ribbon development along the Wimbleford Road.
"Hi Bella!" cries Jacqui, brightening. "How did you get on?"
"Oh, she'll have done all right," mutters Jo sourly.
Jacqui makes space for Bella to sit down. "Gosh, what a heap!" she says, staring in amazement at her plate. "You're not really going to eat all that by yourself are you?"
"Too right I am. I'm absolutely famished. Anyway, it's a point of honour; Ho said I'd never manage it. It'd probably feed a whole village
for a week where he comes from."
"Those chips look nice."
"Yes they do, don't they?"
"Bet they taste nice too."
"Yes, they do actually. Ho does a good chip."
"I couldn't pinch one could I?" smiles Jacqui, giving one of her nose wrinkling little shrugs.
"I suppose so," says Bella, grudgingly.
Jacqui pulls her chair closer. As always, there is that strange, disturbing harmonic as their auras intermingle. She selects the largest and longest chip and holding it up, sucks it slowly in between her full, red lips. Everything about Jacqui is improbably pneumatic, even her lips, as if someone has stuck a bike pump up her bum and inflated her. "Mmm, yummy. I wish I'd got some myself now."
"Help yourself," sighs Bella, putting the plate more squarely between them.
"I won't tell Ho," confides Jacqui, tucking in.
"Well? How many did you get then?" says Martin impatiently.
"Fifty-three," says Bella. "And if that's not enough, I don't care because I sweated blood to get them."
Jacqui is gratifyingly awestruck. "But that's fantastic! We only got forty-six between the two of us."
"Between you!"
"Afraid so. Mind you," she looks daggers at Jo, "I got most of those."
"Complacent, petite-bourgeois bastards," growls Jo. "I said we'd be better off on the council estate, but no, madam knew best."
"Oh no, you wouldn't," says Bella emphatically. "You'd have got foul abuse, slammed doors and blisters." She was about to add indecent proposals, but feels this is unlikely in Jo's case.
"I know what you mean," agrees Jacqui. "I've got them on both heels and my big toe, and my legs have gone all funny."
"That's because you're hopelessly unfit," mutters Jo.
"Oh, shut up you," snaps Jacqui.
"Where did you go, exactly?" asks Martin.
"All along under the bypass: Crescent Road, Nare Avenue and those great tall flats, the ones with the coloured panels. God its rough down there, worse than bits of London. And I should know."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 28