"Not the Horace Dunnock Memorial Flats?" says Jo, looking surprised.
Bella fancies she sees an expression of grudging respect cross Jo's masculine features, but it quickly changes to something else, something she can't quite identify. "Is that what they're called?" she says airily, "I didn't notice."
Martin turns to the other table. "And what about you lot?" he says, with the air of one who doesn't expect very much.
Julius's team consists of a couple of female social workers, probably judged young enough to retain some grip on reality, and a teacher named Nigel. It's not clear why Nigel has been singled out for this honour. He apparently managed to lose his clipboard quite early on and has had to share.
"We haven't finished working it out yet," says one of the girls.
"What do you mean, working it out? You've only got to add them up."
"Yes, but you want a socioeconomic breakdown, don't you? There's about a ten percent subset we haven't managed to categorise."
"Just give us the bloody number."
"Twenty-three."
"Thank you."
"What about you, Martin?" says Bella. "How many did you get?"
"Forty-nine."
"Which wasn't bad on his own," says Jacqui, loyally.
Bella finds herself slightly miffed by this. She has grown to accept Jacqui's puppy-like adoration as her due and doesn't care to share it. "I was on my own too," she hears herself saying. "And I got attacked by a dog."
"The trouble is, it's so time-consuming," grumbles Martin. "Some of those drives in Links Road must be fifty yards long. And then, when you've toiled all the way up to some great, sprawling Dallas-style bungalow and found the right door, there's no-one in except some dozy au-pair. Mind you, they were mostly quite obliging, even enthusiastic, if you could just get hold of them."
"What, the au-pairs?" says Bella, raising an eyebrow.
Martin looks confused "No, the punters, or whatever they are."
Jacqui giggles.
Jo says: "Quite a few people asked why they hadn't heard anything about these plans."
"Yes, I got a lot of that," agrees Martin. "Were they in the Bugle? You should have had copies made."
"Well, no, it hasn't been in the papers yet," admits Bella.
"Then how do you know about it?"
"Ah, well, actually it was inside information. Someone who knows one of the directors told me."
Martin frowns. "Is that all? Suppose they've got it wrong? Have you any proof? Any documentation?"
"Oh, I'm quite sure of my facts," says Bella. "I've put a lot of time in on this."
"But have you any actual documentary proof?" Persists Martin.
"Not . . . as such," admits Bella. "There's an old planning consent floating about apparently; although of course that's not proof in itself. I expect the new application will be published soon; or it will be if we don't stop it."
Martin considers this. "I wish I'd known that before. I mean, I respect your commitment and everything, but I'm wondering if we mightn't have jumped the gun a bit. I'm inclined to think we shouldn't be doing anything until these people go public; we could be playing right into their hands and not know it. If we let them make the first move then we'll know exactly what we're up against. There's a lot to be said for keeping your powder dry."
"But by then it might be too late," protests Bella. "I was hoping to frighten them off. Force of public opinion and all that."
"You're not saying we've wasted our time?" cries Jacqui.
"No, I'm not saying that, but —"
"Who is this person anyway, this contact of yours?" asks Jo. "One of your posh friends I suppose."
Bella hesitates. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you that," she says. "I have to protect my sources you know. We're talking very big business here; they could get into a lot of trouble for leaking this."
That'll shut her up, she thinks, but nevertheless feels rather uncomfortable. Jo is staring at her just as she did when they first met, as if her suspicious grey eyes can see right through flesh and bone and are probing directly her naked psyche. It's because of me doing Nare Avenue, she thinks. Before that she just despised me for being beautiful and feminine and sophisticated, but now she knows I'm brave and resourceful as well she's decided to hate me.
Jacqui, who has been leafing through Bella's clipboard, suddenly giggles. "Doctor Who!"
"Let's have a look at that," says Jo, snatching it. "And here's another." Her eyes narrow. "David Bowie, Margaret Thatcher. That's very interesting company you were keeping, down in Nare Avenue."
Bella grabs back the clipboard and stares at it. "The thieving little sods! I'll wring their bloody necks." She is saved further embarrassment by the advent of Simon and Nick who burst, laughing, through the swing doors from the public bar, each clutching a pint and already rather the worse for wear. "How long have you been in there?" she demands crossly.
"Only about half an hour. We didn't think you'd be back yet. Sorry."
"I take it you gave up," says Martin.
Nick shakes his head. "No more forms. We thought about going onto plain paper, but decided that wouldn't do."
"But each sheet is fifty signatures!"
"That's right," says Simon. "Five sheets each, five hundred signatures. Mind you, we didn't half shift. Practically sprinted from door to door, didn't we mate?"
Nick shakes his head. "Better just tell 'em," he says, looking self satisfied as only a big, fat man can. "Honesty is the best policy."
"Okay," says Martin wearily. "Tell us the secret of your success."
"The first half hour was diabolical," admits Simon. "You'd think they were signing their grannies' death warrants or something."
"Tell me about it," sighs Jacqui.
"Then we thought: well, a signature is a signature is a signature," says Nick. "Doesn't matter where it comes from. Think laterally, that's the thing,"
"So," says Simon, "we decided to do a petition for . . . "
"Bringing back hanging!" they cry in unison.
"We considered adding flogging," says Nick, "but we decided that was a bit OTT."
"Then we thought, why a residential area," says Simon. "Why not the town centre? So we came back to the High Street and just accosted passers by."
"They were actually queueing up at one point," says Nick.
"It made me feel a bit queasy, to tell the truth," says Simon, draining his glass. "All that naked bloodlust. You could just imagine them at a public execution, laughing and joking and holding their kids up to watch. Same again, Nick?"
"Please."
"Anyone else. What about you, Blossom? Hey, what's the matter with everyone?"
"But you can't do that!" says Jacqui, breaking the silence. "It's . . . dishonest."
"I must say I'm having some difficulty in justifying it morally," begins Martin.
"Oh come on!" cries Simon. "We needed signatures, we got signatures. You don't think about morality when you're smashing up someone's lab, do you? You didn't think about morality when you set fire to those butchers' vans. The end justifies the means. Isn't that right Nick?"
Nick nods gravely. "I don't see a problem, frankly. People like that don't deserve any consideration; they're repulsive, medieval." He sits down, looking suddenly weary. "It does rather dent your faith in humankind, though. As if it wasn't dented enough already."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Yes, I know. I haven't shown you the Bluebell thing. Here it is, finally.
One pin-bright morning, as long ticks and vees of migrating birds pass overhead, Bluebell, feeling restless and unsettled, casts around for a small adventure. Released early from her duties at the stables and riding back along the track to Windy Point she decides on impulse to attempt a circumnavigation of the manor-house grounds, a distance she estimates at some two and a half miles. Turning off across the treeless plain of wind-stunted heather that was her first sight of Tenstone heath she urges her plump little pony to a canter and begins to follow the ne
arby Manor wall as it rises and falls sinuously with the lie of the land.
Though she cannot know it, these are the dying hours of her true childhood and of the innocent fantasies that have hitherto filled her young mind; images culled from the few films she has been permitted to see, from her treasured collection of books, and from dog-eared copies of the National Geographic Magazine, bought at car-boot sales for ten pence a bundle.
In her imagination, the high, grey wall with its heavy stone coping is no longer an eccentric example of Georgian workfare but the Great Wall of China and she is Genghis Khan, sweeping across the open steppe at the head of an invading horde; and when at length it plunges into that almost impenetrable stretch of neglected woodland known as Finch's Coppice, its crumbling, ivy-clad brickwork is at once transformed into mysterious, jungle ruins and she, in turn, becomes an intrepid female version of Indiana Jones, searching the dripping rainforest for the fabulous jewel or artifact that will seal her fame in the academic world.
Bending low in the saddle to avoid the dangling creepers and overhanging branches she works her way slowly east, following a barely recognisable path through the undergrowth into a place of secret glades and ferny hollows, never before seen by the eyes of a European. Here, in a wonderful stillness – so different from Windy Point – with the first autumn leaves falling softly about her, she eventually dismounts, leading the pony by the reins.
If there is, sadly, no treasure to be found, or even a hidden mineshaft guarded by ancient and devilish machinery, there is still much to fill her notebook and her nature shelf: a number of interesting fungi to identify; a trio of remarkably unconcerned squirrels foraging for beech mast; a tawny owl roosting in a tree, and, half hidden among high bracken, a dead cock pheasant. Alas, it is not nearly fresh enough to use as entry fee to the vicar's wonderful collection, but she keeps a few bright feathers for herself, tucking one into her hair and the rest into the belt of her dress.
Further on is a little, mossy spring, the water flowing a few yards then sinking into the ground again, and nearby – oh wonderful find! – a badger's sett, complete with fresh droppings and discarded bedding. For a while she lingers in this magical spot, sitting beneath a great, spreading oak to eat her packed lunch and washing it down with clear spring water. Then, memorising the position of the burrow as best she can for some future nocturnal visit, for she would dearly love to see a living badger, she rather reluctantly continues her journey.
Pushing through browning bracken fronds, close under the sun-hot wall, Bluebell slowly becomes aware that the peace is no longer absolute. Intruding upon her bucolic idyll is an irritating buzz, almost subliminal at first, but slowly becoming a distant mechanical roar. It is not coming from inside the manor house grounds, into which she can just about see if she stands in the stirrups, or, indeed, anywhere on her route, but somewhere far off to the right. Chainsaws perhaps? Surely not? Unless an entire forest is being felled. Motorcycles? But where?
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Bluebell temporarily abandons her itinerary and turns to follow the sound, picking her way up out of the woods, down again into a marshy valley – crossed by the inevitable row of pylons – and up yet another slope, dotted with young pines. Just as she reaches the top, the noise, now an angry, barking cacophony, suddenly dies down to a single stuttering cough, and stops.
Leaving Percy to crop the tussocky grass, Bluebell creeps forward, silent as an Indian scout, and finds herself on the edge of a near vertical drop into what is clearly the old gravel pit. Lying on her tummy, she peers over. It is like looking down into a huge crater; a great, barren expanse of stony earth, carved into fantastical miniature hills and gullies by rain and long departed machinery and dotted with shallow pools of water. On the edge of one of these, almost directly below her, stands a group of dusty, leather-clad youths, and their equally dusty mounts. One of these is clearly giving trouble. Tools have been taken out and there appears to be a good-natured argument in progress regarding how to proceed.
"Plug, probably," opines someone.
"Yeah, it's always a plug."
"Nah. It's electrical, you can tell."
"Could be petrol."
"Don't be an arse'ole."
"Could be."
"If it was petrol it wouldn't go at all, would it?"
"Could be an airlock or something, is what I meant."
"No good speculatin'," says one of the youths authoritatively, and falling to his knees begins to ply a spanner.
"Here, watch those nuts," cautions the nervous owner.
"Watch yer own fuckin' nuts."
Laughter.
"I don't want them getting lost, that's all."
"You gonna do it then?" proffering the spanner.
"No, I don't mind you doing it; just watch out for the bits."
The kneeling youth nods knowingly. "No, course you don't mind me doing it. D'you know why? Because you don't know fuck-all about it, that's why."
"Hello," says Bluebell.
All but the self-appointed mechanic swing round and stare at her.
"Where the hell did you come from?" demands a thickset, red-headed boy.
"From up there," says Bluebell, pointing. "I had to jump down there, and then onto that bit, and then there," she adds proudly.
"That's not so difficult," says the boy, turning away. The others do likewise.
Bluebell clasps her hands behind her back and smiles. "My name's Bluebell. What are yours?"
No-one answers.
"Haven't you got names, then?" she demands.
"There's a lot of crud in there," says someone, crouching down.
"There's always crud in there. Give us that one, the cranked one."
Eventually the owner of the faulty bike, a thin, helmeted boy, shyly says: "I'm Dave."
"No he's not," says another. "He's Brains, cos he don't know nothin' useful. An' this one's Pillion, cos of his fat arse."
The boy in question colours a little. "No I'm not, I'm Brian, and he's Aaron with the big gob."
"What's that in your belt?" asks Dave
"Pheasant's feathers," says Bluebell, "It was crawling with maggots, or I'd have kept it."
"Cool."
"Are you gonna help me with this?" says the kneeling youth irritably. "Or don't you wannit fixed?"
Bluebell examines the parked bikes with interest. "This is a nice one," she says, throwing a leg over a bright-yellow Yamaha. She pretends to operate the throttle. "Vroom vroom."
"Watch out, Darren," laughs someone. "She's pinchin' yer wheels."
Darren scrambles to his feet and glowers at the girl in the blue gingham dress, sitting provocatively astride his precious bike. He sees the long blonde hair, the candid blue eyes, the sprinkling of freckles, the bare, brown legs shading by infinite degrees into plump, white thighs — and falls instantly and hopelessly in love.
*
Long accustomed to the task, Bella ladles out the sloppy cat food in the perfunctory manner of a school dinner lady. "Do we have to go?" she implores.
"You said last night you wanted to."
"I didn't. I said that if you insisted on going, then I was going too. I didn't say I wanted to. I don't want to." She lashes out at a particularly importunate tabby with her spoon. "Just wait, will you? Get off there!"
"Temper, temper."
"He's nothing but a greedy pig, that one; look at the size of him. All right, come and get it, you 'orrible lot."
"Well, are you coming or not?"
"I told you: if you're going, I'm going."
"Right," says Simon, making for the door. "That's decided then, is it? Because they'll be here in a minute."
"I really don't see why either of us has to go," persists Bella, following him into the street.
"Because they've been helping us and it's only fair to support them. Anyway I promised Nick."
"Oh well, if you promised Nick," says Bella, sarcastically.
Simon ignores this. "I'm expecting it to be qu
ite interesting, actually. I've never been on a demo, not even at college."
"I shouldn't think it'll be the least bit interesting. What's interesting about a load of boring animal activists terrorising some poor bloody farmer?"
"Look, I just want to explore the issues, that's all. I just want to see what it's all about. If you don't want to come, don't come. Nobody's forcing you."
Bella's eyes narrow in suspicion. "You don't want me to come, do you? I can tell. You'd rather go off on your own with Nick, and that Jacqui you fancy so much."
"I . . ." begins Simon, then shakes his head. "I'm not even going to answer that."
"Well can we at least take our own car?" pleads Bella. "Then we can come home when we like."
"No, I'd rather not. I don't want to be worrying about it."
"Why would you have to worry about it?"
But before Simon can answer, they see Martin's Transit van backing towards them up the narrow street.
Nick comes round and flings open the rear doors. "In you hop, folks. Bit of a squash I'm afraid. Move along there now, make room for a couple of little 'uns."
Bella peers with distaste into the dark and foetid back of the van. Crammed together in a tangle of arms and legs are at least a dozen teachers and social workers. They all turn to gaze at her with a sort of witless curiosity, like a family of small animals surprised in a burrow. In amongst them are Jo and Jacqui.
"Bella, Bella, come and sit here," cries Jacqui, patting a tiny patch of floor beside her. Jo merely scowls.
"I don't like vans," says Bella, hanging back. "I had a bad experience in one."
"Ah, but this time you won't be driving, my blossom," says Simon.
"You can come in the front with me," says Nick, kindly. "As long as you don't mind my hand on your knee."
Weaving through Bradport they turn east onto the bypass, skirting the great suburban sprawl of neighbouring Pinebourne and heading for the Hampshire border. It is rather a boring drive, mostly on duel-carriageway, during which the chattering teachers and social workers gradually fall silent. Someone attempts to get them singing, 'We shall overcome', but mercifully it doesn't take. For her own part, Bella is relieved to find their destination is so far away. At least there will be less chance of anyone recognising her; an ever-present risk when you know half the landed families for miles around.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 29