In Tenstones, those few residents who didn't make it to the ceremony turn out to watch the wedding party pass by. Eventually, there being nowhere else to process to, they stop by Manor Farmhouse to wait for the taxi to the registry office.
"Don't worry about carrying me back," says Veronica, dismissing her sweating bearers. "Mrs Broadmayne can drop me off."
"No, I can't," says Miranda. "I said I'd be a witness. I want to make sure we didn't go through all that nonsense for nothing. Michael can run you back."
"But it was a lovely wedding," protests Veronica. "I was quite touched, and she looked so happy. They both did."
"I'll give it six months," says Miranda matter-of-factly. "Michael, can you run Aunty back?"
"Er yes, sure," says Michael, jerked out of his reverie. He has been gazing at Bella, who is chatting to Ada Dunnock and some excited little girls.
Rat comes over. "I hope you don't mind, I asked those chaps to the party. I thought they'd earned it."
"Yes of course," says Veronica. "The more the merrier. Are you coming tonight, Miranda? Or is dancing at your sister's wedding beneath your dignity?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Swinging Roz's big steering wheel, Pat takes her place in the queue for the chain ferry.
"Gosh, a real ship!" cries Narcissus excitedly. "Are we going on it?"
"Yes," says Pat.
"Are we going to a faraway country, with gorillas?" asks Primrose. "I like gorillas."
"No," says Pat. "We're going to the beach. Out you get. You may as well go aboard now, while I sort out the tickets. Bluebell, take them upstairs."
"What are you going to do, Mum?" asks Bluebell, unusually solicitous. "Stay in Roz?"
"No, I'll be with you in a minute."
"But you'll be right over the water."
"That's all right, it doesn't matter."
Bumping up the ramp, Pat parks Roz where she is told, applying the handbrake with extra care and locking the door behind her. What water is visible can be seen only through the salt-stained lower-deck windows of the ferry. There is a slight, a very slight, heaving beneath her feet and a good deal of vibration from the engines. Pat instantly feels the contents of her stomach rising. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, telling herself not to be so stupid. Then, clinging to every available handhold, she climbs, very slowly, to the observation deck. Small children scamper up and down the steel companionway, pushing past her. If they can do it, she tells herself, so can I.
By the time she finds the others, standing at the rail on the narrow, crowded deck, the slipway is already falling astern.
"Look, Mummy, says Narcissus. That's real sea. It's sea on this side and harbour on that side. Bluebell said so. If you kept on going, you'd get to France and then Spain and then Antarctica. Look at that big rock sticking out of the water!" He turns to Bluebell. "Is that part of France?"
"No, that's the Widower," says Bluebell. I expect that other one is where Aunty Bella got stuck."
"We're starting to go up and down," cries Primrose excitedly. She is standing on the bench seat in front of them, swaying from side to side and making whooshing noises. Pat reaches out and grabs her arm.
"Why do they call it the Widower?" asks Narcissus.
"I expect it's because ships bump into it in storms and sink and the men drown and make their wives into widows," says Bluebell.
Pat groans inwardly. The crossing seems to be taking forever, the ferry pitching and rolling in the huge, green waves as it grumbles ridiculously slowly along its chains. Should there be water coming in the front like that? Suppose the chains broke? They look terribly rusty where they come ashore up the slipway. With her free hand she clings so tightly to the rail that her knuckles turn white, with the other she hangs on to Primrose who seems determined to cast herself overboard.
"Mummy, you're hurting me!" squeaks Primrose, wriggling free.
"I'll take her," says Bluebell. "It's time to start getting off anyway."
They try to drive into the car park at the beach, but as usual there is a height restriction and they have to settle for the side of the road. If there are yellow lines they are covered with sand, so they don't count.
"You'd better get your things together," says Pat. "I'm going to change." Five minutes later she emerges in a rather severe black swimming costume. Everyone looks at her in amazement. What's the matter, says Pat, slightly embarrassed. "You've all got one. It's no different."
"I suppose I was expecting something striped," says Bluebell. "With skirts and bows and things."
"Cheeky monkey."
The beach is very crowded. The sea, if anything, more so. The roar of the jet-skis is deafening. They pick their way among the bodies, looking for somewhere to sit.
"You can't learn to swim here," says Bluebell. "If we go far enough along it's much quieter and there's a sort of natural pool left when the tide goes out. It's going out now."
"How come you know so much about it?" asks Pat. "Have you been here before?"
"Yes, lots of times."
"With that boy I suppose."
"You mean Darren. His name is Darren."
"Darren, then. Do you come here with him?"
"Yes, sometimes."
"What, swimming?"
"Of course swimming," says Bluebell. "We're hardly going to build sandcastles."
"You never told me."
"I don't have to tell you everything."
"Well just see you do next time. Suppose you got into trouble? I wouldn't know where you were." She pauses and frowns. "And how come your cossie's never wet, if you go swimming?"
"Mummy," says Narcissus, tugging at her hand. "Those people have no clothes on."
"I can see that man's willy!" gasps Primrose, putting her hands to her mouth.
"It's the nudist bit," says Bluebell. "We have to go past it."
"I'm not going through them!" cries Pat, scandalized. "It's disgusting. It shouldn't be allowed!"
"Well if you want to get to the good bit you have to."
Pat hesitates. It certainly seems much clearer on the other side. "We'll go behind them," she says, "through the dunes."
"I wouldn't advise it," says Bluebell. "They're full of gays, doing things."
Pat immediately rules out the dunes. She scans the beach ahead. A few naked children are playing in the shallows but otherwise no-one is moving much, they are mostly just lying about, like repulsive sun-reddened seals. "Right," she says, grabbing a twin with each hand. "Straight ahead now and don't look."
"What's a gay?" demands Narcissus. "And what are they doing?"
Beyond the nudists they have the beach almost to themselves. There are more pebbles here, and piles of smelly seaweed, but there really is a long, quite deep pool, separated from the sea by a wave-rippled sandbank. They put their things down, laying claim to a nice smooth bit.
Bluebell now takes over. "Come on. I'll bring the airbed."
"Why?"
"We'll use it as a float."
Pat dutifully wades after her, the water slowly rising to mid-thigh, then, frighteningly abruptly, to her waist. It feels terribly cold, but she was expecting that. She wonders how anyone can possibly do this for fun.
"It's nice and warm anyway," says Bluebell.
"Look at me, Mummy! Look at me!" cry the twins, somersaulting into it.
Pat wonders how she can possibly have given birth to such fearlessly aquatic creatures. Do they contain any of her genes? "If they can do it . . ." she mutters, grimly repeating her mantra.
Bluebell throws herself across the airbed and begins to propel herself back and forth. "Try that," she says.
Pat gingerly takes her place and begins to kick.
"You have to let your legs float up," says Bluebell. "Up! That's right."
In truth, it's not that difficult. The airbed gives a reassuring feeling of security and soon Pat is navigating in a stately manner up and down the pool. She even starts to feel reasonably warm.
"Ri
ght, that's enough of that," says Bluebell, bossily. "I think on your back would be easiest to start with. See if you can do what you are doing now, but on your back."
Pat finds herself obeying without question. This is so outside her experience that she finds herself beyond fear.
"Right. Now I'll hold you while you just kick."
Pat looks at her, not understanding.
"I'll be the airbed," explains Bluebell patiently. "I'll hold you up, while you kick."
"You won't let me go?"
"Of course not."
Pat allows herself to fall backwards into Bluebell's arms. She is quite surprised to find how buoyant she feels. The water comes into her ears and she doesn't like that.
"I've got water in my ears."
"Don't be a baby."
After some practice she is able to propel herself slowly backwards, always supported by Bluebell. "How am I doing?"
"Fine. Really great. Try using your arms."
"What do I do with them?"
Bluebell considers this. "I don't know really. You just do it. Yes, that's right. Great! Fantastic!"
The blue sky abruptly disappears to be replaced with murky green. Pat gasps, inhaling water. For the first time she panics. Which way is up? She emerges half blind, her eyes stinging, coughing violently. Bluebell is pounding her on the back. "You let me go!" she splutters.
"You were swimming!" cries Bluebell. "You must have swum about three metres."
"Did I?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, well I think that's enough for one day. We're going home."
*
In the smoke-filled saloon bar of the Ferryman, McNab launches into his closing arpeggio, backed by Denny and their new recruit, Declan, on the accordion. There is a heartening amount of clapping and even a few demands for an encore. McNab obliges them with his one of his signature laments causing some of the more musically sensitive patrons to surreptitiously wipe an eye.
"That friend of yours is very good," opines Heather Dunnock. "Definitely a re-book I should think, eh Colin?"
Colin nods. "I thought you said he'd collapse in a heap. He looks all right to me."
"He does, usually," says Bella, wondering what he's on tonight. Whatever it is, he'll no doubt suffer for it later. She lets herself out from behind the bar and begins to move about the room, collecting the empty glasses. Someone tugs at her hem. It is Avril Rook accompanied by a morose-looking John.
"Hi, Bell, like the gear!"
"Oh hi Avril! Fancy seeing you here. Have you come to hear McNab?"
"Yeah. Great, inny? Wasn't he great at the reception? I don't usually like all that fol-de-rol stuff, but he's really good. Ooh, look, you've even got the little apron."
Bella gazes down at herself thoughtfully. "Actually I was wondering if it's a bit much. I mean, now I'm a respectable married woman and everything. Perhaps I ought to get something more matronly."
"No, it's great! If you've got it, flaunt it, that's what I say. Wish I 'ad your legs, 'stead of short, fat 'airy ones. Where's Thurston? Is he here?"
Bella shakes her head. "Not tonight."
"What a shame, I've only ever seen 'im in a frock." She turns to John. "Did you 'ear that? I said I've only ever seen 'im in a frock! Lovely wedding by the way. Really original. We really enjoyed ourselves didn't we, lover? Say 'ello to Bella then! What's the matter with you?"
John, who has been staring gloomily into his pint, looks Bella up and down and brusquely nods. Did she see a glimmer of interest for once? Perhaps more than just a glimmer? Perhaps someone else likes the gear as well?
"I expect you and John are always bumping into each other, aren't you?" says Avril. "Around the village and so on."
"Er yes, quite often," agrees Bella.
"He never says though, do you? I said, you never mention Bella, do you? They're hopeless, aren't they? Never bring 'ome any gossip. He's so tight with it, you'd think it costs money. Tight with everything, he is, 'cept beer for himself. Fancy you working here all this time and I've never seen you. Shows how often we get out these days. How are you getting on with Uncle Colin?"
"Oh, fine. He's quite sweet really, once you get to know him."
Avril laughs her immoderate Dunnock laugh. "First time I've heard him called sweet!" She assumes a knowing look and, glancing towards the bar, lowers her voice. "You want ter watch 'im, you know."
"What, Colin?"
"Oh yes, definitely. See how he's lookin' at you? I know that look. Have you had the wanderin' 'and yet?"
"Good heavens no!" lies Bella. "He's the perfect gentleman."
"You will. He's probably just bidin' his time. Then, one day he'll pounce. He likes waitresses, and barmaids, and chambermaids. That's what Heather was, you know, a chambermaid. Crept up behind her one day while she was makin' the beds and pounced. Nine months later — Dennise. That's how they came to get married; after he'd divorced aunty Karen that is. He's all right, though, is he, Thurston?"
"What? Yes, he's lovely," says Bella, trying to keep up with Avril's grasshopper mind.
"Haven't fallen out yet then?"
"No chance."
"You will. Won't they, lover? We 'ave our little spats, don't we? What's the matter with you tonight, cat got your tongue?" She nods at his pint of Old Tom. "How many does that make?"
"Three," grunts John, shrugging.
"And the rest!" says Avril, disbelievingly. "Pissed, that's what you are. Just ignore 'im, Bell, He's pissed. Tell you what, we oughter go out together one night as a foursome. Talk over old times, eh? Make 'em jealous! We 'ad some fun, didn't we? D'you remember that little boney 'eaded bloke with the moth-eaten moustache and his pouffy friend. What were their names?"
Bella smiles and shakes her head.
"Yes you do. Always propping up the bar in Brummels. Roger! That was it. Roger and Larry. I thought I saw 'im the other day, in Bradport, buyin' a birthday card. And them two Spanish blokes, from Malaga? You oughter remember them. One of 'em anyway! Oh look, now we've driven 'im away. Where are you to, you miserable sod?"
"Where you can't follow me," says Rook, pushing between the tables.
"Or we could go by ourselves," says Avril, glaring balefully at her departing spouse. "Might be more fun that way."
"Er yes, I'd like that," says Bella. "Look I'd better get on or I'll be in trouble. Might see you later?"
"Yeah all right, but if not, don't forget: give me a bell and we'll have a nice evening out, catch up on all the news. John can have the kids for once." Suddenly she grabs Bella by the sleeve and pulls her down. "Here."
"What?"
Avril lowers her voice to a stage whisper. "You're not pregnant, are you? I mean, I wondered . . ."
Bella shakes her head and smiles. "Not yet."
"Not yet!" Avril roars with laughter, her big, motherly breasts shaking inside her teeshirt. "Not yet! I like it!"
If I hurry, thinks Bella, there's just a chance. Putting down her tray of glasses, she slips through the swing door behind the bar and scuttles along the passage that leads to the yard.
"'Ere, watch out!" cries Darren, swinging round to avoid her.
For once, the tables are turned and it is he who is heavily laden with trays of chicken salad. Normally, Bella might be tempted to stop and have a little sport with him, but tonight she has time only for the obligatory "Now clap your hands" as she pushes past.
Darren watches her go with his customary sneer. "Caught short are we? Or are yer knickers on fire? Course, if it was both, yer wouldn't need ter worry."
Mounting the concrete steps into the darkened yard, Bella stops and peers about her. If Rook has merely gone to the loo she will already have missed him, but her adept's intimate knowledge of men and their ways tells her he will probably stop for a quiet smoke before going back to Avril. The yard at first appears deserted and there is no-one in the noisome and hissing vicinity of the gents', but then, sure enough, she sees the glow of a cigarette, swinging slowly down and up again. The Dunnock
s being family, he has brought the Land Rover into the yard and is now leaning against the back of it, gazing at the lights of the harbour through the open gates. What luck!
She approaches him boldly. "Hello, John."
"What do you want?" says Rook sourly.
"You know what I want," says Bella. She feels wonderfully confident and empowered tonight, a married woman. She doesn't need her mother to tell her what to do. Taking his cigarette from him she throws it to the ground and grinds it out with her foot; then, putting her arms round his neck, she kisses him passionately on the lips. He tastes strongly of tobacco and beer.
"I told you!" says Rook, angrily pushing her away. But Bella has had enough of that nonsense; she wants this over with. Leaning provocatively against him she insinuates her hand down the front of his trousers. Ah yes, definitely interested!
"Hello, what have we here?" she enquires. "Something for me?"
"Bitch!" snarls Rook. "Fuckin' whore!"
Bella suddenly finds herself lifted up and deposited on the narrow floor of the Land Rover. He must be very strong to do that, almost as strong as Thurston. Next moment he is on top of her, groping among her petticoats, tearing at her drawers. She goes to guide him in, then gasps; he is well and truly in already, thrusting away like a prize boar and feeling about the same size.
She is extremely uncomfortable. The bottom of the Land Rover stinks of horse-poo and something under the thickish layer of straw is sticking into her, possibly a pitchfork. Every thrust is accompanied by the accusation that she is a bitch, together with a fair amount of spit. She turns her head away. It should only take a minute or so, given the way he's going at it. She hopes no-one will hear him, it's a bit public out here in the yard. Thank God, here it comes.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 44