"Ay, it's parabolic an' aa," says McNab, flattered despite himself. "Black hose wad be better o course."
"Ah yes, black body radiation. Or absorption, in this case. Perhaps you could paint it or something? You know, you could always use the wind pump to raise the water into a reservoir of some sort; get more pressure for the shower. Have you thought of that?" He gazes above him. "Perhaps an old oil drum, attached to the tree."
"That's a braw idea, er, Michael," says McNab, his initial animosity now rapidly dissolving. "Ah micht jist conseeder that. Are ye an ingineer mebbe?"
"Architect," says Michael. "Well, I was. Sometimes I think I should have stuck to it. Is that coffee I smell? I could murder a cup of coffee."
"Help y'sel'" says McNab. "There's anither mug in the tent somewhaurs. That's if ye dinna mind it black." For some reason he momentarily scowls before taking up his fiddle again and beginning, in a preoccupied manner, to re-tune it. After a while he asks: "Hae ye seen Bella lately at aa?"
Looking around the cluttered and untidy tent Michael locates a grubby mug among McNab's piled possessions. It has no handle. Indeed, there is scarcely a thing to be seen that isn't broken, or unbelievably filthy. There is also a rather unpleasant smell. "Not since the wedding," he admits sadly. "But then, I've mostly been away. You look pretty dug-in here. I thought you were living on Rat's yacht?"
"Ay, ah wis," says McNab, "but ah've decided tae swallae th' anchor."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Awch," says McNab, seeming to shrink, tortoise-like, into his anorak. "Hae ye no haurd? There wis a wee accident. But it wisna ma faut!"
It's absolute nonsense to suggest, Best Beloved, that I look remotely like Miranda. What is the matter with these people?
*
"How's Michael?" asks Veronica. "Is he all right? We haven't seen him since the wedding."
Miranda, who has taken her usual place on the window seat, sips her coffee and shrugs. "Yes, as far as I know."
Veronica puts her head on one side. "As far as you know?" "He's all right, he's fine." Miranda contemplates the pattern on her mug for a while before apparently deciding some elaboration is necessary. "He's very busy at the moment, and so am I."
"But he's back from America?"
"Yes, but he's off to Milan again tomorrow." Miranda looks out of the window, craning sideways to get a better view of Roz. "I was going to call on Pat, but I've just seen her disappearing somewhere with Uncle. What's all that about?"
"He's teaching her to sail. It's amazing really. Only a few weeks ago she was terrified of water, couldn't cross a bridge apparently, but she took herself in hand and learned to swim and now she's learning to sail. Rat says she's doing very well."
"Really?" Miranda looks moderately impressed. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why is she learning to sail?"
"I don't know. I expect she saw the others enjoying themselves and felt left out; they were having a lovely time until the explosion. I think she's been a bit lonely too, since the wedding."
"Why since the wedding, especially?"
Veronica pauses before replying. "You won't say anything? I mean, not to her."
"About what?"
"They were an item – is that what they call it now? – or very close friends anyway. I'm not sure who's supposed to know. I don't know myself officially but you notice things. She's never actually said anything to me."
"You're joking!" says Miranda incredulously. "Pat and Thurston! Are you sure?"
"Oh yes, I think so. It's one of those things that everyone knows but no-one says anything."
"Well that's amazing. I'm amazed. She's so intelligent and he's . . . What on earth do they see in him?" She pauses. "Does Bella know?"
"I don't know, I suppose so. But as I said, I don't know how serious it was. She's not very forthcoming about things like that and of course you can hardly ask. I felt terribly embarrassed when Bella first took up with him. Anyway, it's nice that you were going to call on her. I knew you'd like her, once you got to know her."
"I wanted to find out about Bluebell as much as anything. We never see her now. I bought Percy III mainly for her, but she's hardly ever ridden him. I was hoping she'd come out with us again but she never has."
"I don't think she will, dear. She was quite upset, you know, at the Christmas meet."
"What do you mean, upset? I thought she enjoyed it. She seemed to."
"It was Guy Partridge, I think, blooding her. Well, I know it was."
"Oh I see. I'd forgotten about that. She never said anything to me about it."
"She probably didn't like to. She did to Pat. I don't think she quite realised what it would be like."
"What did she expect, exactly?"
"I don't know. She may be bright, but she's only fifteen and she wasn't brought up like you. Anyway she's too busy with that boyfriend of hers probably."
Miranda pulls a face. "Oh, him. She brought him to meet me once. I can't think why."
"I expect she values your opinion, dear."
"I wouldn't dream of giving an opinion. She didn't ask and I didn't offer one. It's up to her who she goes out with."
"But you must have one. What did you think of him? Did you like him?"
Miranda considers this. "Hard to say. He didn't say much. He seemed a bit surly and awkward and he obviously doesn't know a thing about horses. I should have thought she could do better than that, frankly."
"Well it's all experience, isn't it? I had some awful boyfriends when I was young. So did you and Bella."
"Bella still does."
"Did, dear."
"Did, then. Anyway, I can't remember having anyone particularly awful. Who was so awful?"
"There was that Langsham boy for a start."
"Oh, him. I soon got rid of him. Anyway I was what, seventeen? Pat's right, she's far too young for all that. She should be concentrating on her education and her riding."
"They do seem to start earlier now."
"Humph. Get pregnant earlier too."
Veronica smiles. "You're really quite fond of her aren't you?"
"I don't want to see her waste her life, that's all. She's a very promising young horsewoman. You should see her jump, she has a natural seat. Even Major Sanderling was impressed. She reminds me a bit of me at that age, apart from the boyfriends. I'm really rather surprised about the blooding. Anyway, if Pat's not here I'd better be going. I want to see the Glebe people before they move out. They needn't think they can leave it like that; not if they want their deposit back."
Veronica follows her to the door. "Miranda."
"Yes?"
"Aren't you going to ask after Thurston dear? I thought you might at least ask."
"Oh yes, sorry. So much to think about. How is he?"
Miranda honestly! He's your brother-in-law. He's more or less all right now, as it happens, but he'll still have to use his ring for a while"
"Ring?"
"Rubber ring. To sit on."
*
Stopping at the wall of furze, Bella waits impatiently for Thurston to catch up. He is encumbered by several bulging Tesco bags and his ring, which he clutches protectively to him for fear of a puncture.
"It's just here," she says. "Can you see where? It's terribly clever."
Thurston briefly scans the apparently impenetrable thicket ahead of them and shrugs indifferently.
"Well I think it's clever, anyway," says Bella, and after peering about for a few moments reaches gingerly in among the prickles. There is the click of a latch and a heavily camouflaged gate falls open, revealing the now well-trodden path to McNab's clearing. "Come on," she says. It's fantastic what he's done. You'll be amazed." Sensing Thurston's reluctance she turns and looks up at him imploringly. "You won't be horrid to him, will you? Please don't be. He's really sorry and you'll have to make it up eventually you know."
Thurston merely shrugs again and looks away. He has not been himself since he came out of hospital; dull of aura, su
llen of manner and even more than usually uncommunicative, if that is possible. Bella would have left him behind, but she is increasingly uneasy about being on the heath alone. Everywhere now there are cats, cats furtively following, cats slinking out of her path. They never offer her the slightest harm – what could they do, after all? – but she is beginning to find their constant, lurking presence deeply unnerving. When someone else is with her, they never come near. Why? And what on earth do they want?
Ahead rises the little group of Scots Pines, their towering, branchless trunks glowing orange against the sky. From one of them now flies the Saltire, indicating, presumably, that McNab is in residence. Entering the clearing, Bella gestures theatrically about her like a conjurer's assistant, crying, "Tarrah!" She is gratified when Thurston stops to gawp in amazement, his gaze ascending slowly upwards.
The polythene tent is gone and in its place has sprung up nothing less than a small, three storey house, albeit of extremely singular design. In defiance of convention, each succeeding storey is markedly larger than the one beneath, with the third floor so grossly overspreading the others that it has to be supported here and there by wooden props. It's as if McNab's ambition grew with the building and didn't know where to stop. As with all his projects, every expense has been spared in the construction. The pitched roof is neatly thatched with bracken and the walls are of rusty corrugated iron, some still bearing traces of estate-green paint. Salvaged windows of every possible size and mode of construction are dotted about, apparently without reference to the internal floors, while on the south-facing gable there is a tall conservatory, a veritable glass tower, constructed entirely of old, galvanised-steel casements. On the other gable rises a crooked tin chimney, like an immense version of Roz's. Heath Robinson comes to mind, or perhaps Swiss Family Robinson, as two of the pine trees are incorporated into the structure.
McNab is busily fixing into place the last section of the conservatory. "Will ye leuk at this? Ah cannae comprehend why fowk cast 'em oot. It's no roustie an' the glass is no crackit at aa."
"We've brought you the big nails you wanted," says Bella, "and chocolate biscuits and lots of other stuff and some old blankets that Aunty thought you might like."
"We?" frowns McNab, and at the same time catches sight of Thurston, still standing at the entrance to the clearing.
There is an awkward silence.
"Now look here, you can't go on like this, the pair of you," says Bella. She goes and grabs Thurston by the hand, dragging him over like a reluctant child. "Thurston knows you're sorry and he wants to be friends, don't you Thurston?"
McNab nervously scans the big man's features. "Humph, I suppose so," he ventures, in his Thurston voice.
To their relief Thurston nods his agreement, apparently satisfied with the grudging response selected for him. He meekly hands over his Tesco bags and proceeds to amble round the outside of the house, casting a professional eye over the joinery. Bella, who has been rather off him during the estrangement, immediately decides she loves him again — so noble, so big hearted, and with his poor bottom still red and raw, despite its daily dressing.
"Don't you think it's wonderful, darling?" she says happily. "It's really snug inside and there's a lovely view from the top."
"Ah cannae wait for Michael tae see it," says McNab, gazing proudly at his workmanship.
"Michael?" Says Bella, frowning.
"Ay, yer brother-in-law," says McNab airily. "Yer sister's wife ye ken."
"Really? I didn't even know you'd met him."
" Oh ay, suir, a guidly soul, an' wi a fine unnerstaundin o green principles. He's gien me a job, at the manor house."
"A job!" exclaims Bella, still struggling to imagine how Michael and McNab can possibly have anything in common.
"Ay, as heid gairdener. Ah'm tae tak fou responsibeelity for aa thirty acre, if ye coont the lochan. Ah've muckle plans for the lochan. Fish farmin, an' mebbe an island."
"But what about Fieldfare?" asks Bella.
"Jim? He's retirin."
Thurston is now peering through the open front door, giving the frame a contemplative shake.
"Ay, c'wa ben," says McNab eagerly. "C'wa nou an bou yer hoch."
Stooping through the McNab-sized door, Thurston sets his rubber ring on a rough, wooden bench, the only furniture, and wincingly eases himself onto it.
"Choccy biccy?" offers McNab, opening the packet. Thurston takes one and nibbles sparingly while gazing about the room; presently empty but for a home-made stove and a battered old dresser.
"You'll have to get yourself some chairs and a table," says Bella.
"Ay, ah'm wirkin on that. An' a three-piece suite, an' a dooble bed, an' curtains, an' some cairpets."
"A double bed!" teases Bella. "Anyone in mind at all?"
"Ay, mebbe," says McNab, enigmatically. "We'll hae tae see."
At this, Thurston raises his eyebrows and inclines his head questioningly. McNab is about to translate, but Bella, now almost as expert, beats him to it. "Are you thinking of staying here for a while then?" she asks.
"Och ay, foriver," says McNab, with feeling. "Ah'm weary o gaun-aboot. This is ma hame nou, an' I'll no be lea'in it till they beir me oot in a deid-box."
For the first time since the explosion, Thurston smiles.
*
That night, Bella sits on the loo and cries. She is not pregnant after all. Or if she was, she isn't now.
*
McNab gazes about him, awestruck by his unaccustomed surroundings: the ranks of identical cupboard doors marching away into perspective, the acres of tiled surface, the multiplicity of gleaming appliances, the daunting cleanliness. In some respects it reminds him of a morgue he once visited. (Well, found himself in. A wee mistake, on somebody's part). This one room, he realises, is larger than the whole of his humble little dwelling. What will his new mentor think of it? Will he sneer? Perhaps he should consider extending the ground floor, or adding a fourth storey. "This is a braw kitchen, Michael," he says reverently.
"It's too damned big," grumbles Michael. "I can never find anything." He pushes back his chair and stands up. "I don't suppose you've seen the rest of it, have you? Want a tour? It's far too wet to do any gardening."
McNab looks doubtful. "I dinna ken as I shoud. Mrs Broadmayne no lats me inby usually."
"Well Mrs Broadmayne's not at home. Bring your coffee if you like. You'd better kick those muddy boots off though."
They emerge into the lofty hall, McNab turning round and round, staring up at the domed skylight, the ornate wooden staircase, the vast cartwheel chandelier on its iron chains.
"Something of a mishmash this bit," says Michael. "Historically speaking, I mean. The fittings and skylight are early Victorian, though the staircase itself is older. See that wall? Everything beyond it is the original Jacobean. I had the main chimney piece dated to sixteen-twenty or thereabouts. Makes you think, eh? People alive then could have shaken hands with Shakespeare. That's from the age of the wood you know. Dendrochronology, fascinating. I'll show you in a minute. Come and meet the ancestors."
They climb the stairs to the first-floor landing, which also serves as a picture gallery. "Now, who do you think this is?" says Michael, stopping before a relatively modern oil-painting.
McNab peers at the picture. "Awch, it's Bella," Then he frowns. "Or is it Mrs Broadmayne?"
"Neither actually!" says Michael triumphantly. "It's their maternal grandmother, Kitty. She'd be about the same age as Bella is now. Remarkable resemblance eh? Hang on a minute." He dives into one of the bedrooms, returning a moment later with a framed, black and white photograph. "And who's this?"
"Well that is Bella," says McNab, firmly. "A young Bella."
"Nope," says Michael. "This is her mother, the late-lamented Hester. A very strange lady. See that car she's draped over? That's a Triumph 2000 Roadster, the very one that crippled poor old Veronica. I had one in my student days, as a matter of fact. Cost a bomb to run."
McN
ab studies the picture with interest. "Ay, o coorse, a motor accident! Whit happent? Did they hit somebody?"
"No, no-one else involved. Hester was driving. Came off the old Bradport road just by the Smugglers. There was a nasty sharp bend there in those days and a steep bank, which they rolled down. This was before the bypass, of course. Hester came out of it with barely a scratch but Veronica broke her back. They never got on too well after that."
"I'm no surpreesed!"
"As a matter of fact," says Michael, and dives back into the room again. "Here we are, the lady herself. Hester always had it by her bed with the other one. Odd really, considering they'd fallen out. But then, she was odd."
McNab peers at the identically framed snapshot. "Aunty Veronica, staundin' up!" he exclaims.
"Doesn't seem right, does it?" agrees Michael.
"An' this Kitty wid be their . . . mither?"
"Yes, that's right."
He leads the way along the creaking landing to where the larger and grander portraits are hanging in their heavy gilt frames.
"That's the oldest: Sir Sidney Durrington-Walls, born 1696 died 1755. Worth a few bob, that one; it's a Romney. Well, attributed to. I'm surprised Hester didn't flog it. She flogged practically everything else that wasn't nailed down."
"No a Hauteville, then?" says McNab.
"No, old Ernest was the first and only. Here he is: born 1888 died 1942, along with Kitty in the blitz. Hard looking beggar eh? Looks like he'd sell his granny for tuppence. Made the family a fortune but couldn't get a male heir to leave it to. Not for want of trying though, randy old sod. Mind you, none of the others did much better. There have been at least a dozen family names that I know of, but none of them lasts more than a generation or two. They're all in the churchyard, and the parish register. Worth a look, by the way, if you've got the time. No, the fact is, the Manor women – that's what I call 'em, the Manor women – just can't seem to produce sons. If they do, they're invariably mad, suicidally heroic or sickly and don't last long, as I know to my cost."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 46