"Yes, all right." Bella suddenly stiffens. "That's someone screaming. Someone's definitely screaming. Listen to all those dogs barking."
"Yes I can hear them."
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know. Some sort of fight, probably. Someone's stolen someone's acid. Just ignore it."
"Michael, listen . . . It's a siren! And there's another." She cranes her neck, trying to see over the slight rise that hides the travellers' encampment. "I want to look."
"What, now?"
"Yes, of course now."
Michael sighs. "Do I get to finish? Or is that suddenly unimportant?"
"Well just hurry up." Putting her hands on his chest, Bella makes sure that he does, rising and falling in rapid, businesslike jerks. The distant commotion has now become a great human and animal cacophony, interspersed with the revving of numerous vehicle engines. "Did you hear that? That banging? And that's another siren! And another! Whatever is going on?"
"I've no idea," groans Michael. "Just don't stop."
"I'm getting up."
Michael grabs at her desperately. "No, don't!"
"Let go," says Bella crossly. "I want to see."
"For Chrissake, Bella!"
Bella runs to the top of the rise. Below her is the travellers' encampment, its sixty or so occupants now rushing about in an ant-like frenzy. Advancing on them is perhaps twice that number of policemen carrying riot shields. The banging is where they are beating on them with their batons. The Viking and a few other brave souls go out to parley (someone is even waving a white cloth) but they are immediately grabbed, wrestled to the ground and sat on.
A policeman, reaching the first vehicle, unfortunately Lizzie's, begins deliberately to smash the camper's windows with his baton. This seems to be a signal for general mayhem. Others rapidly join in. A terrified Lizzie tumbles out of the door, clutching Olly, her piercing screams clearly discernable above the rest. The toddler is snatched from her and she is roughly manhandled away. A man tries to remonstrate and is clubbed for his pains.
The same systematic destruction is visited on a lorry and a coach. Policemen go inside, smashing and throwing out the contents into the mud: pots and pans, bedding, a cot, a transistor radio. There is little resistance. Angry yells of "Bastards!" and "Fucking pigs!" can be heard among the general uproar, but most people are simply trying to get away. The Pierrot, pursued by a policeman, trips and falls face down. He turns on his side and draws up his knees, trying to protect himself from a rain of blows. Someone is taking pictures. His camera is dashed from his hands and stamped on.
Michael appears beside her, still tucking his shirt in. "What the hell! Surely that's not necessary?"
"Can't you do something?"
Michael begins to run down the slope crying: "Hey, hey you! Stop that. This is my property. Stop that, do you hear?"
Many of the remaining vehicles are now on the move, travelling in all directions and occasionally bumping into each other, but there seems to be no escape; police cars, dozens of them, block every gap in the surrounding slopes. The double-decker bus nevertheless tries to make a break for it, leaning at a seemingly impossible angle as it smashes through the high furze. Suddenly it turns sharply and with a huge crash capsizes. Policemen swarm over it as its tenants stagger out, some of them clearly stoned. Carol Emden, dragged through a window, is flensed like a whale on the broken glass.
There is blood everywhere. Superman lies on the ground in a pool of it, the redness spreading into a nearby puddle. People are wandering or running aimlessly about or trying to hide. They are taken hold of and arbitrarily beaten. The pantomime horse, whinnying in terror, gallops round and round in circles until brought down with a flying tackle and marched severally away. Michael is lost to view, then briefly reappears, dragged between two huge policemen, his feet barely touching the ground.
Pat has suffered a similar fate. She, however, is fighting like a wildcat. She manages to free an arm and making a clenched fist cries, "'Quiconque met la main sur moi pour me gouverner est un usurpateur et un tyran; je le déclare mon ennemi!'"
I didn't know she could speak French, thinks Bella. She wonders what to do. There doesn't seem much point in going down there to be arrested and perhaps beaten too.
The noise has attracted Darren and his gang. They are riding recklessly round the surrounding slopes yelling: "Pigs! Pigs! Pigs!" Bluebell, her gingham dress flying, clings to Darren's pillion and yells with the rest of them.
In just a few minutes the encampment is almost deserted, the destruction complete. One of the lorries is on fire, the flames licking from its shattered windows. Another has rammed a police car. A white van, marked 'Bradport Social Services', is patrolling about, scooping up unaccompanied children. It begins to drive away, then briefly stops. A teddy bear is tossed out and it drives on again. Narcissus appears, screaming, at the rear window and is dragged back.
"That's my brother!" cries Bluebell.
Darren begins to pursue the van, which is picking up speed. A police car comes to intercept him. Darren putting a foot to the ground, swerves sharply to avoid it. Bluebell falls off.
Bella hears a little nicker at her ear and turns to find Bucephalus standing beside her. Miranda, in spotless jods and hacking jacket looks disdainfully down. "I believe these are yours," she says, and hands over a carefully folded pair of lilac drawers before riding leisurely into the shattered remains of the encampment. A policeman looks up and salutes her.
*
"Where's Uncle?" asks Miranda.
"Gone to see Lenny Goldcrest."
"The barrister?"
"We thought we'd better roll out the big guns," says Veronica. "They're being extraordinarily difficult; they won't even let her see them. Apparently she's not a 'fit guardian'. Can you believe that?"
"Yes, she told me. I've just been in there. She wants Bluebell, but I said I didn't think it was a good idea. I suppose I could take her back to see her for an hour or two, tonight."
"Is she all right?"
"Bluebell? Fine. A bit shaken up. She's under strict instructions to keep away from the windows; not that they're likely to come looking for her at the manor house."
"She's had a nasty scare."
"Yes, well perhaps it'll teach her a lesson."
"I do feel sorry for the boy. He was really quite brave, getting her away like that."
"Yes he was, but there's not much we can do for him at the moment, apart from the bail."
"They came back, you know. A couple of social workers, I suppose they were, and a policewoman. They went into Roz, never even asked, just walked in, and took away some things."
"She didn't tell me that. What things?"
"Some of the children's drawings, and some books. The 'Worst Witch,' would it be?"
"Oh, honestly!"
"It's all getting very nasty," says Veronica, and begins to dab her already red eyes with a tissue.
"I just don't understand why she did it," exclaims Miranda. "I mean, these are her friends, for goodness' sake. Where is she, anyway? Is she in?"
"No, gone. She's taken some clothes and things."
"Where?"
"No idea. At the moment I don't much care." Veronica is struck by a thought. "Oh my goodness, she hasn't gone off with . . . ?"
"No, he's back in Milan, and good riddance. He can do what he likes there. I mean, I never really believed he was utterly chaste when he was away, but you expect that. This just about takes the biscuit."
"Miranda, I'm terribly sorry. We both are."
Miranda sighs resignedly. "You probably think I hate her, but I don't. Everyone knows she's cracked, including Michael. It's a hundred percent his fault, as far as I'm concerned."
Veronica seems to make up her mind to something. She swings round in her chair to face her niece. "In a way, I'm glad you feel like that, because there's something I need to tell you."
"Oh, what?"
"You'd better sit down, dear."
This is importan
t, Best Beloved.
Miranda settles herself at the kitchen table. "Okay, I'm sitting. What?"
"Miranda, you're probably not going to believe any of this – I expect you'll decide I'm cracked too – but I'm going to tell you anyway."
"Something about Bella?"
"Yes." Veronica turns and peers through the sitting room door, making quite sure no-one is listening. "The fact is, there's a reason for her behaviour. I'm not saying it excuses it, I don't know that it does, but there is a reason. And the same thing goes for your mother."
"Mummy? What's she got to do with it?"
Veronica looks pensive for a moment, as if not sure where to begin. "Do you remember I once told you that your mother wasn't interested in the Stones? Well, I'm afraid that's not true. Quite a lot of things I've told you haven't been true."
"You mean, she was interested in them?"
"Yes. She almost never mentioned them, and she certainly didn't spend hours there meditating or whatever, but —"
"Dancing about in the nude, you mean," interrupts Miranda.
"No, she didn't do that – at least, not that I know of – but they dominated her just as completely as they do Bella. In fact, it was Hester, and no-one else, who persuaded me not to go ahead with reopening the pit. We had quite a fight about it."
"Because of the Stones?"
"Yes. In fact, I don't think it's exaggerating to say that she would have killed me to stop me. She very nearly did of course."
"What, you mean the accident?"
"I don't think it was an accident."
"Surely not!"
"Well, I can't prove it."
"But she could have been killed too!"
"Yes."
Miranda looks grim, trying to take this in. "Just because of the Stones? You're saying she was prepared to kill you, and perhaps herself, to save the Stones?"
"Yes."
"You're not going to tell me she thought she was the Priestess of the Stones too? I mean, that was just a game, wasn't it? She used to tell us endless stories about them and how she was the umteenth Priestess and how she had special powers and so on. I used to get a bit bored, even when I was small. Bella didn't think it was a game though. You could tell she believed it. I used to think she was really stupid."
"I'm afraid it wasn't a game, Miranda," says Veronica mournfully. "Bella was right, the stories were all true. Your mother really was the Priestess of the Stones, and now the job's passed to Bella." She stops and eyes her niece warily, clearly nervous of her reaction.
"Go on," says Miranda.
"You probably won't remember," says Veronica, "but when you were very small your mother had a friend, a Frenchwoman about her own age named Hélèn La Fleche. They were very close."
"You mean they were lovers."
Veronica looks surprised. "You knew that?"
"Yes, of course. She often used to talk about her. That's why she never married; she was still in love with her."
"Oh, I see. I didn't know that. That you knew, I mean."
"Did you think I'd be shocked?" asks Miranda, sardonically. "I do know a bit about life, you know. Just because I don't go around sleeping with anything that breathes doesn't make me some sort of innocent."
"No, of course not. I just didn't think she'd have told you, that's all. It shocked me at the time, my own sister! But I'm a different generation. I didn't know about that sort of thing then, except the Ladies of Llangollen. What else did she tell you? Did she tell you about your father?"
"Yes," says Miranda.
"What? What did she tell you?"
"She said she wanted children, but she didn't want to marry, so she did it with a friend."
"Did you believe her?"
"Yes, why not? It seemed perfectly reasonable. They do it all the time now, don't they?"
Veronica shakes her head wonderingly. "Sometimes I feel about a million years old. Anyway, eventually they fell out. Your mother got very low, very depressed. She actually tried to kill herself."
"Really? That I didn't know."
"Yes. Only the once. She took an overdose. I'm not sure how serious an attempt it was, but it nearly worked. It was touch-and-go for a while. You were mostly living with us by then and we made sure you knew nothing about it. One day soon after, when she was still in hospital, she told me a lot of things, most of which I'd rather not have known about."
"What things?"
For quite a while, Veronica doesn't answer. Finally she says: "This business of the family resemblance, have you ever wondered about it? Have you ever wondered how odd it is that, generation after generation, there are always two daughters, at least one of them tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed?"
"Michael has," snorts Miranda. "He's obsessed with it."
Again, Veronica doesn't immediately continue. "The trouble is," she admits, "I don't know how to make this sound remotely believable. I might just as well come right out and tell you all I know and have done with it. The fact is, there really are Priestesses of the Stones, or keepers, or guardians, call them what you will. They have what we would call occult powers and when they die they don't really die at all because their soul passes into the body of one of their daughters. There's always a daughter ready to take over and they always look more or less the same because they pick the right man to make sure. Your father was specially chosen."
Miranda draws her eyebrows together. "Wait a minute. You mean, Bella has Mummy's soul?"
"Yes, but she keeps her own too; two souls in one body. Plus all the preceding ones, one inside the other, like Russian dolls. It's a sort of reincarnation, I suppose, but it's bought at a very high price."
"Too right!" laughs Miranda. "I wouldn't want to be stuck in the same body as Bella. I can't imagine anything more awful. You are joking, aren't you?"
Veronica sighs, a long wracking sigh. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."
"I didn't say I didn't believe you."
"I can tell that you don't."
"Go on," says Miranda. "Tell me the rest. You might as well."
"There's not much more to tell. It's been going on for thousands of years, hundreds of generations, and they only have one job: to protect the Stones from harm."
"Why?" demands Miranda. "What would happen if the Stones were harmed? Would there really be a war, like Bella says?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't think so."
"Why, then? What's it all for?"
"That's the worst of it," says Veronica. "It wouldn't seem quite so bad if it was to save the world or something, but despite what Bella seems to believe, it isn't. It's purely for . . ." Here Veronica stops, looks out of the window and shakes her head.
"For?" prompts Miranda. "For what?"
"Not for what, for whom," says Veronica. "It's for the cats."
Miranda now looks openly incredulous. "They've been looking after the Stones for thousands of years for some cats? Oh come on!"
"Not just any cats," explains Veronica. "Some very particular cats, like the one that sprayed my chair. They use the power of the Stones for their own foul purposes, and they use us too. We are their slaves and there's nothing we can do about it. Of course, I knew you wouldn't believe me. It's just too absurd."
Now it is Miranda's turn to be silent. "Maybe I do, she says finally. "It certainly explains a lot of things. I've always known there was something odd about our family, and I've always known there was something evil about the Stones. In fact, I think that's why I've been so keen to reopen the pit, to hurt them somehow.
Veronica suddenly looks full of hope and relief. "Do you really believe me? Oh, Miranda, it would be wonderful if you did. I've carried this secret for over twenty years, knowing how things were bound to turn out, not being able to do anything about it."
"Is that why you didn't want me to marry Michael, because he was tall and dark?"
"Yes. But of course it was a waste of time. You'd just have found someone else who looked the same. That's our fate you see, to find their mates for t
hem and even raise their children, generation after generation, while they gallivant around, doing as they like. And we can't help it. There's absolutely nothing we can do about it, no escape. I've tried. I've tried everything, and I know."
"I see," says Miranda slowly, suddenly looking very grim. "So when you said there was a high price to pay . . . "
Veronica begins to weep, pouring out a lifetime of shame and humiliation. She looks up and nods. "Yes, I meant us. It's we who pay the price."
Miranda sits at the table, frowning and chewing her thumbnail, trying to take it all in. "I don't believe in fate," she says at last, "I mean, predestination, or whatever it is. We've got free will; God gave us free will. Besides, I didn't choose Michael because he was tall and dark."
Veronica looks at her sadly. "They take our husbands, Miranda. Generation after generation, they take them from us. Do you know what I'm trying to say? It means your uncle is . . . is . . ."
"Is my father," says Miranda. "Yes, Aunty, I know. I've known for years."
Veronica gapes at her. "But if you knew . . ."
"Why didn't I say something? What would have been the point? It was obvious you wanted things to stay as they were. Besides, I've never been sure if Bella knows, I rather think she doesn't actually, and I didn't know how she'd take it."
"No, she doesn't know; unless she's been pretending, like you."
"I haven't been pretending, Aunty, I've just been discreet. That's what you wanted, isn't it? It's certainly what Mummy wanted."
"I suppose so," says Veronica bitterly. "I don't know any more. I don't know anything any more."
Suspended beneath the ceiling in Windy Point's kitchen, Bella struggles to make sense of what she has heard. She is so overcome with the enormity of it all that she scarcely has the psychic reserves to pull back, risking leaving her body behind forever, empty and naked, in McNab's attic bedroom.
"Is this true?" she demands, when she has recovered.
"Of course not," says Hester. "You're imagining things."
"Mummy, we were in Aunty's kitchen. You could see them."
"No, I couldn't. I didn't see anything. We never left this ridiculous shack. You're imagining it."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 51