"I was frightened," says her mother. "I was afraid of what they might do to me, to all of us. Now is your chance to avenge me. You mustn't fail!"
Bella takes out her matches. She slides open the box. The choking smell of the gas is all around her, percolating out through the holes in the hose. Still she hesitates. "Mummy, I can't!"
"Do it!" cries Hester. Do you want me to have died for nothing? If you don't, I will!"
Bella becomes aware of a new sound. It is behind her, the roar of a motorcycle, coming rapidly closer.
"Do it!" demands Hester desperately. "Quickly! Do it now!"
Bella realises that her mother is not, in fact, able to strike the match herself. She, Bella, is in control again. It is her decision — to burn or not to burn.
"Do it!" cries Hester. "Do it! Do it! Do it!"
"No," says Bella firmly, "I can't. It's wrong. All this is wrong."
It is not one motorcycle but three . . . four . . . five. There are five motorcycles, coming on at an enormous pace, bouncing and leaping along the steep, switchback track. Darren is in the lead, helmet-less as usual, on his yellow Kawasaki, the others close behind. Bella ducks down again. They seem to be playing a game of 'dare,' seeing who will chicken-out and slow down first. Just before they reach her there is a small, sharp rise. Darren, hitting it hard, takes off, flying through the air to land in a cloud of dust and a spatter of flinty stones.
The result is impressive. There is no crack or report – not, at any rate, audible above the sound of the bikes – but a searing cloud of ignited gas instantly engulfs the strip of heath marked out by the hose. Darren stops and gawps. Bella calls to him but he doesn't hear. He turns and plunges back the way he came, trying to rejoin the others. Bella begins to run, the strong breeze pushing the flames towards her, hot at her back. Advancing at terrifying speed they threaten to outpace her, like Indians overtaking a stagecoach. Thank God for thirty-eight inch legs! The cats, she knows, are following. Soon they will die. But where is McNab?
Suddenly he is there, in front of her. She grabs his hand and swerves to the right, running almost across the path of the fire. There is, she knows, a narrow, sloping patch of bracken hereabouts, where the ground is damper. She is getting a painful stitch but she keeps running, dragging him, stumbling, behind her. Several small animals are fleeing with them, cris-crossing in front of them: a fox, a stoat, some rabbits. They plunge into the bracken. There is no fire here, just choking smoke. "Up!" she gasps, pointing. They must get to the ridge and the new road that passes along it, servicing the eco-homes. But the bracken is running out and the crackling flames are close around them. There seems to be no way through. They stand confused, disorientated. McNab has lost his Tesco bag but clings to his fiddle.
A figure looms in front of them, coming out of the smoke. It is Michael. "Come on!"
"Where? It's everywhere."
"This way."
They follow, trying not to lose him. A ditch crosses their path. Half blinded, they tumble into it. Michael is on top of Bella, shielding her. Flames leap over them like a stampede and are gone.
"Are you all right?" asks Michael, scrambling up.
"Bit winded."
"McNab?"
McNab can only nod.
They are in a narrow, gravelly valley, devoid of vegetation; one of the unhealed scars of the old clay workings that climb the flank of the ridge. They toil upwards, choking on the smoke, rising out of it at last onto the open, pine-dotted slope above. Bella stops and looks about her in horror. The heath below them is a sea of fire, but worse than that, all along the ridge the eco-homes are fiercely ablaze, a series of horrible beacons. Already there is a cacophony of sirens. People and red vehicles can be seen, moving among the trees.
"Carol!" cries McNab, turning away from them. "Ah maun git tae ma girl!"
"Don't be a fool, man!" shouts Michael. "It's an inferno down there!"
But McNab is gone, plunging into the smoke.
Miranda pulls up in her new Toyota. She leaps out and runs towards them, throwing herself into Michael's arms.
"I was terrified! I saw you go down, I thought you'd had it!"
"Sorry darling," says Michael. "There wasn't time to explain. I knew I could probably make it."
"Probably!" exclaims Miranda and bursts into tears, clinging to him. Bella has never seen her cry, not even as a child.
"Hey, hey, its all right sweetie," says Michael, stroking her hair. "I'm fine! We're both fine. No harm done."
"But you're burned! Look, your shoulder! You're burned!"
"What? Oh yes, so I am. What about you, Bella? Any damage?"
"Here and there," admits Bella distractedly. Look at them! she thinks. If ever proof were needed that they're part of a family conspiracy, this is it. Miranda knows Michael has been unfaithful to her – with her own sister! – yet here they are, acting all lovey-dovey. It's obvious now that the whole thing was planned. She can imagine Miranda coolly saying: 'Get her pregnant; it's your job. I'll stay out of the way. And Michael, don't you dare enjoy it!' What a shock and a disappointment it must have been for them when it turned out to be a boy.
"You're a fool," snarls Hester. "You could have stopped all that nonsense. We could all be living in a state of grace."
"Shut up!" snaps Bella crossly. "You very nearly killed us. Anyway, you got your fire."
"You left it too late! They're getting away. They're getting away right now."
They are staring at her. "What did you say?" says Miranda.
"Nothing," says Bella. "Where is he, anyway?"
"Who?"
"That baby."
Miranda glances at Michael. "At the house, with Bluebell. Why? Do you want to see him?"
"It's going towards the Point," says Michael.
Even while they've been talking, the fire has eaten up another forty or fifty acres of heath. It seems to be somewhat choosy, leaving large patches unscathed while devastating others, but the general trend is still south-west, with Windy Point right in its path. Bella looks for some sign of McNab, but there is too much smoke. The air is now filled with the sound of sirens and a helicopter is hovering overhead.
"We'd better get down there," says Michael. "They might need help."
They drive into the village, occasionally pulling onto the verge to let another fire appliance go by.
"Do you want us to drop you off?" asks Miranda.
"What? No," says Bella.
"You could tell Bluebell what's happening. You could see the baby."
"No, I want to come."
The fire hasn't reached the road to the Point yet, but judging by the thickness of the smoke it cannot be far off. A group of terrified sika deer looms out of the murk in front of them, forcing Miranda to brake hard. They only begin to see flames as they pass through the gap in the old railway embankment.
Everyone at the Point is out in a long line, beating. There is a fire engine on the slipway, its crew damping down the bungalow and boatshed. The heat is searing, tightening the skin.
"It jumped the embankment and the firebreak," says a weary and blackened Rat. "Just blew right over. I've never seen anything like it. I think we're fighting a losing battle to be honest."
"Have you any spare beaters?" asks Michael.
But it is too late for that. There is a splintering crash and a swirl of flying sparks as the outermost of the great sheds, already barely standing, succumbs to the flames.
"Back!" cries someone. "Back! Back!"
The wind has suddenly veered and strengthened, driving the flames of the burning shed straight at them. Its neighbour is already well alight, corrugated sheets tumbling down as the ancient timber frame gives way. Pat, Crystal and Denny appear out of the smoke, slapping at their smouldering clothes, and everyone retreats down the slipway, stumbling over the tangle of fire-hoses. Veronica is there, looking grim but calm, a frightened twin clinging to each arm of her chair.
"I think we ought to get them onto the jetty," she says. "The
y'll be safer there."
"I think we should all get onto it," says Rat.
"Come on," says Miranda. "I'll push you."
There is a dull whoomph, and flames appear all along the windward side of the bungalow. With alarming speed they spread across the black, tarred roof, and moments later are licking from the summer-room windows. The fire officer comes over. "I'm sorry, sir. I think we've lost it."
Rat shakes his head resignedly. "Don't take any chances; it's not worth it. Better get your chaps out of there."
A strange feeling makes Bella turn and stare across the harbour. At first she can see nothing; then out of the pall of smoke drifts a ghost ship. Her sails are patched and faded, and streaks of rust disfigure her once gleaming sides.
"Oh my God!" she cries "It's Thurston!"
They all pile onto the jetty, stepping gingerly over the gaping holes, making their way out to the end. Thurston, conker-brown and wearing only a pair of shorts, helps them onto the unexpected sanctuary of the Queen of Tenstone's deck, lifting down Veronica, complete with chair, as if she weighed nothing. "You timed that well," she says dryly.
Rat shakes him emotionally by the hand. "I never had a moment's doubt that you could do it, and I've been proved right." He gestures with a laconic arm at the shore. "As you can see, we're having a little bonfire in your honour."
Bella is the last aboard. She looks at Thurston shyly, not quite knowing what to do or say. Suddenly he turns towards her and smiles, throwing open his arms. It is a wonderful welcoming smile, full of love and deep affection, such as she cannot remember seeing before, even on their wedding night. Nevertheless she hesitates. It has been a long time and a lot has happened. Perhaps he won't want her when he knows. She is just about to step forward when Pat pushes past her, throwing herself into the giant's embrace.
"Where have you been?" she cries. "I was expecting you a week ago."
"Not my fault," says Thurston. "Blame this damned east wind." He still sounds like George Formby, but there is not a trace of a stammer. Everybody turns and stares. They could scarcely be more surprised if her aunt were to rise from her chair and dance a jig.
"Roz is gone," says Pat. "She's all burned up."
Thurston shakes his head. "It doesn't matter — this is your home now."
Pat clings happily to him. "I'll never let you out of my sight again, not ever," she says, adding, "Do I get to sail her?"
"She's yours," says Rat. "She belongs to both of you. You'll have to take it in turns to be skipper."
Thurston catches sight of Bella, seemingly for the first time, and looks awkwardly away. This is where we came in, she thinks, more relieved than otherwise.
The great boatshed chooses this moment to collapse, crushing the blazing wreck which was the bungalow. Fortunately the fire crew have pulled their vehicle out of the way. Only the buildings are burning now. The heath fire has swept on, leaving behind a smouldering black desert filled with the charred skeletons of furze bushes. Veronica watches the final destruction of her home in silence, her tears leaving little clean trails down the grime of her face.
"Has anyone seen McNab?" asks Denny, anxiously. "He would have been on his way home about now."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Bella standing up and stretching, brushing straw off herself. She is suddenly desperately tired.
It's real time now, Best Beloved. That's it: my terrible secret. I've shown you the cats and how they have to be stopped before it's too late, before they destroy the world. I've shown you all the mistakes I've made and how to avoid them. I hope you remembered to see and not just imagine. Yes, I'm sure you did. Just as I'm sure you'll know what to do. You will succeed where I failed. I know you will. I'm just glad I was able to show you everything. I'm glad because it's not long now. They're coming for me now so I'd better say goodbye. Goodbye, Best Beloved. I love you.
I'm going now.
Goodbye.
Bella climbing wearily down the ladder, creeping round the back of the stables, through the garden to Aunty's sitting-room window. She stands a little to one side, peering in. Aunty is knitting, Miranda restlessly pacing, dandling the baby.
"Hasn't she been back at all?"
"Nope, not even for tea."
"I suppose she's all right?"
"Yes, she's all right. She's in the hayloft. Bluebell heard her up there."
"Heard her?"
"Talking to herself."
"Oh, right."
Miranda wanders over to Bella's tins. Most have been stripped of their labels, marked up and replaced in their cases. She idly pulls one out and looks at it, then another, shaking her head. The baby's face comes briefly into view, gazing myopically over her shoulder.
"You know," she says, "I really think we're going to have to go ahead and christen this child. He's nearly two months old for goodness' sake. People keep asking what he's called. It's embarrassing." Evincing no response, she adds: "We've been talking about it, actually."
"Oh yes?" says Veronica.
"Yes. We thought Gerald."
Veronica pulls a face, continues knitting, says nothing.
"Is there something wrong with that?" demands Miranda. "It's Michael's father's name."
"Yes, I know it is."
"Well what do you think he should be called?"
Veronica suddenly grins. "Your uncle calls him Gargoyle."
"Gargoyle!"
"Yes, you know, like on the church. He says he looks like the one over the porch."
"Well that's not very nice!" exclaims Miranda. "You're not like that nasty thing, are you sweetums? You're a handsome boy."
"I'm glad you think so. He's all head, hands and feet. I've never seen such feet. Well, I have. And that hair! No-one in our family has ever had red hair."
"He's a baby, Aunty! They all look like that. And it's not red; it's strawberry blond. It could be anything later." She kisses him fondly on the nose. "Don't you take any notice of your wicked great-aunt. You're my special little chap, aren't you?"
Veronica puts down her knitting, lips pursed. "Miranda, you will remember? I mean, it was very good of you to take him on and everything, but . . ."
Miranda's eyes narrow. She clutches the baby more tightly to her. "Look, let's be realistic, shall we? She doesn't want him, that's obvious, and if you ask me she never will. Even if she did, she wouldn't be able to care for him. She can't even care for herself! She's going to have to go back into Dunnock's and you know it."
"Not as long as she takes her tablets. Anyway, that's beside the point. She's still his mother."
"Is she taking them? If she is, they're clearly not working."
"That's not so. She's been much better the last week or two. I've seen a difference, even if you haven't."
"Aunty, she's barking! Get real! She's not coming back from this, and you're going to have to accept it. Gerry needs a proper mother now, not in the distant future, and as far as he's concerned, I'm it. It's me that feeds him and changes him and gets up in the night to him and takes him for his jabs, not her. You'd do better just to let me get on with it instead of going through this ridiculous charade every day. Would you rather he was brought up by strangers? Because that's the alternative; that's what'll happen, because she won't. Okay, I love him. Is that so surprising? He's got my genes. He's the closest thing to my own child that I'm going to get. Apart from which, she owes me. She owes me for all the grief she's given me. And I don't care who he looks like. I don't believe it anyway. Even she's not that mad."
"What about Michael?" asks Veronica.
"He loves him too. He wants to bring him up as ours."
"And if she wants him back, in two, three years' time, what then?"
"She won't"
"You can't know that."
Miranda sighs. She picks up and brandishes one of Bella's tins. "Look! Look at this! What do you think it says?"
Veronica smiles wryly. "I believe I can state with some authority that it says 'beans,' or possibly 'peas.'"
"I'm afraid not. It says, 'The cats must die.' So does this one, and this one, and this, and this. They're all the same, the whole bloody lot! 'The cats must die.' This is the woman you want to give my baby to!"
Bella turning away from the window, wanders slowly back through the stable yard and tithe-barn, down to the village street and into the churchyard, pausing at the shadowed north wall with its row of little memorials. McNab is there, somewhere beneath a great pile of wreaths and flowers, testament to his popularity. She is still clutching her packet of chocolate biscuits. Twisting up the open end she places it with the other offerings, then passes through the kissing gate onto the heath.
The fact is, Gerry. I suppose I should call you Gerry. The fact is . . . No, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. It's just stupid. It's all so stupid.
Bella, not bothering with the path, kicking through the black, twiggy ash as a child might kick through leaves; lilac tunic, matching lilac leggings, lilac trainers — a splash of colour in a post-apocalyptic landscape.
Simon. Bella thinking of Simon. The only man who ever really loved me. 'You are the keeper of my heart; I'd kill for you; I'd die for you; I'd drink lavatory water for you.' Whatever could have possessed me? It's all your fault, Mummy! I hate you!
No, it's not. That's stupid. Mummy's dead. Dead by her own hand. Suicide. Why? Why, why, why? Why did she have to leave me? Why was she always leaving me? I never did anything wrong, that I know of.
Bella in a haze of tears, threading among the remains of the bungalow, long since picked over for anything useful: the Aga; the big, cast-iron frying pan, Uncle's pipe-rack, miraculously unscathed.
Across the slipway and onto the jetty, past the others, beavering away on the Queen, varnishing, replacing worn rigging; too busy, apparently, to notice her, or care. Along to the very end, stepping over the rust holes.
Clear sky. Just a long, thin cloud, hanging over the Bitterns. Wind westerly, about a three. Tide on the ebb, the small boats all turned to face upstream, each with its crew of gulls. The estuarine Wimble a narrow turmoil of water, still discernibly a river, even in the midst of the harbour.
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 56