When We Have Wings

by Claire Corbett

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I’m so great. It’s just that there are still not many real fliers around.’

  I smiled.

  ‘I never did ask you,’ said Peri, ‘what finally made you decide on wings for Thomas?’

  ‘I told myself all sorts of things,’ I said. ‘That it would set him up for the future, make him a success, keep him out of places like the Venice. But in the end, I’m not sure any of those things were the real reasons. I think it all came down to one thing: you try telling a small child that he or she can’t fly. That you won’t allow it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peri, pain crumpling her features for a moment. ‘I have that conversation to look forward to.’

  ‘Oh Peri, I’m sorry. Are you sure they can’t do anything?’

  ‘Don’t know. Peter doesn’t want to start the round of specialists yet. Maybe he never will. I don’t think Hugo will want to fly. My fault. He’ll probably end up being a—what do they call them?—someone who explores caves, or something.’ She turned to Thomas. ‘Hello, Thomas. Do you want to show me your wings? They’re the most amazing wings I’ve ever seen.’

  Thomas stood up and arched his wings out, turning round, proudly displaying them, green fire sparking from the undersides in the sun. Hugo kept his head bent, concentrating on his stones.

  Peri had stepped forward and was hugging Hugo. ‘Now you and Zeke are going to have a great time together and Thomas and I will join you pretty soon. Okay?’

  Hugo did not look at her. Peri kissed his cheek, gave him another hug and straightened up. ‘He’ll be fine,’ she whispered. She took Tom’s hand and they stepped to the cliff edge. Tom’s fearlessness had not ceased to amaze me. Brave Thomas. It was one way I could feel him drawing away from me. I was still overcome with dizziness whenever I saw him step into the air.

  Up they went, Peri flying wingtip to wingtip with Thomas, then circling below him. The sun struck flashing gold from Thomas’s wings. He was bright as a day star, flying up there.

  Hugo watched, not looking at me, until they rose into two dots, one dark, one shining.

  ‘Come on, Hugo,’ I said. ‘Let’s have some fun. Let’s go down to the beach.’

  He put his hand in mine and we walked down the lush path of palms to the sheltered cove.

  We swam together under the water and saw fish and jellyfish. A big blue groper came and inspected us. We were intruders in his precinct. We built elaborate sandcastles and dug for pippis and explored rockpools.

  After a while we sat and ate our lunch in the shade.

  In the safe waters of the cove a meteor landed. It was Thomas, his wings almost too bright to look at in the noon sun. Peri landed near him in a ruffle of water. Lazily, like great swans, they floated in towards us. Hugo jumped up and ran into the water. He and Thomas walked out together, Hugo showing him the sandcastle we’d built. They sat down, ignoring Peri and me.

  Peri walked towards me, as awe-inspiring as a statue. The goddess Victory. She looked so much older, more womanly now. My greeting stopped in my throat. I’d forget how breathtaking she was and then moments like this would knock me sideways.

  Peri sat down, folding her wings and turning to look at Hugo and Thomas, utterly absorbed in their construction. I handed her a piece of watermelon.

  ‘I hope they’ll always be friends,’ I said, watching them bicker over a sand rake.

  ‘Yes.’ Said with more fervour than I’d expected. ‘I hope so too.’

  ‘Look at that,’ I said, but Peri had already seen it. ‘Did you tell Thomas to do that?’

  ‘No, I’m ashamed to say I never even thought of it myself.’

  Thomas had arched one wing above Hugo, sheltering him from the sun.

  Peri and I settled down for our afternoon’s surveillance on the sand.

  This is as good a moment to leave as any. For the rest of my life I could see us on this beach, figures in a painting, transfixed, washed with colour, transparent blue and green, Thomas’s wings the gold leaf, blazing against the sky. All stories are tragedies if they end in death, which they all do, and all are comedies if they culminate in the birth of a child. Which, so far in our life as a species, they have. So far as we know, children will keep appearing, in whatever form, and I would like this story to be a comedy so I end it with Thomas and Hugo.

  That day was Midsummer. I often dreamed of it later, as if it continued and we were there, always. We celebrated it by crowning Hugo, our youngest, our faery prince, Peri said, with flowers. They were weeds we found along the path to the beach: morning glory, jasmine, honeysuckle. Tough, rambling, prolific survivors but they made a blue and white and golden crown, dripping sweetness. Peri carried Hugo on her shoulders, the flowers falling down their backs, unravelling already. Thomas trailed them, an angelic attendant.

  You know, Peri said to me as we walked, Thomas and I are still the, you know—she lowered her voice—still the freaks, even though we chose it. Hugo is perfect in every way. He’s not missing anything.

  Nice of you to say so, Peri. Maybe you even believe it. But no-one knows yet whether that’s true. There’s not enough evidence and judgement’s not been pronounced. The best we can hope for is a provisional verdict: not proven.

  Neither guilty nor innocent.

  Thomas skipped ahead of us singing Brave Thomas!

  Unbidden, the response rose in my mind, smoothly as a counterweight: we’re not scared.

  At the top of a small hill ahead of us he paused, his wings catching the slanting rays of afternoon sun and shining so brightly that he appeared to melt into the sun itself, dissolving without silhouette into its sinking golden orb so that I could no longer see him at all.

  The descriptions of the mechanics of flight in Chapter 9, The Unforgiving Element, have been informed by Taking Wing: Archaeopteryx and the evolution of bird flight by Pat Shipman (Phoenix, 1999), a brilliantly clear and detailed account of the debates over the evolution of bird flight. Any oversimplifications or misinterpretations are of course my own. Birds: Their habits and skills by Gisela Kaplan and Lesley J. Rogers (Allen & Unwin, 2001) was also a valuable source. The quote about raptors from Thomas Bewick’s The History of English Birds (1797) is taken from the anthology An Exhilaration of Wings: The literature of birdwatching, edited by Jen Hill (Penguin Books, 2001).

  It takes much hard work to turn a manuscript into a book. First thanks are due to my brilliant and passionate agent, Selwa Anthony, who makes things happen. I am grateful to Katherine Howell and also to Jody Lee.

  Thanks to Ali Lavau, a wonderful, sensitive and dedicated editor; you held the book up to the light and showed me new facets. Many thanks to Christa Munns and all at Allen & Unwin who have worked on and believed in the book. Special thanks to Annette Barlow, whose vision for this book is all I could hope for.

  Most of all, heartfelt gratitude to my husband, Julian, who has read the book more times than anyone can count and has given more detailed criticism and thought and creative energy to this project than anyone else can ever know, to say nothing of physical, emotional and financial support. Without you, this book would not be what it is.