The Flight of Cornelia Blackwood

by Susan Elliot Wright

  The sensible part of myself, the part that knows I’m very drunk, is appalled by my behaviour and slightly fearful of what’ll happen when Jan picks up the message. I’ve always been a model patient, but even in my drunken state I know that this is not model patient behaviour.

  It is only when I wake the next morning with a searing pain in my head and nausea rising in my throat that I see the text that came through in the middle of the night. I don’t know who you are, and I’m sure you called this number by accident, but I do not appreciate receiving drunken, obscene messages on my voicemail. Please delete this number from your phone NOW!! ‘Oh God,’ I say aloud. I was so drunk last night I could barely see the numbers on the card, let alone copy them into the phone. I immediately start to type an apology to this disgruntled stranger, but that makes me feel even more nauseous, so I just do what the person says and delete the number. The only silver lining is that I didn’t manage to get through to Jan after all.

  A few days later, Judy calls again to ask about Christmas. ‘It’s kind of you, Judy,’ I say, ‘but I don’t think I can face a family Christmas just yet. I’m probably just going to take a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates up to bed with me and crawl under the duvet until Boxing Day.’ I realise that sounds a bit bleak, so I add a little laugh, just to show I’m not suicidal.

  I hear Judy sigh. ‘If you’re sure that’s what you want.’ She pauses, but I don’t say anything. ‘If you really can’t face it, then of course we understand, but if you change your mind, just come, okay?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Jude. By the way, I’m afraid I haven’t got round to doing any proper Christmas shopping this year, but I’ve put a couple of gift cards in the post for the boys. I hope—’

  ‘Honestly, you needn’t have worried, Leah. Not at a time like this. But thanks all the same – they’ll be thrilled.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  NOW

  It’s unusually mild and sunny for March, and after the long, dark winter, a bright day like this makes everyone feel better. It’s a bit too mild for this coat, really. I’ve been relying on the hood to cover my head, but I’ll need another way to disguise myself as the weather gets warmer. Not that Oliver or his mum ever seem to notice me, but it’s nice to have the freedom of being able to watch this child without alarming his mother. All I need is to catch a glimpse of him now and then, take pleasure in seeing him smile or laugh, see how quickly he grows taller. I park the car in the road behind the church and switch off the engine. They won’t be out for another fifteen minutes.

  I’m supposed to be at my bereavement support group today. I joined a few weeks ago, and if I’m honest, it probably has helped. Turns out I’m not the only one to be angry with a dead spouse, although I am the only one to discover my partner’s infidelity as a result of his death. Pushing it to the back of my mind doesn’t work; it comes creeping in insidiously like a fog while I’m brushing my teeth, or making coffee, or marking a student’s work. Adrian cheated on me and he had a child. How dare he give another woman his child! And how dare he go and die so I can’t even talk to him about it. This is what I talk about mainly at group – how upset and angry I am with him. Maybe I’ll go to another meeting, or maybe I won’t.

  I glance at my watch again. They’ll be out soon. There’s no way I can get away with keeping my hood up today, so I tie my hair back with an old rubber band and put on the glasses I usually only wear for driving. I still have a few minutes, so I light a cigarette as I walk through the cemetery at the rear of the church and along the narrow path to the smaller churchyard at the front. With the sprinkling of snowdrops and crocuses, it looks particularly pretty today. Sometimes while I’m waiting for Oliver to appear, I wander around reading the ancient headstones, but as it’s so mild today, I sit on the bench in the middle of a sea of daffodils. Here, I have a good view of the house, and I’m almost completely shielded by the holly and hawthorn that grows by the wall. I squash my cigarette underfoot and settle down to wait. After a few minutes, the front door opens and out comes Oliver, clutching his Shrek lunchbox. My heart contracts as I watch him bouncing down the path while his mother locks the door behind them, then grabs the little boy’s hand and hurries him into the car. She lifts him up and straps him into his child seat before jumping in the front and starting the engine. The woman is always in a hurry.

  It’s Wednesday today, so she’ll drop Oliver at nursery, then drive straight to the café where she works. Once a week, after dropping him off, she drives to a big, double-fronted house in Dore where she spends exactly two and a half hours, then drives home again. It was only when I saw her come out to the wheelie bin, still wearing rubber gloves, to empty a couple of wastepaper baskets that I realised it’s a cleaning job. But that’s only on Fridays. On the other days, it’s straight to the café. Her shift must finish at three. Oliver finishes nursery at a quarter past, but it’s often almost ten past by the time his mother emerges from the café and hurries to her car. Sometimes I watch the nursery instead, and all too often the poor child is one of the last, if not the last, to be collected. She should be more organised where her son is concerned. The car is a silver Renault Clio, quite old by the looks of it, and it’s clearly had a few knocks and bangs. I hope those didn’t occur while Oliver was strapped in the back. The car pulls away and accelerates too quickly and I have to suppress a wave of panic as the image of a crash flips through my brain.

  They told me Adrian lost control of the car in the fog. It skidded off the wet tarmac and down a slope, where it crashed into a tree. I wanted to see where it happened – God knows why – so just before Christmas, I drove there and saw the actual tree. It was the only tree that stood anywhere near the road. If it had happened five seconds earlier or later, he’d simply have come to a stop in a muddy field. I got out of my car to inspect the tree, gratified to see its bark scarred by the impact. Good, I thought. I hope you’re scarred for life. I hope you die. Now, having seen the damn tree, I can’t unsee it, and I am haunted by images of the moment of impact. Drive carefully, I urge silently as I watch the Clio disappear over the hill.

  Oliver’s nursery is about halfway between their house and mine, a ten- to fifteen-minute drive away. Sometimes I watch from the car when the children are playing outside, but today I drive straight to the café, assuming she’ll have dropped Oliver off and then gone straight to work for her shift – ten until three. Sure enough, at just after ten, the silver Clio turns into the car park and Oliver’s mum jumps out, hurriedly locking the car before dashing across the road to the café. I park my car and put enough money in the machine to cover two hours. I’ll have a wander round the shops first, buy something so that I can be carrying a bag or two when I go in. I will go in today; I’ve chickened out three times already, but I have to do this; I have to make some sort of contact.

  At a quarter to eleven, I push open the door. At first I only see an older woman behind the counter, cutting a chocolate cake into slices ready to go under its glass dome. But then I spot her, Oliver’s mother. Adrian’s lover. Nausea ripples through me at the thought. She’s smiling at a customer as she takes his order. There’s no queue, but there are a few customers working on laptops, studying their phones or reading newspapers. A teenage boy is wiping tables and topping up the pots with sachets of sugar. ‘Morning,’ I say as I reach the counter. My voice sounds high and tight, and I hope it doesn’t betray my nerves. I’m relieved to see that, close up, the woman isn’t particularly gorgeous, although she is attractive in a clean, wholesome sort of way. She’s probably a bit younger than me, though not more than two or three years. Her face is friendly and open, with pretty hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and reddish, shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail. It looks like the only make-up she’s wearing is mascara and a touch of bronze lipstick. There’s a silver chain round her neck with a letter ‘C’ on it, hanging at her throat. Charlotte? Carrie? Cat? Carly?

  She smiles at me. ‘What can I get you?�
� It’s hard to tell if she has a Sheffield accent, but her voice is soft and pleasant, the words well formed.

  ‘Latte, please, and a flapjack.’

  ‘Coming up.’ She lifts one of the glass domes and uses tongs to pick up a flapjack, which she puts on a plate with a folded serviette and hands it to me. ‘Take a seat, and I’ll bring your latte over in a sec.’

  ‘Thank you.’ From my table, I watch as she operates the coffee machine, each movement confident and efficient. She’s slim, not very tall, and under the long red apron bearing the café’s logo – a spray of white daisies – I can see she’s wearing skinny black jeans with a floaty, bottle-green top. She smiles brightly as she brings the coffee over. ‘There we are. Anything else I can get you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thanks – I’ll shout if I need anything. By the way,’ I say quickly as she turns to walk back to the counter, ‘I like your top – gorgeous colour!’

  She flushes. ‘Thank you. I have to make myself wear colours – I tend to live in black – it’s so easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘I know what you mean. I usually go for black, too. But that green really suits you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiles again and goes back to the coffee machine. I take out my book and drink my latte slowly as I pretend to read, surreptitiously watching what’s happening behind the counter. I’m not even sure why I’m doing this; why I’m sitting here, trying to imagine my husband and this woman together. Maybe it’s some form of self-punishment. I don’t want that image, obviously, but I have to try to understand or at least accept the situation. More importantly, I have to find out more about Oliver, and the only way I can do that is to strike up a conversation with his mother. It may not help, but what else am I supposed to do? Now I know that her son is Adrian’s child – Adrian’s flesh and blood – I can’t just pretend he doesn’t exist.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOW

  I park outside the nursery and pretend to talk on my phone as my eyes scan the playground. After a moment, I spot him on a small wooden climbing frame, clambering across the top with his little bottom in the air, hair sticking up in tufts just like Adrian’s. He’s wearing a blue and white striped sweatshirt and blue jeans, with red lace-up trainers. He looks so healthy, so clean, like a child from one of those ‘perfect mother’ washing powder ads. He stops and looks at the little girl who is climbing up the ladder behind him, then he swings round into a sitting position and gives her a broad, white-toothed smile. He is such a beautiful child, and so like Adrian it makes my heart ache. My eyes swim for a moment. Oliver is climbing down the other side, more carefully now. It’s not particularly high, and all the playground equipment is set on special soft-landing material, but I still wait to see him safely back on the ground before I put my phone away and drive off.

  My back is playing up today, so I’m using my stick, and as I walk up to the door of the café, a man coming the other way hurries ahead so that he can hold the door open for me. I always feel touched and humbled when people are kind to me. I nod my thanks as I go in and take my place in the queue. This is my fifth visit now, and coming here has quickly become something I look forward to, partly because I’m getting nearer to having a proper conversation with Oliver’s mother, but also because of the simple pleasure of drinking coffee in a nice café and occasionally exchanging a ‘good morning’ with other customers. Apart from the two days a week that I’m at the university, I don’t really speak to anyone else.

  There are two of them behind the counter, Oliver’s mum and the girl with the rings in her nose and lip. As I get near to the front of the queue, I calculate that it’s likely to be the girl with the piercings who’ll serve me, so I pretend to be deliberating over which cake to choose and I let the man behind me go first. When my turn comes, I smile at Oliver’s mother. ‘Latte, please. And a piece of the lemon and coconut cake.’

  ‘Ah, no flapjack today, then?’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  The woman smiles. ‘We get to know our regulars.’

  I feel a little leap of pleasure. ‘Thought I’d try something different – it looks so nice.’

  ‘Good choice.’ She lowers her voice. ‘That one’s my favourite, as it happens, and it was fresh out this morning. Take a seat – I’ll bring it over in a sec.’

  I hang my stick on the edge of the table and take out my phone and book. There’s a text from Paul: Hope you’re ok, dear. I don’t want to intrude, but we haven’t heard from you for a couple of weeks and I just wanted to check all ok. Would be lovely to have a chat when you have a minute.

  I feel a pang of guilt. I’ve been avoiding Paul, worried that I won’t be able to stop myself from blurting out what I’ve discovered. He’d be so disappointed in Adrian, and I don’t want to do that to him. It wouldn’t make me feel any better, either.

  I type out a reply. I’m fine, just a bit busy with work – exam time coming up. Will call at the weekend, L xx

  Oliver’s mum appears at my side with the cake on a gold-edged china plate. She sets it down on the table along with a folded serviette and a cake fork.

  ‘Thanks. Pretty plate. And I love eating cake with a proper cake fork.’

  ‘Definitely. No point in doing something nice if you don’t do it right.’ She nods towards my stick. ‘What have you done to yourself, then?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Well, not recently. It’s an old fracture, and it plays up every now and again. I hate using this, but it helps take the pressure off.’

  ‘You poor thing. Isn’t there anything they can do?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not really. It’s something I need to manage. I have a set of exercises I’m supposed to do every day, but I’m not always that good at doing them.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I broke my arm a few years ago – did the exercises for the first few days and then,’ she shrugs, ‘well, you know. Probably why it still hurts sometimes.’ She points to my book. ‘How are you getting on with that?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I love the set-up, but . . .’ I pick the book up and check the page number. ‘I’m sixty-odd pages in and I’m not enjoying it as much as I’d hoped.’ I bought this novel after a couple of my colleagues and one of my supervisees raved about it. It’s been well reviewed, apparently, and it was shortlisted for one of the big prizes, but I’m struggling to get into it.

  The woman nods. ‘Hmm. I won’t say a lot, then, as you haven’t finished it.’

  ‘You’ve read it?’

  ‘Yes, a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Do you read a lot?’

  ‘Yes. Well, when I have the time, anyway.’

  It’s a relief to find that Adrian isn’t the only thing we have in common. At least it should make conversation easier. ‘What sort of thing do you usually like to read?’

  ‘Oh, all sorts, really. I like historical stuff. I’m not really into whodunnits, but I like a good thriller, and I quite like sci-fi, too.’ Then she laughs. ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘A bit. I don’t know why, though – you can’t ever guess someone’s reading tastes. I should know – I teach English literature. One of my mature students – she’s in her seventies – is doing her dissertation on Jane Austen, but I asked her the other day what sort of thing she reads on holiday, and she said her first choice would be “a bloody good western”.’

  She laughs. ‘Brilliant. I’m not that bothered about Jane Austen, but I’ve read some of the Brontës – I did Shirley at A level, but I read the others through choice. I prefer modern stuff, though. It must be nice, teaching literature, although I suppose there’s more to it than getting paid to read all day.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s good, and I’m only part-time now.’

  She nods towards the book on the table. ‘That had brilliant reviews.’

  I nod. ‘That’s mainly why I bought it. But you didn’t like it?’

  ‘I didn’t hate it, but . . . I shouldn’t say any more – you might love it, and I don’t want to put you off.�
� She glances towards the counter. ‘I’d better crack on, I suppose.’

  ‘Nice to talk to you . . . what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Cassie.’ She smiles. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Leah.’

  ‘Leah. I’ll remember that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THEN

  ‘It doesn’t have to be more than a line or two,’ Gillian, the woman on the helpline, said. ‘It doesn’t even have to be coherent. What’s important is that you release all those feelings you’re holding in. Just try it once or twice, see if it helps.’

  ‘Okay, I will. Thank you.’

  ‘And call the helpline as often as you need to, okay? We all understand. We’ve all been there.’

  I did feel a little better after talking to her. She wasn’t a ‘proper’ counsellor, she told me, just another mum whose baby had died before birth. We had an appointment with a bereavement counsellor next week, but when I called the helpline number it was because I didn’t know how I was going to get through the next five minutes, never mind the next week.