Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  ‘What’s the purpose of you?’ she shouts. ‘You’re ugly, you trespass on other people’s property, you steal shopping trolleys, and you’re incredibly stupid.’

  Everything she says makes him laugh more. She’s not used to people laughing at her anger. It makes her feel insignificant. She stops shouting at him and settles herself back on the ground. She lies on her stomach, relaxes, ignores him, and contemplates the situation.

  It’s like waiting with children. If they’re not listening, and you want them to stop what they’re doing, you just shut off and do nothing. Eventually they become conscious of the silence and give up.

  So she lies still in the long grass and waits. The idiot eventually stops the hysteria, and his breathing becomes more regular. The roots of the hawthorn are in the shade, but she can see the sun a yard away and smell the heat of it coming closer. She hears the bees, a bird trilling—but she can’t identify it because she’s no good at birds. She’s never bothered about them before, never listened, never given them a thought. So now she finds she’s hearing a silence that is new to her. There’s quietness, calmness. A car drives up the road past the cottage, but she doesn’t mind that. It shows her the extent of her stillness.

  She can’t hear him at all, so she moves her head round to see if he’s gone.

  He’s sitting down close by, unmoving like her, and she realises that they’re sharing the same silence. They’re hearing things together: the crack of the hawthorn as it settles slightly into itself, preparing for the full sun; the crawling of a caterpillar past her arm; the rustle of the grass as it eases upright again, reasserting itself after being disturbed by their feet.

  ‘Well?’ she says at last. ‘Any chance of helping me?’

  He’s unwilling, she can tell, but he moves towards her, and spends a few seconds examining the situation. Then she feels his hand on her leg. She jumps when he first touches her, but the hand stays there. Slowly, gently, he begins to untangle her. She waits and lets him finish. She likes the sensation of his calm hands on her leg.

  He lets go.

  She waits for a second and then tries to move her leg. It’s free, so she rolls over, away from the roots, and struggles to get to her feet.

  He stands up and watches, but seeing her difficulty, leans forward to help. She tries to pull herself up on a branch of the hawthorn, but there are too many thorns, so she grabs his arm instead. He doesn’t react. He is solid and motionless beside her. She holds the foot still at first, then lowers it to the ground and puts some weight on it.

  ‘Ouch!’ She lifts it up again hurriedly.

  The idiot man kneels down. He moves his hand along her foot, pressing as he goes.

  ‘There!’ she shrieks. ‘Ah!’ She tries to jerk it away, but he’s holding it too firmly, and she has to balance herself on his shoulder. ‘Let go!’ But her anger won’t come back. She looks for it and it’s not there any more. ‘I must have twisted my ankle,’ she says, sounding pathetic. ‘Can you help me back to the house?’

  He nods, and they stumble together through the long grass. They would be more successful if he put an arm round her for support, but he’s not offering this service and she’s not asking.

  The ladder is still up against the wall, tools strewn around at the base. He attempts to take her through the front door.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘There’s no point in going in. It’s all dead. Been like that for years.’

  He helps her to sit down again on the grass and lowers himself next to her. She’s conscious that he’s looking at her. Perhaps he’s dangerous. She is being helped by a man who could be a lunatic. Nobody knows she’s here. She’d be yet another disappeared person, buried under the hawthorn bushes, in the long grass.

  She turns to examine his face, and he doesn’t appear to be dangerous. He doesn’t even seem stupid. There’s a scar on his left cheek, stretching from the corner of his eye, down to the chin, lost in the grey and black grizzle of his beard. His eyes, however, are remarkable. They’re bluer than she’s ever seen in real life. Frank Sinatra, Steve McQueen blue. As soon as she looks directly at him, he averts his gaze, but she’s seen his expression, his intelligence. If he’s a lunatic, he’s a clever one.

  He gets up and starts collecting the tools into a neat pile. She has a very good idea.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘you couldn’t do me a favour, could you? I need to get a tile down from the roof so I can buy some new ones. I want a sample.’

  He pauses and glances at her. She can see the sweat on his forehead, the thoughts passing across his face, the quick turning away when he meets her eyes. He looks ridiculous in his navy suit and wellington boots.

  ‘It might be better if you took your boots off,’ she says. ‘It’s awfully hot, and you might slip.’

  He doesn’t take his boots off. He climbs the ladder cautiously and, after fiddling for a while near the eaves, brings down a tile. Then he puts the tools just inside the front door. He pulls the ladder down and starts to fold it up.

  ‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘Maybe I haven’t finished.’

  He stops, shrugs, then puts the ladder into the house as well.

  ‘Thanks a million. My ankle could be all right now, for all you know.’

  He has a puzzled expression on his face. She can feel herself becoming irritated again. Why does he have to be so silent?

  ‘Say something,’ she says. ‘It’s not fair, me making all the conversation. I don’t mind if you want to shout a bit. We could shout at each other, see who’s the loudest.’

  He avoids her eyes.

  She sighs. ‘Please yourself.’

  He’s completely still. She’s seen a street performer who paints himself grey and stands motionless long enough to give the impression that he’s a statue. Then, after a time, he twitches once, or winks, moves his head. People stop in amazement until a crowd gathers, waiting for his next movement. They always give him money before leaving.

  ‘You could earn a living with your skills,’ she says. She tries moving her foot again and it still hurts. ‘I can’t walk,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to ring for a taxi to take me to the station. I don’t suppose you drive?’

  He doesn’t shake his head, but he’s not offering.

  ‘No, of course not. That would be too good to be true. Could you fetch my bag? It’s just inside the door—by the hall table.’

  He fetches the bag and hands it to her. He’d make a good butler.

  She digs out her mobile from the bottom of the bag. ‘I don’t suppose you know the number of a local taxi firm?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘No, I thought not.’

  She rings directory enquiries, then arranges for a taxi to pick her up at the gate.

  The man watches her, then goes back to the house and pulls the door shut. He takes the key out and hands it to her.

  ‘Can you help me down to the road?’ she asks.

  They stumble awkwardly back to the gate, with Doody leaning heavily on his arm. He’s not very good at it, because he lurches around too much and they have to keep stopping to recover their balance.

  ‘Great,’ she says, when they get there.

  His shopping trolley is still waiting for him.

  ‘I hope you don’t have anything frozen in there.’

  But he does. She can see the fish fingers and the frozen chicken breasts. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’d better send me a bill.’

  He seems perplexed and walks off, pushing his trolley along the side of the road, avoiding the cobbles. Just like that, without a backward glance.

  She watches him in amazement. Is he just going to walk away? ‘Hey!’ she shouts.

  He stops, but doesn’t turn round.

  ‘Thanks!’ she shouts. ‘All right? I appreciated the help.’ He makes her feel guilty.

  He starts walking again, away from her.

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have needed the help!’ She feels better.

  A taxi drives up from the o
ther direction and stops at the gate.

  Chapter 3

  43 Westside Close,

  Blenheim Rd,

  Birmingham.

  19/5/04

  Dear Mr Straker,

  I was surprised to receive your letter out of the blue as it were. My poor Felicity (Fliss, as I liked to call her) has been dead for nearly 25 years and not a day goes by without me thinking of her. We was very close. There was a train crash. You might remember it was a London to Birmingham train. 78 dead but only one close to my heart.

  She was a lovely girl. I don’t know if someone like you in your profession as it were would remember seeing her photo in the Sun and the Mirror and the Evening Mail. Maybe they didn’t put her photo in The Times which you probably read. Anyway she was going to be the model for Parrot, I think they call it The Face, but they only had a few pictures from the photoshoot and they used them all for a bit then found another girl. You might remember her, Lucy Something and she was in all the pictures after Fliss. Black girl.

  Anyway, I expect you know Fliss (Felicity) and I lived apart, but she wrote to me all the time and we was like real mates. Her Mum (Rita) died of cancer and Fliss nursed her on her deathbed, like the good girl she was, but I’m her next of kin, there isn’t anyone else.

  Of course it grieves my heart to accept a legacy that was meant for my darling Fliss (Felicity) but I think she’d like it that way. We was very close. She told me about her American cousins lots of times.

  Anyway you can contact me at the address above.

  Yours Truly

  Jack Tilly

  78 = 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9 + 10 + 11 + 12. A beautiful number. As if Straker had planned it. Each one an individual, each number irreplaceable. You can’t take any one of them away, because forgetting would be as great a crime as killing.

  At first, they were only numbers. Nameless, anonymous, hammering through his mind, inanimate as nails, kept at bay with other numbers. Twelve years ago, they changed, or he changed. He kept dreaming about them, a crowd of strangers, a turmoil of spinning legs and arms, faces without features. He wanted to know their names, and then the numbers became a list. A silent roll-call that echoed through his mind all day and night. Two years ago, he changed again. He wanted to know who they were.

  He’s found plenty of excuses to contact them. He’s writing a book; he runs a firm that investigates unclaimed inheritance; he’s a journalist researching an article.

  Now when they come into his dreams, chattering, arguing, being ordinary, his mind becomes full of them all, bursting with their problems. They are rich and alive, their thoughts pouring out of them, frantic in their desire not to get lost. Sometimes he can’t cope. His brain isn’t big enough, his shoulders not broad enough. He wants to live their lives for them, carrying on where they left off. But he can’t do it. He hasn’t the strength or the ability.

  The voices stay with him long after he wakes up. He carries them round with him like a tape recorder that switches itself back on when he’s not looking, so their conversations echo through his mind at unexpected moments.

  Sangita: ‘Rob Willow was doing a concert in Birmingham. I had to go.’ Her voice is gentle, diffident.

  I have a photograph sent by her mother. Young and sweet, a darker, more demure version of Felicity, in a pink sari with a single gold chain round her neck. A long black plait. ‘Who was Rob Willow?’

  ‘Rob Willow? Who was he? You don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Well said, Straker.’

  ‘Thank you, Maggie.’

  Sangita: ‘Rob Willow was gorgeous, the most handsome man in the world.’

  ‘What did you want from him?’

  ‘Want?’ Her voice crumples, uncertain. ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to be near him.’

  So she didn’t know him. She was just a fan.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Her voice is shy, hesitant. ‘Does he still perform?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ I don’t read newspapers, watch the television, listen to the radio. How would I know if he’s still around?

  She’s crying, softly but desperately.

  ‘But he wasn’t real. He was just a distant figure you imagined you knew.’

  The weeping gets stronger, more desperate.

  ‘Shut up, Straker. You’re just making it worse.’

  Maggie, who, as always, knows the right thing to do.

  When he wakes, it’s with a painful jolt, as if he’s gone down a step that’s steeper than he expected. He lies, panicking, for a long time, his heart beating aggressively, Sangita’s face in front of his eyes. He doesn’t want to see her once he’s awake, but she’s so real that he finds himself looking for her in the curved walls of the lighthouse. Surely he can still see an echo of her pink sari, hidden behind the table, a flick of the fat black plait swinging out of sight up the stairs to the light room.

  He’s so exhausted he can’t move. He’s only pretending to be alive. All his energy is used up by the seventy-eight. And his investigations of the last two years take him back to a dangerous time. They’re opening up the scars, tearing through hidden tissues that were pretending to be healed.

  He should never have started. They were all safely stored away, wrapped up, concealed in a drawer. A mass of bodies, victims, a collective tragedy. Why had he let them out? But if he had left them there, he would never have known Maggie. There would be no one to argue with him, nag him, make him think.

  It was the poster that changed everything. He was going to Sainsbury’s one day, and there was Felicity on the advertising board outside the car park. Four times larger than life, tattered rags of material substituting for clothes, her eyes luminous and innocent. The multi-coloured parrot on her shoulder blended with the green and purple wisps of hair on her almost shaved head.

  ‘FELICITY TILLY,’ it said. ‘THE TRAGIC FASHION OF 1979.’

  The poster was advertising a television programme about changing fashions, but it was some time before that became clear. What he saw was Felicity Tilly, alive, looking directly at him, accusing him. He forgot the shopping. He abandoned his routines without being aware of it. He returned, over and over again, spending most of the week on the opposite pavement, staring at her, unable to reconcile her vitality, her aliveness, with his special knowledge about her death. He wanted to know her, understand who she had been, what she thought.

  When they replaced the poster with another about yoghurts, he was bereft.

  So it had started there. He opened up files for all of the seventy-eight and found he was hungry, starving, desperate to know them, speak to them, longing to bring them back to life.

  He keeps thinking about Miss Doody, the way everything is absorbed by her anger. It comes and goes, like a lightbulb. On, off, on. Does she do the switching consciously? Does she like it?

  He’s managed to avoid people for years. Why should she come along like that and force him to pay attention to her? She’s not one of the seventy-eight. There isn’t room in his mind for anyone else. So why has she begun to edge her way in?

  She frightens him. He needs to find a way of switching that light off, so he can eliminate her from his mind, go back to where he was, leave her as she was before he met her.

  On Sunday, the day after her accident, he should be working on his garden for the whole day. The carrots are coming through nicely, he needs to thin out the new lettuces, and there is plenty of weeding to do, but instead, he finds himself preparing to go into the village again. He stands in front of the only mirror in the keeper’s cottage and examines his Aran jumper and black trousers, although the mirror is small and he can’t see his face without bending his knees—which he seldom does.

  A strange plan is forming in his mind, but he can’t think about it too closely without a thread of panic worming its way into his stomach.

  He goes to the edge of the headland before leaving. The wind is fresher than yesterday. Foam touches the tips of the waves as they rac
e cheerfully towards him, leaping over each other, recklessly hurling themselves against the cliff. There’s so much energy here, the will to go on indefinitely. How easy it all looks, so inevitable and perpetual. Most things that are left alone for long enough will crumble and decay, like the lighthouse, so why is everything around him so alive, so furious? The wind, the sea, the grass, Imogen Doody?

  He turns away and fetches his bicycle. From a distance he can see two coaches stopping for the view, and he hesitates before mounting it. Will they see him and laugh? Will he appear in their photographs of Beckingham lighthouse as a dot, a smudge, an insignificant blur? The more he thinks about it, the less likely it seems that he would appear at all. A non-person lost in the landscape of sea and sky and lighthouse. Just as he would like it.

  When he reaches the pier again, there’s no sign of the boys who were fishing for crabs yesterday. The sailing people have come down to catch the rising tide, and he has to moor quickly to get out of the way. They launch themselves with dedication. People who don’t see him, who look past him because he doesn’t count. Their faces are brown and healthy from sailing and living. They wear life-jackets, yellow, blue, orange, and the wind whips through their hair as they rush to get their dinghies into the water. With every gust, the cord on the flag at the end of the pier cracks against its pole. There’s going to be a race. Two men are standing by the flagpole waiting to fire the starting gun. There’s a distant crack and Straker senses the panic of the last few boats to get launched.

  ‘Come on, Tara. Get in and I’ll shove off.’

  ‘What about Sam?’

  ‘Leave her. We can’t wait any longer. It’s just you and me.’

  Straker doesn’t look at them, just lets their voices wash past him like a current, until they are drops of water in the wind. When he first came here, it was mainly fishermen sailing out on the tide, returning hours later, their motors chugging tiredly and weakly. They were part of the pattern of the weather. Now they have been replaced by these confident, brightly coloured young people who appear to be having fun.