Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  She put the gnome on the table and talked to the dog. ‘There we are, sweetie. You settle down there opposite the nice man.’

  The poodle was a soft beige colour and appeared to have just had a perm. It sat on the seat facing Harry and stared at him. Its eyes were green and alert and interested. It put its head on one side, and Harry looked away. When he glanced back, the dog was still studying him with interest. The woman rummaged in her bag and produced a dried biscuit, which she put on the seat beside her. The dog snatched it with its teeth, and settled down, gnawing contentedly. It kept one eye on Harry as it ate.

  ‘There,’ said the woman to Harry, smiling cheerfully. ‘Just in time.’

  She’s talking to me, thought Harry, and looked away.

  ‘It was difficult to find a seat further up,’ she said comfortably, getting a plastic container out of her bag.

  The train started to move. Harry watched the station slide past, the backs of the people waiting on the other side of the platform, the piles of bags waiting for the Royal Mail train, the Coca-Cola adverts, the overflowing litter-bins.

  He became aware that a plastic container was under his nose. ‘Would you like one? Cheese and tomato.’

  He looked down at the sandwiches and shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  A cheese and tomato baguette, walking round Worcester when he was first married, having lunch with his new wife. They took a bite in turns, straight out of the paper wrapping, sharing their saliva, their germs. Polite at first with tiny nibbles, then more voraciously, taking huge bites, watching each other eat, laughing hilariously. Swans on the river, drizzle spotting the water, people huddled under huge multi-coloured umbrellas on their boat trips. Harry and his wife holding hands, dizzy with the sensation of pretending to be adults, experiencing a secret joy in the way they walked together through the rain, indifferent to the wet and cold.

  Harry rose abruptly, did up the buttons on his coat and set off down the train.

  ‘You’re going the wrong way for the buffet,’ she called after him, but he didn’t turn round.

  He walked as far as he could to the rear of the train and sank down on to an empty seat. The unoccupied seats around him were silent. The space soothed him, and he breathed more easily, watching his chest rise and fall. He was facing backwards, and it pleased him to see the passing world dropping away in front of him with no clue about what would appear and gradually disappear next. He wasn’t sure why he was on the train but he had a vague idea that it was heading north. He remembered counting the last fifty pounds in his wallet and deciding to leave London. He might feel better away from the city, in the countryside or by the sea. There wouldn’t be so many people ready to kick him off a park bench or throw him out of a shop entrance, waiting to rob him as soon as he shut his eyes. He thought he had probably been awake for about six weeks now, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up.

  He held his head upright and closed his eyes. Nobody to watch here, a comfortable rhythm from the train, nothing to worry about. Just a blank in his head. A space.

  He let go for the first time in weeks. He could feel his body grow heavy, sliding away from reality, into the lower levels of consciousness.

  ‘Harry!’

  He woke with a jolt, and looked up at the round face of Hassan.

  ‘Your shift. I’ve had enough.’

  Harry pulled his exhausted mind back to the present. His eyes were full of grit. He didn’t know how to open them.

  ‘You’ve got to do Mrs Grisham’s blood test again. The lab has lost it.’

  Harry forced himself out of bed in one quick movement and stood unsteadily, watching Hassan undress. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Four thirty.’

  ‘I’m not on till six. I’ve only just come to bed.’

  Hassan stopped taking his socks off and looked at Harry. ‘Sorry, forgot to say. Emergency. Multiple pile-up. At least ten seriously injured. They want everyone they can get.’ He gazed into space for a minute. ‘Except me. Johnson told me to get out of there before I killed someone.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think he likes me much. He wants you, Harry, old man. You’re more his style.’

  He sat silently for a second and then keeled over, fully dressed and fast asleep.

  Harry tried to dress, but nothing would go on right. His telephone rang. He tried to find it by the bed, but nothing seemed to be in the right place. He was grasping at the air, and the telephone stopped ringing.

  Harry! Get up, Harry, emergency! Harry!

  He woke with a start as the train lights flickered on. ‘The train will be calling at Birmingham International, Birmingham New Street…’

  Harry shook his head and put his hand straight into his inside pocket. OK. The wallet was still there. There was no one in sight, but he knew he had to keep watching. They might be behind him, waiting for the right moment, waiting for him to slide into sleep, the moment of surrender. They nearly got him then. He couldn’t afford to let it happen again.

  He thought of his wife. He didn’t remember a great deal about her, but he had a picture in his mind. Small, puzzling, sometimes silent when he thought she should speak. She was too compliant, and it had worried him after a while. ‘Don’t just agree with me,’ he’d said, over and over again. ‘Argue with me.’ But she had shaken her head, smiled and said nothing.

  ‘I’ll have to stay at the hospital when I’m on duty,’ he had said. ‘It’s too far to travel.’

  ‘You could work in Birmingham,’ she said, smiling again.

  ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. I’d still have to sleep there.’

  ‘Wherever you are,’ she said, ‘I am too.’

  He hadn’t really understood what she’d meant, but it had sounded good. ‘I suppose I could look for a job here,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, and made him a cup of tea. It bothered him that she always made the tea.

  ‘It’ll be better now I’m qualified,’ he’d said, putting an arm round her. She snuggled up to him, and he liked the way that they physically fitted together. It seemed right.

  He shouldn’t have done it. It was too much. The travelling. The tiny little bedsit where he left her, where he went home to. Damp seeping through under the front door, the dog barking in the flat below when he was just dropping off to sleep. The meals that she cooked to save money. Liver and bacon. Heart stew. Sago pudding, lemon-curd tarts. She wasn’t very good at it. She read the cookery books and followed the instructions precisely. Upset tummies, getting out of bed in the middle of the night with diarrhoea.

  ‘You must go to the doctor,’ she said.

  ‘I am a doctor.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You shouldn’t get upset tummies like this. I don’t.’

  Not enough sleep. Getting up to go to the toilet. Only two days at home and then back to the hospital.

  ‘We’ll buy our own place soon,’ he’d said. ‘When we’ve saved for the deposit.’ London was so expensive. ‘It’ll be better then.’

  ‘It’s all right now,’ she said. And she had smiled. The smile that had gone through him when he’d first met her at a party. It had been a smile that had told him all about her, right from the beginning.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ he had said, feeling big and clumsy.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ she said. ‘I’m Imogen.’

  ‘Harry!’ said his mother. ‘She’s only eighteen. She works in Asda, for goodness’ sake. Stocking shelves.’

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘She’s on the tills.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said his mother. ‘She’s not suitable.’

  Harry grinned. ‘She doesn’t have to be suitable. I love her.’ And he did. He loved her big sad eyes, her dyed blonde hair. The way she spread and rippled her fingers when she didn’t want to finish her sentences. ‘Anyway, she’s highly intelligent.’

  ‘Then why is she working in Asda?’

  ‘It gives her time to think. She’s had a tragic life.’

  ‘Wait
two years,’ said his mother. ‘Then decide.’

  He caught himself just as his head started to nod. Careful, Harry, he thought. Don’t look backwards. Concentrate on where you’re going. He felt in his pocket. The wallet was still there. There was nothing in it except the money. He’d got rid of all identification right at the beginning. He couldn’t afford to be traced.

  It was getting dark outside.

  Chapter 14

  It’s dark by the time Doody finishes mowing the playing-field, and she’s still shovelling wet grass on to the compost heap at the back of the school when it starts to rain. She is not obliged to cut the grass, it’s not in her contract, but the council parks department is unreliable, so she does it in exchange for fruit and vegetables out of Doris Hollyhead’s garden. The sharp, damp smell rises aggressively from the compost heap, making her sneeze, and her hands ache with the cold. So much for summer.

  The phone is ringing as she enters the house. She picks it up, smearing the receiver with grass stains. ‘All right, all right,’ she says. ‘It’s done now, Philip. Wait until it’s light tomorrow and you’ll see the lines are straighter than usual. One of my better attempts, I think—despite the appalling weather conditions.’

  ‘Imogen?’

  ‘Oh, Jonathan.’ She feels self-righteous, and wants some appreciation. ‘I’ve just cut the grass.’

  He doesn’t reply immediately, and she understands the delay. It takes him time to adjust to the practical events in life that don’t involve money. ‘Well done,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t be so patronising.’

  ‘All I said was, very good.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You said, “Well done.” ’

  ‘So, what’s the difference?’

  There probably isn’t a difference. They sound equally patronising when Jonathan says them. ‘What’s on tonight, Jonathan?’

  ‘On? What do you mean?’

  She’s not fooled. She can hear television voices in the background, cutting off abruptly when he zaps them with the remote control. ‘Are they demonstrating spinach and dandelion salad? Pasta with walnut sauce? Ciabatta bread? Who’s coming to cook with you tonight?’

  ‘Imogen, what do you want?’

  ‘You phoned me, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He’d forgotten, and a bubble of pleasure leaps up inside her. She loves to witness Jonathan’s weaknesses. It almost makes her feel warm and protective towards him.

  ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I expect you’d like to know about the roof.’

  There’s a silence. ‘Oh,’ he says, just as she’s thinking about replacing the receiver. ‘Yes, the roof. The offer’s still open, you know. I could lend you some money for a bit if you’re desperate.’

  There. His original generosity has already devalued itself. Doody congratulates herself on having read the situation correctly. Too many ex-wives to cater for. ‘Veronica and Gill will be relieved.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s OK. The roof’s taken care of. Thanks all the same.’

  ‘Oh. Good.’ She can see him lying there on the settee, his eyes on the walnut sauce, his mouth watering, wandering down the aisles of Sainsbury’s in his mind, looking for dandelion leaves, sun-dried tomatoes, or tomatoes on the vine, whichever sounds more expensive to him.

  ‘I’ve got dandelion leaves in my garden. Hundreds of them if you want to come and pick them.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘You know Oliver d’Arby? Do you reckon he had other things to leave? That he left them to someone else?’

  ‘I think you were the only beneficiary…’ He pauses for three seconds. She counts them. Got you, she thought. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You opened my letter, didn’t you? It came to you first.’

  ‘It was addressed to you, not me.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you opening it, though, did it?’

  ‘Imogen!’ His voice goes up a perfect fifth. He’s stopped thinking about sun-dried tomatoes. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting—’

  ‘No, Jonathan, of course not. But did you know there were tenants in the cottage after he disappeared? What happened to their rent?’

  ‘Really? That’s interesting. Do you want me to find out?’ She knows that he will think only men could do important things like write to solicitors.

  ‘Yes, please, Jonathan. Could I leave that to you? I’d be really grateful.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  He doesn’t ask for the name of the solicitor. Exactly as she suspected. Further proof of his guilt. ‘Sackville, Sackville and Waterman. Nice man.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The solicitors. You’ll need to know who they are.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Must go now. Haven’t eaten all day.’ Not true. But she doesn’t want to give him the impression that she’s anxious about money. If he isn’t offering, she isn’t asking.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later.’ He’s already turned the sound up again on the television. He’ll enjoy writing to the solicitor.

  ‘ ’Bye, then.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Maybe the solicitors have used the money on legal expenses.’

  He would think of that. She puts the phone down. It’s the right time for Mr Hollyhead to phone and thank her. He and Doris the Lion Tamer should have just finished watching Peak Practice.

  The phone rings almost immediately. She picks it up. ‘Philip! I thought you’d never ring.’

  ‘Imogen, it’s Jonathan. I know why I phoned.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you phone Mother some time? She’s complaining that you never speak to her.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, and cuts him off. Why was it always her fault? Why shouldn’t her mother contact her directly, instead of through Jonathan?

  She dreams that Harry comes back. He flies over the cottage and lands on the road outside. She runs out of the front door, down the path and flings open the gate. ‘Harry!’ she cries.

  He is climbing out of the aeroplane, unzipping his leather jacket, grinning like he did when she first knew him. ‘Imogen!’ he calls and opens his arms for her. ‘Know any good jokes?’

  She hesitates, struggling to think.

  Why did the chicken—

  There was an Irishman, an Englishman, a Welshman—

  What do you get if you cross a kangaroo with—

  A noise behind her makes her turn round and Straker is there, his eyes blue and intense. He is holding two tiles from the roof, offering them to her, almost smiling.

  As she wakes, she turns back to Harry and he is fading, thinning out. She can look straight through him to the other side of the road.

  ‘No,’ she cries.

  Once she is properly awake she gets out of bed and goes straight to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee, which she drinks before it cools down. It burns the roof of her mouth.

  Occasionally, in a tiny corner of her mind, she unearths an unwelcome desire, a painful longing that Harry will turn up one day. She’ll answer the door and there he’ll be. ‘Hi, Imogen,’ he’ll say. ‘Shall we have another go?’ And she knows —although her logical mind resists the thought—that she’ll say yes. That she’ll leap straight into his arms and rediscover happiness.

  Most of the time, she locks up that part of her mind with a large, expensive padlock. She hates to dream about him. Why would she want him back? He taught her all about disloyalty and abandonment. Because of him, she has had to learn about the comfort of anger, how to be self-sufficient, how to survive. What more could he possibly offer her?

  When Doody returns to the cottage, she sees immediately that Straker has visited. The roof looks different. She walks round, examining it, unable to work out which are the new tiles and which the old. They’re all equally weathered, but there are no visible holes. A shaft of victory pierces her. The cottage is safe: it can dry out and it’s hers.

  She goes indoors and upstairs, resolving to clear a be
droom and make it habitable so that she won’t have to sleep on cushions every time she comes. She’s brought a screwdriver and an old knife, with the intention of opening a window before she does anything else. She scrapes away at the painted catches, pushing and shoving until it suddenly, happily, swings open, and she is left hanging over the windowsill, breathless with pleasure.

  With the fresh air, a change enters the room. As if the dust and stagnation of the last few years have given up, stopped resisting and allowed the present to reassert itself. The room no longer belongs to someone else. The air is chilly and damp after early-morning rain, but she doesn’t mind and stands looking out. The lighthouse is visible from here.

  Will he come back?

  She has brought dusters and brooms. Cleaning is an art that she has only slowly come to appreciate.

  When Imogen was first married, and Harry was away working, she would clean one room of their tiny flat every day. Sometimes he would be on call for eight days in succession, and when he came home, each room had been cleaned twice. She didn’t know how often it should be done, how other people organised these things. Nobody had ever told her. Her mother stopped cleaning after Celia died, and she couldn’t remember what it had been like before, when her father was still alive. Maybe her mother didn’t clean then either. Imogen has a vague memory of a cleaning lady called Miss O’Malley, who kept going outside to smoke. The smell drifted round the garden and reached Imogen in the yew tree. She remembers the cigarettes more than she remembers Miss O’Malley.

  She didn’t think about cleaning as she grew up, until she became conscious of sticky surfaces on the kitchen work tops, and the fact that she had to do some washing-up if she wanted a clean plate. She was preparing her own meals then—baked beans on toast, egg on toast, pilchards on toast. She didn’t know when her mother ate, or Jonathan, because they were seldom in the house at the same time as her. Or if they were, they were in the lounge in front of the television, silently absorbing Starsky and Hutch or Monty Python. They never laughed. That was the puzzling thing about them. They sat in silence, Mother on the sofa and Jonathan on the rocking-chair, staring at the screen as if it were their source of nourishment. As if it would solve all their problems.