Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  How would he get to the station? How would he know where to get off the train? What if Simon Taverner is not in?

  What does Maggie want him to say?

  The silence wraps itself round him—no other living person exists for hundreds of miles. He’s protected from the real world by this cushion of nothingness, and has no desire to cut it away. The voices of the victims have never disturbed that comforting blanket. They have just crept in underneath and reinforced the remoteness of everything else.

  He misses them.

  He goes to the cottage early next Saturday, determined to face her, convinced she will tell him to leave.

  She needs him to help her work on the cottage. She has no choice.

  She’s not rational. She won’t even consider his usefulness.

  He goes to Sainsbury’s on his way, and buys some food, which he leaves on the front doorstep. He goes round to the back.

  He works for about half an hour.

  ‘Straker! Where are you?’

  He puts down the tools and walks round to the front, where he finds her standing with her hands on her hips. Her loose silky top is bright pink and covered with blue elephants. Her hair is hanging down on her shoulders and looks freshly washed. The ends almost fall into curls, rather than the uneven chunks he remembers.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He can’t reply.

  ‘Well, I never thought I’d see you again.’

  He watches her. She’s not as furious as he expected. She’s trying to be, but her words lack the searing heat that he remembers from their first meeting.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ she asks, pushing her chin forward, challenging him with her eyes.

  ‘You are completely safe with me,’ he says, trying to sound calm and steady.

  ‘How can I be sure you’re not going to murder me?’

  ‘I don’t murder people.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘Not counting the first seventy-eight, you mean?’

  There is no answer to this.

  She picks up the two Sainsbury’s bags and holds them out from her body as if they are contaminated. ‘What’s in here?’

  Isn’t it obvious?

  ‘Did you bring them?’

  He nods, not sure what she’s annoyed about.

  ‘Charity now, is it?’

  He stares at her.

  ‘Or do you think you own me?’

  He turns away and walks round to the back windows. She follows, but he ignores her and continues rubbing down the woodwork.

  ‘Look, Straker,’ she says, and her voice is more friendly, ‘I’m sure you mean well, but I can afford to feed myself. I’m not entirely destitute. Unlike you, I have a job. Do I look as if I’m starving?’

  No, she doesn’t look as if she’s starving.

  ‘You probably think you’re being kind, but I don’t want to know about kindness. I don’t believe in it. You don’t have to help me with the cottage if you don’t want to. Only if you’re interested, and if you are, I’ll feed you. Get it?’

  He nods, because she seems to be expecting him to. ‘I’ll take the bags away, then,’ he says.

  But, oddly, she doesn’t seem happy with that either. ‘Not much point now, is there? We might as well eat it as it’s here.’

  She contradicts herself at every turn, so everything he does is wrong, and can’t be undone. It’s good food. Not chocolate or biscuits, but fruit juice, muesli, wholemeal bread, butter, cold meat, oranges, apples, peaches, grapes. He’d thought she would be pleased.

  ‘You must do something about the electricity,’ he says, when they stop to eat. ‘Everything would be much easier if we could use a drill.’

  ‘You can buy cordless drills.’

  ‘They’re expensive.’

  He decides not to offer to buy one. ‘And you need a fridge.’

  She’s quiet for a while. ‘I phoned Jonathan last night,’ she says.

  She’s mentioned Jonathan before. Who is he? Is that what all the fuss about Maggie and wives was about? Is he going to turn up later today and want to know what Straker’s doing here?

  ‘My brother,’ she says. ‘He’s an awful pain, but he’ll know what to do to get the electricity on.’ She pauses. ‘He wants to look at the plane.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Jonathan knows about everything. He used to read fact-finders when he was little, and he hasn’t changed. Facts, figures, money. Oh, and he watches television a lot. He likes the food programmes.’

  Straker feels uncomfortable about all this. ‘I’ll go before he comes, then.’

  She is surprised. ‘Why? He won’t mind you.’

  How does she know her brother won’t react like the boys at school? They only had to see him to decide that there was something wrong with him. ‘Watch it, Butler,’ they would say, and kick him as they passed, just for being there. Is Jonathan going to be any different? He will probably object to Straker in the same way as they did. Just because he’s here.

  ‘You might like him,’ she says. ‘He’s odd too.’

  She has to meet Jonathan by the gate leading to the barn at two o’clock. ‘We need to be on time,’ she says. ‘He will be.’

  ‘Where’s he coming from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘He can’t be that precise with the time, then.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he can. You don’t know Jonathan.’

  Straker doesn’t want to stay, but Doody insists that he waits with her. ‘He won’t be late,’ she says.

  At exactly two o’clock, a silver Audi TT drives up the road, and pulls in beside them. A tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a grey pin-striped suit and a white shirt, steps out and stands uncertainly on the grass verge. His tie has red and orange zigzags down it, bright and cheerful against his sober suit. He is out of place here, a man of the city, who never comes into contact with grass except when he pays the gardener.

  ‘Imogen,’ he says, as if he had not really been expecting to see her. ‘You’re on time.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. They make no physical contact. No acknowledgement that they are connected except for the use of each other’s name.

  He eyes the pathway. ‘Is that where we have to go?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry about the weeds.’

  ‘Never mind the weeds. Is it muddy?’ He looks down at his shoes which are black and shiny, obviously very expensive. Everything about him indicates wealth.

  ‘No. Not very, anyway. When did it last rain?’ she says, turning to Straker.

  He shrugs. He doesn’t feel that he belongs in this conversation. Jonathan hasn’t noticed him, and doesn’t even make an acknowledgement when Doody talks to him. He is invisible. That’s fine with him.

  The sight of Jonathan negotiating the gate promises an interesting spectacle, but he manages to climb over with some elegance. They walk up the path, Doody and Jonathan in front and Straker behind.

  ‘Will you be back in time for the dinner party?’ says Doody. ‘Who’s folding the napkins?’

  Jonathan doesn’t reply. He doesn’t say anything else until they open the barn and he steps in. ‘Well,’ he says, after a while, and there is excitement in his voice, ‘what a wonderful thing.’ He sounds genuinely impressed.

  Straker waits outside and listens, keeping his eyes away from the aeroplane. His hands are shaking, and he puts them into his pockets. He hears himself talking to someone: ‘It’s a Piper Warrior.’

  Jonathan and Doody come out of the barn, and walk over to where Straker is standing.

  ‘I know a few people who would be most interested in this,’ says Jonathan.

  ‘I don’t know if I want several people to be interested,’ says Doody. ‘It’s my plane, not yours.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says. ‘This is too important a find to hide away. It could be worth a fortune.’

  ‘But is it definitely mine?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says, taking a letter out of his pocket. ‘The solicitors have confirmed it. D
on’t know why they didn’t mention it in the first place. After I phoned them, they had to do some research of their own. But it’s definitely yours. He left you everything.’

  ‘Nice to know they write to tell you and not me.’

  ‘Piers Sackville has written to you as well. The letter’s probably at your home address.’

  ‘Piers, eh? You’re good friends, then.’

  Jonathan doesn’t reply.

  Doody grins at Straker. ‘Don’t you wish you had a secret benefactor?’ she says.

  Straker thinks of his father, knowing how it feels to have someone give him money. He’s not sure if it’s such a good thing.

  They stand together in an uncomfortable group, uncertain what to say to each other. Jonathan walks out and examines the overgrown field. ‘Pretty good,’ he says. ‘You own this field and the one on the left as you come up the path. Prime land. You could sell it to the adjoining farms, or for building. They could make quite a nice little housing estate here.’

  Straker nods in agreement. Sell it all. Forget it. He examines Jonathan thoughtfully. Has Doody described him too harshly? He’s more sensible than he appears.

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to sell it. Why shouldn’t I keep the plane and use it myself?’

  Jonathan looks appalled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘I could work it out.’

  ‘Imogen, I have known you all my life. You are not a mechanical person.’

  ‘Maybe not, but Straker is.’

  Jonathan finally turns to him. His eyes are pale green and lacking in any real curiosity. ‘Who exactly are you?’

  Straker doesn’t know where to begin.

  ‘He’s a friend of mine,’ says Doody. ‘He knows all about aeroplanes. He’s a pilot.’

  Straker wants to deny this. It’s none of their business. But he can’t open his mouth properly.

  Jonathan shows some interest. ‘Commercial, RAF or private?’

  ‘Private,’ says Straker after a pause.

  Jonathan looks at him as if he’s spoken in a foreign language. Then he turns back to Doody. ‘I must be off,’ he says.

  ‘Have you tried making fruit cake yet? I have a good recipe. Delia Smith.’

  ‘I’ll have a chat with some of my friends about the plane. I’ll let you know.’

  ‘It takes a long time to cook, but it has a lovely sticky centre.’

  He walks away from them, back to his car, starts it up and drives away.

  The field is very peaceful in the afternoon sunshine. Everything is still, even Doody, for a while.

  ‘Housing estate,’ says Doody, with contempt.

  ‘It’s not a bad idea,’ says Straker.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, and turns back to the barn.

  Straker doesn’t follow her. He sets off down the road.

  ‘Straker!’ she yells. ‘Where are you going now?’

  Chapter 18

  Doody has tried to visualise seventy-eight people. In the three weeks since Straker told her about the crash, she’s watched the children from the upstairs window of her caretaker’s house, counting them, working out what a group of seventy-eight people looks like. She thinks about the relatives, how their husbands, children, parents never came home. At least they had an explanation. Surely it’s better to know what has happened, even if the news is not what you want to hear. Would they have preferred to have uncertainty, so they could find comfort in hope? But hope is hollow. The missing person still doesn’t come back.

  Tony, Jonathan’s associate—that’s how Jonathan describes him, because he never admits to having friends, despite his dinner parties—comes to see the plane two weeks later. He’s tall and gangly, like a teenager. He moves as if he’s expecting to encounter awkward angles everywhere, sharp corners to catch on, holes to fall down.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, as they meet by the gate. He has long red-blond hair that flops across his forehead when he leans forward. Doody was expecting an expert to look older, somehow complementing the age of the aeroplane. She was expecting Biggles and she gets Ginger.

  ‘Come on, Imogen,’ says Jonathan. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  Rubbish, she thinks. You’ve got all the time in the world if it involves money. And you must have all day, since you’ve just driven down from London.

  ‘After you,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to climb over the gate.’

  Tony looks at her nervously. ‘OK,’ he says, and climbs on to the first bar. He hesitates, as if unwilling to go too high, then rises to the next bar. He has some difficulty in deciding which leg to put over first. He eventually settles on the left, turning himself sideways to do it, and nearly loses his balance. He saves himself just in time, swings one leg over, then the next, and misses his footing on the other side. He nearly falls, but just manages to keep himself upright. ‘Oops,’ he says.

  Doody goes next, resenting the fact that she likes Tony. They don’t wait for Jonathan as they walk up the path between the crushed weeds.

  ‘This could be a very important find,’ says Tony. He’s walking slowly, but obviously itching to get there, only just managing to control his excitement. Jonathan treads delicately behind them, worrying about the mud.

  ‘You could be wasting your time,’ she says to Tony.

  ‘I don’t mind. Great to get out into the country. Makes it easier to go back to the office on Monday morning.’

  What office? she wonders. An office full of people who know about First World War aircraft, an office in an antiques shop, or an office in a museum? ‘How do you know Jonathan?’

  ‘We’re work colleagues,’ he says, with surprise. ‘Didn’t he tell you? Money men.’

  Doody is both disappointed and amazed. He bears no resemblance to Jonathan. He doesn’t behave as if he inhabits the same world.

  She unlocks the door of the barn, and they stand for a moment, admiring the front of the aeroplane. It seems smaller than before, only a few feet taller than Jonathan. The wings are black on top, red underneath, stretching out into the darkness of the barn, held in a twenty-five-year pose, ready for take-off.

  ‘A Tiger Moth,’ says Tony, in a delighted tone.

  So it’s not even a First World War plane. Doody feels cheated. ‘When would it have been built?’

  ‘First produced 1931. They used them for training pilots all through the Second World War. Instructor in the back, pupil in the front, so he felt as if he was on his own.’

  Tony starts to walk round it, stopping every now and then to examine something, a wheel, a wire hanging loose. He runs his fingers along the fuselage and the wings, feeling for tears in the fabric. He pulls himself up to the cockpit and fiddles with switches, muttering to himself. After a while, he starts humming. ‘Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines.’

  He climbs back to the floor, pulls down the engine cover and pokes around inside. ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Amazingly good condition. I’d have expected far more deterioration than this. It’s moisture that destroys them. The atmosphere must have been unusually dry.’

  ‘There are good tiles on the roof.’

  They look up and see the sails covering the holes, recently put up by Straker. ‘That’s only just happened,’ says Doody. ‘It was perfect up until a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘I suspect the aeroplane was renovated just before it was shut away. That would give some explanation for its good state of preservation.’

  ‘We couldn’t make it work,’ says Doody.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect it to,’ he says, his voice muffled as he bends over. ‘The fuel would have evaporated years ago.’ He reaches in and rattles something.

  Jonathan says nothing. He probably resents experts. They make him feel inadequate.

  Tony climbs down, catching his hair in one of the struts. ‘Ouch,’ he says, and disentangles himself. There’s a pink flush on his cheeks. ‘I think you may have something here,’ he says. ‘Of course, it’ll be very expensive to restore
, but well worth it.’

  ‘So it’s valuable?’ says Jonathan.

  ‘Oh, yes, worth quite a lot, I’d say. There are probably only about fifty left in the world. They chopped most of them up after the war and sold the rest off for twenty-five pounds each. Not a bad bargain.’

  It’s still special, even if it’s not a Camel.

  ‘I’d like to bring a couple of friends to see it,’ says Tony.

  ‘Why not?’ says Doody. ‘Invite the world. Might as well. What have we got to lose?’

  Tony looks at her, and then at Jonathan, slightly perplexed. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ says Jonathan. ‘It’s in good condition, then?’

  ‘Remarkably intact, as far as I can see.’

  ‘But the rubber on the tyres has perished,’ says Doody. ‘Everything falls apart when you touch it.’

  ‘Small things,’ says Tony. ‘You’d expect that. It’ll need a lot of work, of course.’

  ‘Could you do it?’ asks Jonathan.

  Tony grins and shakes his head. ‘No way. It would take years, even with other people helping. Regulations are very tight. If you want a certificate of airworthiness, you need the experts. Your best bet would be a restoration company.’

  ‘But how much would that cost?’ asks Doody.

  ‘A huge amount, I’m afraid. Thousands.’

  She feels stupid and defeated as her dreams of restoring and flying it drain away. ‘So what should I do with it?’

  ‘Sell it. It’s still worth a small fortune as it is.’

  ‘I don’t want to sell it.’

  ‘Let’s consult your experts,’ says Jonathan. ‘See what they say.’

  They stand for some time, looking at the aeroplane. It peers out of the shed comfortably, weak and vulnerable in its present condition, and somehow innocent. When it was built, nobody knew about nuclear bombs. Hiroshima was just a city in Japan, the journey to Australia took weeks in a boat, there was no such thing as a Boeing 747, the word ‘hijack’ was non-existent.

  Eventually, they close the barn doors, replace the padlock and walk back down the pathway. Doody is next to Jonathan this time.