Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  ‘You know Oliver d’Arby?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I never met him.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He frowns. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He disappeared, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who made the decision that he was dead, so that I could inherit the cottage?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know how these things work.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Mother said you sorted it out.’

  ‘Did she?’

  She waits for more, but he’s silent. She wants to shout at him, but she’s aware of Tony just behind. They climb over the gate, and this time Tony rips his trousers on a splinter.

  ‘Ouch,’ he says.

  Doody prises the fabric away from the wood with her fingers. ‘It doesn’t look too bad. I’m sure it could be mended.’

  He smiles at her. A good, easy smile. ‘My wife is used to it. All my clothes are covered in little patches, masterfully disguised by her needle and thread.’ Doody smiles back. He’s a likeable man.

  ‘Come back any time,’ she says to him, as they hover by his car. ‘Bring your friends.’ Did she really say that? She’s not interested in other people’s friends.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says out of his window, as he drives off.

  Jonathan hovers by his car. ‘Do you want a lift?’

  ‘No, thanks, I prefer to walk. It keeps me fit.’

  ‘Let’s find out how much it costs to restore it.’

  ‘I won’t be able to afford it.’

  ‘No, but I might.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve got nothing else to spend my money on. Maybe I could learn to fly.’

  ‘What about the ex-wives?’

  He looks almost cheerful. ‘No problem. We’ve made arrangements.’

  ‘Well, that’s news to me.’

  ‘We all move on, Imogen. We’re grown-up people.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  He pauses. ‘Anyway, I think I could afford it.’

  Doody feels irrationally resentful. ‘Then it wouldn’t be my aeroplane.’

  ‘We’d be equal partners.’

  Why is he interested? This is Jonathan standing here, her brother, the man with no feelings. Is it possible that some previously unknown part of him has woken up, seen the romance of the Tiger Moth, stirred him into making a genuine commitment?

  ‘Maybe even you couldn’t afford it.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he says.

  He doesn’t seem to want to go. ‘When do you have to be back at school?’

  ‘Tonight,’ she says. ‘I have to be there for Monday morning.’

  ‘Do you have a spare key to the barn?’

  She nods, unwillingly.

  ‘Could you lend it to me? In case I have to be here to show the experts?’

  Reluctantly, she hands him the key. ‘What if I want to be here?’

  ‘Would you be able to come during the week?’

  ‘Some of us have to work.’

  ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘I asked the solicitors about the rent.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There isn’t any. They think those people must have been squatters.’

  Doody sighs. Can she trust the combination of Jonathan and someone who works for Sackville, Sackville and Waterman? ‘Funny kind of squatters,’ she says. ‘Aren’t they meant to be young and revolutionary? I don’t think we could quite put the Macklethorpes into that category.’

  ‘Who?’ he says, and looks past her. She can see he’s not listening. ‘I only wanted you to have what was rightfully yours,’ he says. ‘That’s all I did, try to help you.’

  So he had interfered. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  He shifts uncomfortably on the muddy grass. Despite his best efforts, his shoes are not maintaining their normal immaculate state. ‘I was sorting out papers for Mother,’ he says, ‘and I came across a letter from Oliver d’Arby about the will. I just thought it would be worth enquiring. I only wanted to help.’

  ‘Why? I’m all right, aren’t I? I can help myself.’

  ‘I know that. I just thought any money or property would be useful to you. So you don’t have to be tied to a dead-end job if you don’t want to be.’

  ‘A dead-end job? Is that what you think?’

  He sighs. ‘Look, Imogen. You’re my sister, and I’d like you to be happy. All right? I thought that if some property was rightfully yours, you should have it. What you do with it is entirely your decision. All I did was make it possible for you.’

  She stares at him, not knowing what to say. ‘So what if I am your sister? I can manage my own affairs.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, and gets into the car. ‘See you,’ he says, as he turns on the engine. He waves out of the open window as he drives off.

  Doody doesn’t understand. Why would he try to help her? He must have a motive, but she can’t work out what it is.

  As soon as the term ends, Doody drives down to the cottage and races up to the barn without even stopping to see if Straker has done more work on the cottage windows. The hedges lining the pathway to the field have been cut back, presumably to allow access for a lorry. The gate opens properly now, so there’s no longer any need to climb over it.

  The barn doors are closed, but not padlocked. She doesn’t have to pull the door open very far. The Tiger Moth has gone.

  Doody stands in the field, her arms crossed, angry and disappointed. Jonathan making all the decisions again. It’s her field, her gate, her aeroplane, and someone takes it away without telling her. She wants to phone Jonathan immediately and tell him to put everything back as it was. But she knows he won’t listen. He’s probably already having flying lessons. He won’t be any good. He’s not a practical man. He only pretends to build his own kitchen.

  As she walks back down the narrow road to her cottage, she passes two women who look vaguely familiar.

  ‘Good morning,’ says one, and Doody recognises Mrs Whittaker. She half smiles at her and tries to pass without stopping, but Mrs Whittaker wants to talk. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job on the cottage,’ she says, laying a hand on Doody’s arm.

  Doody wants to push it away, but makes herself smile, stretching her lips outwards, just refraining from baring her teeth. A car drives past too fast, and they all step back together.

  Mrs Whittaker brings her face closer and looks into Doody’s eyes. ‘Nice to see you’re getting on with Mr Straker,’ she says.

  Doody removes Mrs Whittaker’s hand and glares at her. ‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘He’s just useful. I pay him.’ She turns away. ‘By the way,’ she says, over her shoulder, ‘he talks to me all the time.’

  Straker appears later in the day, and they start to paint adjacent window-frames. She’s quicker than him, but he’s neater.

  ‘They’ve taken the plane.’

  ‘Good,’ he says.

  ‘Am I right in assuming you don’t want it to be restored?’

  He doesn’t answer, but she notices that he is speeding up, making mistakes and breathing more heavily.

  ‘You missed a bit,’ she says, pointing. ‘It’ll take a few weeks before they bring it back.’

  He stops. ‘They’re bringing it back?’

  She grins, knowing he’s annoyed. ‘Jonathan’s paying.’

  He goes back to the painting, slow again, controlled.

  ‘How can you be so sure the crash was your fault?’ she says, after a while.

  ‘I just know.’

  ‘Very convincing. You just know.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. His manner is odd—even odder than usual. He’s hiding something. He’s not telling her the whole story.

  ‘You’ve got paint on your beard.’ Although he hasn’t. She just wants to irritate him.

  She throws him a rag and he wipes the beard, but can’t find any paint. He looks puzzled, standing back from the window and touching his beard nervously with his fingert
ips. He’s wearing a white shirt and grey trousers, old and threadbare, but immaculately ironed. His forehead creases into a frown as he gives his beard one last examination; then he picks up his paintbrush again.

  ‘Maybe at the last moment someone else took over the controls, or there was some kind of mechanical failure. Or it was just bad luck, the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘No. I caused the crash. It was my responsibility.’

  ‘But you can’t remember. That’s what you said. Were there any witnesses?’

  ‘Yes, but nobody could work out exactly what happened. Lots of different stories, no evidence.’

  They say nothing for a while and continue to paint. It’s becoming clear that although the little panels in the window look picturesque, they’re a lot of trouble. It might be worth changing them when they do the windows at the front. Never mind period detail. She wants to be able to see through them, let in lots of light. That’s all that matters.

  ‘I can’t see how you can really know.’

  ‘The voices in my dreams. They’re there all the time, telling me.’

  ‘About these voices. Are they supposed to be ghosts?’

  He thinks for a bit. ‘No. I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ So there’s one good thing. ‘But they have conversations with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He probably doesn’t want to pursue this, but Doody thinks they should. ‘Are they real voices? That you can hear? Like mine now?’

  ‘It’s only in my dreams,’ he says. ‘Not during the day.’

  ‘Not schizophrenic, then?’

  ‘No. Just nightmares.’

  ‘But you believe them?’

  ‘They’re very persuasive.’

  ‘Like Maggie? She’s like a real person to you?’

  He hesitates. ‘Maggie won’t let me forget. She makes me face up to it.’

  ‘But she’s dead.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They go on painting. Doody tries to make sense of it, but can’t. ‘Why do you write to all their relatives, keep files? What’s it for?’

  ‘I have to keep them alive. I can’t let them disappear or be forgotten. It’s important that I see them all as if they’re still here, that there’s someone to hold on to them in case everyone else walks on past.’ His voice is low but urgent, rushing through the information compulsively. ‘People do that—after five years, ten years, they move on. They might marry someone else, have another child, grow old without them, so I want to hold all those people in my head to stop that happening.’

  He’s taking on too much. ‘You can’t do it,’ she says. ‘You can’t carry seventy-eight people round with you. It’ll make you mad.’

  ‘Perhaps I am mad,’ he says.

  It’s a distinct possibility. ‘It doesn’t make them alive again, though, does it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s not as if you meant to kill them all.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you are. It wasn’t premeditated murder.’

  ‘It might have been.’

  ‘More like carelessness, I’d have thought. There’s a world of difference between Hitler, who meant to kill all those Jews, and…’ She tries to think of another accident, but can’t. Aberfan, Titanic, Herald of Free Enterprise…They seem a little extreme, since hundreds of people died, and they’ve become historical landmarks.

  ‘How come so many died?’ she says instead. ‘It’s not usually that many in a train crash.’

  ‘Fire,’ he says harshly. ‘It engulfed two carriages of the train. They couldn’t identify some of the bodies because they were so badly burned.’

  Doody tries not to see the blackened, wrecked train and the unrecognisable victims. They paint in silence for a long time and the tension of the conversation begins to dissipate. There’s a faint rustle in the lilac tree, a car passing in the distance, voices of children calling to each other in a faraway garden. Doody likes this awareness of things going on, the feeling of someone beside her working. She can hear the swish of his paintbrush, the slurp as he puts more paint on it, the creak of his knees as he bends to do the lower level. She can hear him breathing, moving to one side, the ease of his presence. She remembers the first day when he invaded her garden, the sharing of silence with someone else. It’s the same again, but more comfortable. The rhythm of sounds around them, the soothing nature of being together without speaking.

  On the first day when Harry didn’t come home, Imogen wasn’t worried. Sometimes he would turn up and she’d forget he was coming. She’d be cleaning, wiping all the skirting-boards, which didn’t need doing, and he’d be standing there, watching her, when she turned round, scaring her to death. Then they would hug, and she would take his coat off, get him to sit down while she made him a cup of coffee. She’d go into the kitchen and worry about what to cook for him, bring down all the recipe books, check what tins she had and what was in the fridge. By the time she’d worked it all out, and produced the coffee, he would be sprawled out on the sofa, his mouth open, snoring away.

  That was all he ever did in the end. Sleep.

  Sometimes she stood over his inert body and allowed herself to be angry. She’d waited all that time for him to come home. What had happened to their life together? The conversations, the fun? It wasn’t all her fault, surely?

  At first, she thought she’d made a mistake. On the second day, she started to worry, and went through his papers to see if he had a timetable, a list of days on and off. He’d never shown her anything written down. He used to just tell her, ‘Back on Thursday late’ ‘I’ve got three days at home’ ‘Don’t bother with dinner. I have to leave by five o’clock.’

  After three days, Imogen summoned the courage to phone the hospital and spoke to a receptionist. ‘You want Dr Doody?’

  ‘Yes, Harry Doody.’

  ‘Hold the line.’

  She waited until she was cut off.

  After two hours, she tried again, her hands shaking so badly that she had to keep redialling. ‘Please, I need to speak to Dr Harry Doody.’

  ‘Hold the line.’

  ‘Please can you be quick? I got cut off last time.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ She could hear the receptionist’s irritation.

  ‘Hello?’ A man this time. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘It’s Imogen Doody. Harry’s wife.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Doody, you can tell Harry that if he wants to keep his job, he’d better get right back here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He let us down in a crisis. You don’t do that in medicine.’ Imogen could hear his annoyance pulsating through the phone line. ‘He has a duty of care. Tell him that.’ And he put the phone down.

  She didn’t know what to do. She still thought Harry would just walk through the door. Every time the post was delivered, she was there, expecting him to come racing through. ‘Imogen!’ he would call, in the urgent way she liked. ‘I’m home.’

  She would find herself holding her breath, listening, thinking perhaps she’d missed the sound of his key in the door. She lay awake all night, imagining she could feel the weight of him sliding into bed beside her, careful not to let him know that she was awake, so that he would drop straight into his exhausted, desperate sleep without knowing that she wanted to talk to him.

  For another day, she forgot to eat, wash, or go outside. She went to bed, got up, waited, listened, and he didn’t come back. She didn’t know how to think about it. All she could do was wait.

  Then the phone rang. At last. He was letting her know that there had been a delay. He didn’t want her to worry.

  She ran to pick it up. ‘Harry!’

  But the voice wasn’t Harry’s. ‘No, Imogen, it’s Stella.’ Harry’s mother. He was with her. He’d asked her to phone and say that he’d left her. Imogen didn’t want to talk to her and have it confirmed. It was better not knowing, thinking that she’d made a mistake and that he’d be arriv
ing any minute now.

  ‘Can I speak to Harry?’ Imogen said.

  ‘But I was going to ask you that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Imogen had to pause and think. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘When do you expect him back?’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Imogen, are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When will I be able to catch him? I need to check arrangements for our wedding anniversary.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He has told you, hasn’t he? November the second. It’s our twenty-fifth.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Imogen didn’t know anything about it.

  There was a pause. ‘Imogen, could you just tell me when I can speak to him? I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  And that was it. That was when Imogen realised he wasn’t coming back. His mother phoned all the hospitals in the area in case he’d had an accident. She phoned the police. The police came to talk to Imogen, and it was Celia all over again.

  Nobody had any idea where he was. The last person to speak to him had been Hassan, who was his best friend, they told Imogen. Harry had never even mentioned Hassan. They’d got married suddenly, out of the blue, in a few hours without telling anyone, so there had been no wedding reception, no best man, no speeches in the marquee in the garden. Just her and Harry with two strangers they’d picked off the streets to be witnesses.

  Stella was distraught, furious with her. ‘Why didn’t you call me? He might have had an accident, be lying somewhere injured. We could have saved him. Now it might be too late.’

  She couldn’t accept that Harry would go away willingly without telling her. But Imogen knew that he’d just walked off one early morning and kept on walking because he couldn’t cope with it all. The job, the travelling, the lack of sleep, Imogen. She’d known, right from the beginning, that he wasn’t coming back, which was why she hadn’t rung the police or anyone else.

  After the police had been through the house, Imogen searched again, looking for clues, examining his clothes, his pockets, his books, his drawers. She piled everything in the centre of the living room, a great pile of non-existent Harry, the man who had ceased to be. She became increasingly frantic, tearing the clothes with her hands, throwing them on to the pile, screaming at them if they wouldn’t come apart.