Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  Steve could see the straight line across the dial, looking exactly like the division between earth and sky.

  ‘Watch this.’ Pete turned the control column to the left and the aeroplane banked slightly. The artificial horizon began to slip to the left. Then he brought it back to the level. He pointed to each dial in turn and explained its function. Steve heard the words, let them flow around him, and appreciated the fact that Pete was talking to him. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t follow it all.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ said Pete, after a while.

  ‘France,’ said Justin.

  ‘Italy,’ said Francis.

  ‘Not likely,’ said Pete. ‘My dad hasn’t got over Austria yet. Where do you want to go, Steve?’

  Steve was thrilled to be asked, but had no idea what to say. ‘I d-d-don’t know,’ he said. He couldn’t believe they were in the air, flying without knowing where they were going. The world below him looked like a model village—tiny dolls’ houses, fields divided up geometrically with plastic hedges.

  Pete kept laughing, his voice growing louder after each drink, and Steve found that he could watch Pete getting drunk and not mind.

  ‘There’s a train,’ said Francis, pointing.

  They all looked down and could see the lights of a train snaking across the evening landscape. It was approaching a raised embankment that would lead it over a bridge in the distance.

  ‘I bet you…’ said Justin slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ said Pete, swilling beer out of his can.

  ‘See those pylons?’ There was a row of pylons running parallel to the train line in the field below the embankment, a Lego housing estate on the other side.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bet you can’t get under the cables and over the railway line before the train gets there.’

  ‘How much do you bet?’ said Pete.

  ‘Hundred quid,’ said Justin.

  ‘Two hundred,’ said Pete. ‘Get your money ready.’

  ‘Another two hundred from me,’ said Francis.

  ‘Done,’ said Pete. ‘Let’s give the driver a thrill.’

  ‘It’ll scare him to death if we shoot up over the side of the track just before he gets there.’

  ‘Hope he can handle it.’

  ‘Course he can,’ said Francis. ‘He’s a train driver, a skilled professional, years of specialised training. He’ll have logged hours and hours—’

  They all roared with laughter.

  ‘OK,’ said Pete. ‘Let’s go down there.’

  Steve could feel a tightness in his stomach. Surely they didn’t really mean it? It didn’t look possible. They’d have to go incredibly low to get under the overhead lines, then come up very fast on the other side to clear the embankment and the railway line before the train reached that point. He had never been in a situation like this before. He was a boy who believed in rules—a law-abiding citizen. What would his mum think of all this?

  The tightness inside him was tying itself into a tangled knot, but as he watched the intense concentration on Pete’s face, he relaxed a little. Pete knew what he was doing—he could be trusted to make the right decision.

  Pete pushed the stick forward and they started diving rapidly, the sound of the wind louder than the sound of the engine. Steve was exhilarated by the speed, his caution evaporating with the thrill of it all. ‘Hoorah!’ he shouted, hearing his voice disappearing behind him.

  They went between the pylons, under the wire, almost scraping the ground, then Pete pulled the stick back hard and they were climbing very steeply, losing speed as the engine roared on full power. They were pushed back into their seats with the force of the climb. Steve held his breath, willing the Warrior upwards, his mind straining with the effort.

  The embankment was in front of them, getting closer and closer. Where was the top? Surely they must be there.

  They burst over the peak of the embankment with a great throaty roar from the engine.

  ‘Bravo!’ shouted Francis from the back.

  Then, unexpectedly, they swung to one side, and there was a sharp crack.

  ‘Look out!’ yelled Justin.

  The world turned upside down. There was a sound of splintering, fracturing, metal screaming, everyone shouting at once. Steve was thrown violently to his left, then to his right.

  We’ll be all right, he thought. Pete’s looking after us.

  He was hit by a searing pain as they stopped moving, a suffocating pressure above him. He could hear Pete’s voice in the distance. ‘Get out! Get out!’

  The thunder of the approaching train drowned all other sounds.

  Chapter 21

  ‘Mother? It’s Imogen. Jonathan said you wanted me to phone.’

  ‘Did he? How strange. Perhaps I just wanted to know if you’re all right. I can’t afford to phone you very often with my limited income.’

  ‘My job isn’t well paid either, you know.’

  ‘No? Well, I’m sure it’s more than my pension.’ There is satisfaction in her voice because she likes to be worse off than everyone else. It makes her feel better.

  ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘Bearing up. You remember that pain I had in my hip?’

  No. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The doctor thinks it could be arthritis. He might send me for tests.’

  Doody doesn’t believe her. The doctor must be wise to her by now. She’s had tests for heart disease, lupus, MS, ME and osteoporosis in the last year. ‘Well, never mind. I expect it’ll clear up soon.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Doody experiences an unexpected pang of sympathy for her mother. She’s lonely, and needs her illnesses. They’re just a familiar fantasy world that she can control. The trips to the doctor give her something to do, and her pills are comforting. ‘Nothing, Mother. Let’s hope it’s not too serious.’

  ‘Yes, because—’

  ‘Have you heard about my cottage yet?’

  She brightens up at the prospect of good news. ‘Yes, Jonathan told me. How wonderful. A cottage by the sea.’

  ‘It’s not that wonderful. It needs a lot of work.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage. You’re very capable.’

  ‘Mother, it’s more than just painting a few doors. It’s major work. Roof and windows and things.’

  But she doesn’t want to hear this. ‘And it’s all thanks to Jonathan.’

  But it’s Doody’s cottage, her aeroplane, her life. She doesn’t want to be grateful to Jonathan. ‘I’ll have to go, Mother. Mr Hollyhead is waiting for me to discuss a hole in the fence.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You mustn’t keep your headmaster waiting.’

  It’s hard to know what irritates Doody most. Her mother remembering who Mr Hollyhead is, calling him her headmaster, or thinking Doody shouldn’t keep him waiting.

  ‘Goodbye, Mother,’ says Doody, and puts the phone down.

  She shouldn’t have phoned before settling down to work on the Mandles novel. Now, instead of thinking calmly, she is humming with frustration, itching with resentment of Jonathan, her mother and Philip Hollyhead.

  She’s worried about Mandles. The story is slowing down, losing its momentum. Something needs to happen, a dramatic development that will bring back some of the sparkle she felt when she started writing.

  Determined to solve the problem, she picks up a pencil.

  Mandles fore as he felt a cold barrel placed carefully at the back of his neck. A gun! ‘Good aftenoon,’ remarked a cod, level voice that he had never heard before. ‘Welcom toe our little party.’ Rough hands came from behind Mandles and tied his hands tightly behind his back. A wad of material was shoved into his mouth and a scarf was fixed uncomfortably round his face in a vice-like grip.

  This is better. Some real action.

  ‘Yow go it wrong, Imogen.’

  All week she has been pushing away thoughts of Harry. He seems to be hovering at her shoulder, whispering into her ear.

  ‘You did walk o
ut on me,’ she says out loud.

  He laughs. ‘But you can’t be sure.’

  There’s the problem. She can’t be sure. She has always believed that he left voluntarily because he didn’t want to live with her any more, and the leitmotif of rejection has been drumming away in the background ever since.

  If he was on the train, killed off by Straker, everything changes. The world has been picked up, twisted slightly and put down again. The same, but not the same. She has misjudged him, found him guilty in his absence.

  ‘You left me. There’s no question about that. The crash was later.’

  ‘But I might have come back.’ His voice is cool and level, mocking her.

  He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know anything about her life and has no right to challenge her like this. He’s somewhere else, in a large house in the suburbs, making money, being a doctor, living the middle-class life he was destined for. He’s married to someone who doesn’t know he’s a bigamist, and has four children at private schools.

  Or he’s dead.

  Doody jumps up and puts on her coat. She can see Doris the Lion Tamer out in her garden, taking in the washing, so she doubles round the front of the house to avoid her and walks down the road to the shops.

  Her mind slips sideways to Straker, who may have killed her husband. Why does he refuse to believe the crash was an accident? Does he enjoy being responsible, or does he just feel better saying it was his fault? He wants to be a martyr, like her mother. How can one person cause the death of seventy-eight people? It seems almost self-indulgent of him to insist on it. If he can’t remember what happened, why does he insist on blaming himself?

  We’re all guilty, thinks Doody, half running along the road. She had mashed the berries. She had wanted Celia to die. Perhaps she could have saved her if she’d done something quicker.

  Her mother had implied that once. ‘Did you phone the ambulance as soon as you found Celia?’ Imogen was washing up at the time, the marigold gloves letting in warm, damp soapsuds because there was a hole in each thumb. Whenever she thinks back to this conversation, she remembers the feel of her hands, wet and somehow contaminated inside the gloves.

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Imogen, too quickly. Had she delayed on purpose? Was that why she couldn’t decide what to do?

  Her mother must have detected something in her voice. She pulled Imogen round and put her hands on either side of her face, looking very hard into Imogen’s eyes. Imogen could smell her breath. It reminded her of Celia. ‘Are you quite sure? You were seen coming home at least fifteen minutes before you phoned the police.’

  Imogen hadn’t given herself away. Her mother had known all the time. ‘I told you, I didn’t find her straight away.’ Imogen could hear the panic in her voice. She knew that her mother could hear it too. She could feel the redness in her cheeks, the sweat gathering on her forehead.

  Then her mother’s hands fell away, and she stepped back. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Imogen.’ Her voice had changed. It had become less raw, more controlled.

  Imogen stared at her, not sure how she should respond. Did her mother mean it, or was this a new tactic? A trap?

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure those fifteen minutes wouldn’t have made any difference.’

  But they might have done. Imogen had heard the conversation with the policeman and her mother would not have forgotten it.

  ‘We should remember that it was Celia who made the decision, not you,’ said her mother, turning her face away, but not managing to disguise the catch in her voice. ‘We must remember that,’ she said again, as if she were trying to persuade herself.

  She’s only pretending, thought Imogen. She doesn’t mean it. In her memory, her mother is there, holding her face again, close like Celia. And she does blame Imogen.

  ‘Hello? This is Stella Doody speaking.’

  Doody opens her mouth and tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

  ‘Hello? Who is it?’

  ‘Imogen.’

  ‘Imogen? Imogen? I don’t know any—oh—’

  Doody tries again: ‘It’s Imogen.’ Her voice doesn’t sound right. She’s talking to someone from her past who doesn’t know her as she is now. She doesn’t know how to give the impression that she’s no longer the tongue-tied, naïve girl who destroyed the life of Stella’s son.

  ‘Imogen,’ says Stella, and her voice has lost some of the authoritarian sharpness. It’s a little softer, even kinder, perhaps, but this may just be Doody’s imagination. ‘What a surprise. How are you? We didn’t know what happened to you.’

  ‘I went to Bristol,’ says Doody. She wonders how hard they tried to find her.

  ‘I see,’ says Stella. ‘And are you there still?’

  ‘Yes. Although—I also have a cottage in Devon now.’

  ‘Oh. You have done well for yourself, then.’

  ‘No, not really. It’s not as good as it sounds.’ Why does she tell her that? Her outer layer is dissolving, and she’s allowing Stella to penetrate the inner, private part that should remain hidden. She can’t seem to stop herself.

  ‘Have you married again?’ There’s tension in Stella’s voice. As if she doesn’t want to know that Doody might have replaced Harry with someone else. Another rubbing out, another denial of his existence.

  ‘No,’ says Doody. ‘I live on my own.’

  ‘Ah.’ Stella probably wants to say ‘good’ but realises that it would be inappropriate.

  Neither of them speaks for a while. ‘Well, it’s nice to hear from you, Imogen,’ she says. ‘Did you phone for any particular reason?’

  ‘Harry didn’t come back, did he?’ says Doody, thinking suddenly that maybe he had returned to his family years ago, and nobody had bothered to find her and tell her.

  ‘No, of course not. We would have contacted you if he had.’ Her voice is brisk and sensible. She’s a decent woman. She would never have lied, or pretended that things were not as they were.

  Doody nods. ‘I just wondered…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember a crash, about twenty-five years ago?’

  ‘A crash?’ She sounds confused. ‘What sort of a crash?’

  ‘It was a train. A private plane hit a train, which collapsed on to a housing estate. There were lots of casualties. Seventy-eight dead.’

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’ Her voice has lost its softness. ‘Is this something to do with Harry?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Doody. ‘Well—I don’t really know.’

  Stella is silent for some time, and Doody begins to worry that she has gone. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Imogen, I would appreciate it if you would get to the point.’

  Doody swallows. ‘It’s just that the crash was round about the time that Harry disappeared, and I wondered if you had considered it, that’s all.’

  Stella lets out a sigh. ‘I do remember the crash, as a matter of fact. It was a train from London to Birmingham, but it was some time after his disappearance. We’d hardly have ignored something as obvious as that.’

  Doody is relieved. Of course they would have thought about it. They were all sensible people. ‘So he couldn’t have been on it?’

  ‘It was at least three months later. Why would he have been?’

  Doody is uneasy. It’s not as obvious as she suggests. Harry vanished first, then the train crashed. ‘But we don’t know where he was. He might have been on the train. Maybe he went somewhere for a short time, and always intended to come back, but then went on the train.’

  ‘They will have identified all the people on the train.’

  ‘No. There were nine unidentified bodies. Nine people who didn’t belong to anyone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you think they could still check? With dental records and things?’

  There’s another long pause. ‘Look, Imogen,’ says Stella, ‘perhaps we should meet. Shall I come down to your cottage in Devon?’

  ‘No,’ says Doody,
imagining her coming through the front door of her cottage, eyeing the rotten window-frames, the dust-filled furniture. ‘I’ll come and see you.’

  ‘Fine.’ She sounds relieved. ‘We’re still in the same place. When would be convenient? A weekend would suit me best.’

  Doody hesitates, not sure if she wants to meet Stella again and go back to a version of herself that she would prefer to forget. ‘I can come next Saturday,’ she says.

  ‘Good. Come for lunch. One o’clock.’

  Doody puts the phone down and wonders what has happened to her. Did she really telephone Harry’s mother, the woman whose dislike for her always permeated her scrupulous politeness? Has she really accepted an invitation to lunch? Stella won’t recognise her. Will she recognise Stella?

  Harry and Imogen had set off to Stratford as two separate people and returned as man and wife. Till death us do part. Or at least until Imogen drove him away with her inability to remain funny. Harry wanted her to come in with him when they arrived to break the news to his parents, but she refused. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ she said. ‘It’d be better if you go and tell them first.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of my new wife.’ He leaned over to kiss her, and she breathed in that vague, antiseptic, hospital smell that he carried around with him. She could feel the sharpness of the bristle on his chin against hers, the intensity of his presence.

  ‘You don’t have to be ashamed,’ she said. ‘I’d just prefer you to tell them first before they have to speak to me.’

  He gave in eventually, and left the car with a breezy wave. ‘I’ll be back in no time, you’ll see,’ he said. ‘They’ll be delighted.’

  Imogen knew they would be appalled, and it thrilled her to think that he’d brave their wrath for her. She sat in the car, an old Cortina, and waited. All around her was evidence of Harry. Chewing-gum wrappers in the ashtray, lecture notes stuffed into the glove compartment. There were bits of grit caught in the mat where he placed his feet, slivers of nails that she’d seen him bite off and drop on the floor. She touched the gear stick and felt its shiny surface, worn smooth by all the previous owners. Now Harry’s left hand had taken over, polishing away the past. The steering wheel had old cracks that had become his cracks, where he had held it and turned it, letting it slide easily through his hands.