Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  She couldn’t drive then—she learned much later. Harry had once opened the bonnet and explained the internal combustion engine, pointing out the various parts and their functions. She pretended to understand, but the information came too fast, with too many alien words.

  ‘How do you know these things?’ she asked.

  He looked bewildered. ‘Well, I don’t know. You just pick it up…’

  It shocked Imogen to discover that people all over the country were picking things up, examining them, remembering them, while she’d wandered along carelessly, missing the details, not even aware of their existence. She was glimpsing a new landscape through an open door, perceiving that her world was tiny compared to the great other world outside.

  Harry came back, looking pale and angry. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘They’re delighted.’ He smiled at her, but his mouth moved without the rest of his face. Imogen could feel the tension beneath the smile, his determination to be positive.

  They walked in, holding hands, and found his parents drinking in the living room.

  ‘Sherry, Imogen?’ said her new father-in-law, Arthur.

  She was going to refuse, but could see Harry nodding beside her, so she took a glass, and they sat down on the sofa opposite his parents. She tried to think of them as Arthur and Stella, but it wasn’t possible. They were too far away from her.

  ‘It should be champagne,’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella uncomfortably. ‘Of course. Do we have any?’

  Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t think we have, dear. Shall I pop up to the off-licence?’

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘It’s all right.’

  Imogen was disappointed. She’d never tried champagne, and this might be her only chance.

  There was an awkward silence. ‘So,’ said Stella, ‘you’re married. To each other.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Imogen, and smiled.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are delighted, aren’t you?’ said Harry.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ they said together, and Imogen could feel how hard everyone was trying.

  ‘So, where are you planning to live?’ said his father. ‘Harry hasn’t qualified yet, you know.’

  ‘Qualified?’ said Imogen. She didn’t know you had to be qualified before you got married.

  ‘My job,’ said Harry, squeezing her hand. ‘As a doctor.’

  She felt foolish.

  ‘He has another six months at medical school.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Imogen, eagerly. ‘I earn good money at Asda. They like me there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Stella.

  ‘We thought we could rent a flat here until I’m qualified, and then I can look for work in Birmingham,’ said Harry.

  Did they think this? Imogen couldn’t remember discussing it.

  Arthur was nodding. ‘Good, good. You’ll be settled in no time.’

  ‘You need to be in London, Harry,’ said Stella. ‘You’ll have to finish your course.’

  ‘I’ll come back at weekends,’ he said.

  Imogen stared at him. Why wasn’t he planning for them to be together all the time? Surely that was what happened when you got married. ‘But I can come to London,’ she said.

  ‘No, no,’ said Stella. ‘You don’t want to give up your job. The cost of living in London is so high. There’s far too much unemployment at the moment. Anyway, Harry will need the time to study. He’ll be back in no time.’

  How had this happened? How had they persuaded her not to go to London? Imogen has wondered about this a lot since. She had just done as she was told when she should have protested. But now she suspects a conspiracy between them, a deal they did with Harry. Sending him away from her all week was a kind of test, to demonstrate that he didn’t need her, and could be perfectly happy away from her. Perhaps they thought he would meet someone else when he was in London during the week. What did they offer him that Imogen didn’t know about? Financial help, some gentleman’s agreement that he had to honour if he wanted to keep on seeing them?

  Had Stella and Arthur plotted to remove her? Do they feel guilty about it now?

  Doody drives up to Birmingham from Bristol on Saturday morning, wondering if Straker has turned up in the last two weeks and found the cottage empty. What would he have thought? Would he have taken her absence as acknowledgement that he had been right and Harry was on the train?

  She feels uncomfortable about this. She doesn’t want him to believe he killed Harry if it’s not true. But there is so much uncertainty. Harry seems to have strolled in twenty-five years too late and messed up everything again. Why should she care? What does she owe him?

  She has no difficulty finding the house. The road is as wide and leafy as ever. Large houses standing back from the road, tall and elegant, sheltered from hardship and economic struggles. There are more cars parked on the drives than there were then, but nobody has plastic windows. Theirs are wooden, well looked-after, painted regularly, free from rot. The road is quiet and remote when she turns off the engine—any sounds from traffic are muffled, far away, irrelevant.

  She doesn’t have the nerve to pull on to their drive in her little Fiat—ten years old, rust spreading on the wings. They have two cars—a BMW and a smaller Fiesta, both brand new—on the drive, so she parks on the opposite side of the road. She’s very nervous, and doesn’t really want to do this. She should have tried to find more information about the crash before she arrived, but it’s too late now.

  She sits in the car, watching Harry’s old home for some time. It’s a wonderful house. There are three storeys, with the top floor built into the eaves. Harry had a room up in the attic, and his brother, William, had the other. They were the largest rooms in the house. Harry had once given Imogen a guided tour when no one else was there. They looked at his other brothers’ rooms, Nick and Gavin’s, and then he took her into his parents’ room. He leaped on to their bed and persuaded her to come and join him. He clearly found it erotic to think of them making love on his parents’ bed, but Imogen couldn’t do it. She was too terrified by the reflection of them in his mother’s elegant three-way mirror, under the shadow of his father’s red check dressing-gown hanging on the back of the door.

  What she learned, when he showed her round, was that other people had untidy houses too. She’d thought that because the house was so big, because they obviously had so much money, and his mother cooked and cleaned, everywhere in the house would be immaculate. It was a shock to discover that they left things lying around, that the basin in the bathroom had soap smeared on the taps, that Harry’s father would leave a shirt in the middle of the floor when it needed washing.

  Doody steps out of the car, shuts the door and locks it. She walks across the road and on to the drive beside the Fiesta and the BMW, skirting the delicate yellow roses in their beds beside the hedge. She climbs the steps to the porch and reaches up to ring the doorbell. The sound echoes through the house in the way that it always did, an old-fashioned bell that goes on jangling for some time so that it can be heard by everyone wherever they are in the house. She can picture the hall inside, with its uncluttered, magnolia walls and the thick pile carpet that cushions all unexpected noises.

  When the door opens, it takes Doody a few seconds to realise that the old woman in front of her is Stella. She’s shrunk. Her hair has gone white and her skin has shrivelled. She looks like someone dying, so frail you could blow her away.

  She leans forward and makes an attempt to kiss Doody’s cheek. Doody freezes. She wasn’t prepared for this. ‘Imogen,’ says Stella, and her voice is instantly recognisable.

  ‘Hello,’ says Doody.

  Chapter 22

  Straker follows Simon Taverner down his narrow hall and into a large room at the end. Once inside, he looks round, examining each item in turn, making himself see everything slowly. His hands are shaking and he needs time to calm himself.

  The room has tall windows looking out on to a leafy area of large houses and gardens. There are a few
similar blocks of flats nearby, all about six storeys high. Most of the windows in the flats opposite have net curtains, but where they haven’t, it is possible to see inside the rooms. This glimpse into other people’s lives is unnerving, and Straker moves back from the windows in case he can be seen.

  In Simon Taverner’s room, the carpet is wine-coloured, dotted with tiny yellow daisies, flattened with age, but very clean. Two brown leather sofas are creased with wear, moulded and hollowed into the shape of invisible bodies, comforting and welcoming. A long, low coffee-table is overflowing with open, well-thumbed reference books, all on the subject of battleships. Around them, several sheets of paper are scattered, covered with indecipherable handwriting, a pair of glasses lying on top of everything. There’s a cabinet of china and glass, including several intricate models of ships, a piano, several bookshelves, all overcrowded, and there are photographs everywhere. They fill all the remaining wall space, the shiny black wood of the piano, the top of the cabinet, some even on the floor.

  Once Straker stops to look at the photographs, he can’t see anything else. Maggie is here, in the room with him, beaming out of every surface. Maggie at a daughter’s wedding, holding on to her hat as she’s caught by a gust of wind, squinting into the sun; sitting before a table of food in a restaurant, sipping wine; pretending to stand to attention next to a guard outside Buckingham Palace, tiny next to him, but still significant; sitting in the car of a Big Wheel, her arm round a child, her face fixed into an expression of forced delight. Maggie in gardens, sitting in deck-chairs, smiling at a newborn baby in her arms. Different children in every picture, boys, girls, babies, toddlers, older children sitting by her legs, teenagers towering over her, standing awkwardly, but somehow belonging to her, the family resemblance drifting through all their faces. Did this woman ever stop smiling?

  ‘I see you recognise Maggie,’ says Simon Taverner, making Straker jump. He’s been unconsciously counting the photographs. Forty-two so far. ‘Wait there,’ says Simon, and goes out of the room. He returns a few seconds later with armfuls of books.

  ‘Look,’ he says, and opens them on the floor. They are photograph albums. Straker kneels down and starts to turn the pages slowly, chronologically, watching Maggie’s life grow before his eyes. He sees her in black and white as a girl, a young wife with her first baby, her second, her third, her fourth. The children grow up, and she gets older, less glamorous, but more motherly, warmer and more comfortable with the passing years. Her waistline expands, her hair begins to go grey, but she remains the same, the real Maggie, the voice he knows from his dreams. She’s exactly as he imagined. He feels that he has known her all his life. As if she were his mother. The children grow tall and rebellious in their appearance—jeans, long hair, casual neglect—but they are still drawn to her, and she still accepts them. You can see this in the way they gather round her for the photographs.

  Then the weddings. Two of them, everybody present, a family that knows how to grow together and is happy to welcome new members. And the grandchildren. Babies, toddlers, cats, dogs…

  Then it changes. There is no more Maggie. The family goes on without her. They still seem to be close, to support each other, but Simon is now at the centre without her, growing older, loved, but somehow lost.

  Straker reaches the end and looks up at Simon. He’s sitting on one of the sofas, pouring tea out of a silver teapot into two china cups. ‘Tea?’ he says.

  Straker gets up off the floor and rubs his knees. ‘You know who I am?’ he says.

  Simon nods. ‘Do sit down, Mr Straker.’

  He takes the mug of tea that is offered. ‘I mean, you know who I really am?’

  ‘Yes. I know who you really are.’

  Straker doesn’t know what to say. Why is he here? Simon seems almost to have expected him.

  They sit together, sipping tea.

  Simon’s movements are slow and careful, as if he’s afraid of a sudden weakness in his hands, which will send the cup tumbling to the floor. He’s almost bald, with just a few wisps of white hair above his ears. He has a kind face, wrinkled and worn, like his room, but not hostile. He exudes a benign, fatherly air that is very reassuring.

  ‘Let me explain,’ he says. ‘When I received your letter, enquiring about Maggie, I had a strong feeling that it was important to you to find out about her. Why, I thought, would you need to have more details about my wife? Because he’s a journalist, I said to myself, and that’s what journalists do. But at the back of my mind was the idea that this was not quite the full truth. I picked up an intense desire to look more deeply into Maggie’s life, more than you would expect from a journalist. It was almost as if you knew her and had some feeling for her, as if you were tied in a more intimate way. An old friend, I thought. But I know her old friends. They all came to the funeral, most are still in touch—or dead. So—someone who thinks he has something in common with her, with the way she died. And then it hit me that what I could feel coming out of your letter was guilt. Once I realised that, I knew who you were.’

  He stops talking. Straker can’t look him in the eye. He studies the carpet between his knees, the way it has faded from vacuuming and scrubbing and the sun.

  ‘Mr Straker,’ he says, ‘please don’t think that I want vengeance. If there was one thing I learned from Maggie it was that you accept people as they are, and you don’t demand more than they want to give.’

  ‘She talks to me,’ says Straker.

  ‘Really?’ he says, with surprise. ‘A ghost?’

  ‘No. In my dreams.’

  He sighs. ‘I see.’ He pauses, then nods. ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘But you’re right. I do feel as if I have known her.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ says Simon, putting a plate of chocolate biscuits beside him. Straker takes one and bites into it.

  ‘I expect you think I’m a potty old man,’ says Simon. ‘Well, I probably am. But I’m not amazed by what you tell me. Maggie’s personality was so powerful that she could easily still influence somebody after all this time.’

  Straker clears his throat and tries to talk sensibly. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m just following instructions from Maggie in my dreams. Go and see you, she says. But why? What for?’

  ‘It’s not Maggie,’ he says. ‘It’s your conscience.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ But of course he’s right. ‘Why should I come here?’

  ‘You are the only one who can answer that.’

  ‘Well, I can’t. I don’t remember what happened. I just woke up in hospital and they told me we crashed. You know what they said at the inquest. Insufficient evidence to bring a prosecution.’

  ‘So why do you feel guilty?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I think you do. That’s why you write letters.’

  ‘I just want to know about them, that’s all. So they don’t get forgotten.’

  Something strange is happening. Straker knows he was responsible for the accident. He wakes up every morning with the weight of it pressing him down on his mattress, pushing him towards the floor. He counts the numbers, he debates with the victims all night.

  So why is he disowning his guilt now?

  Simon looks out of the window. ‘Do you really think any of them would be forgotten? What about their husbands, wives, girlfriends, children, mothers, fathers? How do you imagine people react when they lose someone they love in violent and unexpected circumstances? Do you think we’re sad for a bit, and then carry on as if they never existed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that.’

  ‘Then why do you think you have to take on the burden of remembering all of them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Guilt,’ he says.

  ‘I think I’d better go,’ says Straker. ‘I don’t know why I came.’

  ‘Stay a bit longer. I know why you came.’

  ‘You don’t know me. You have no idea.’

  ‘I think you want forgiveness. Absolution.’


  Straker stands up, frustrated by Simon’s presumption of his guilt. ‘How can you be so sure there’s something for you to forgive?’

  Simon pauses and picks up a chocolate biscuit. ‘I imagine your assessment of the situation is very similar to my own.’

  Straker sits down again, somehow defeated. It’s the photographs—they have unsettled him. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry about Maggie, I really am. If I could change things, I would. But I can’t. It’s too late.’

  ‘It was always too late, from the time she got on that train and said goodbye to our daughter and her baby, and from the moment you took off in that plane.’

  ‘You mean it was fate?’

  ‘No, I don’t believe in fate. I just mean that once the events were set in motion they carried on happening, and once they had happened, nobody could undo them. Whatever you feel now, it’s irrelevant. You can’t alter the fact that you’ve changed the lives of all those people. Seventy-eight died, but there were many more relatives and friends who were affected by the deaths.’

  ‘You’ve already said that.’

  ‘My point is that it is arrogant of you to believe that knowing the victims better makes any difference to anyone.’

  ‘So what would you have done?’

  He smiles. ‘I have no idea. I’m grateful for the fact that it was you and not me.’

  Is he feeling sorry for Straker? Does he appreciate how impossible it is to live a single minute of a single day without thinking of the seventy-eight?

  ‘Which doesn’t mean that I absolve you. I haven’t made a decision on that yet. I confess that I spent many, many years after the accident bitterly resenting you, and the effort of it has worn me out. The ache of losing Maggie has never truly left me, but I have gradually learned to accept it. You have to let things go in the end, or you don’t survive. I think I’ve changed again in the last two years, although I’m not sure why. I have been thinking about it more, going over the details in my mind, trying to understand what really happened.’