Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  ‘He didn’t keep it secret. He took her openly to restaurants, booked into hotels, even took her to friends’ parties. You’d think they would ostracise him, wouldn’t you? Disapprove. But no. They invited him and her without me. One or two did invite me after a while. Thought we’d all arrive as a happy threesome, I suppose. Didn’t go, of course.’

  Doody doesn’t want to hear this. She doesn’t want to know the details of their loss of dignity and the final fall.

  ‘She wasn’t our sort, of course. She worked in Tesco’s, on the checkout. People seemed to like her for some reason. Ghastly woman. Laughed very loudly. I could hear her all over Tesco’s when I was doing my shopping, chatting to everyone, telling them her business. My business as well, of course. People queued for hours in her line because she took so long talking. Called them “love” and “darling” and “sweetheart”. I had to change shops in the end. Drove another five miles to Asda. Nuisance. Didn’t stock the right kind of marmalade.’

  Doody drinks some water, unable to speak. She pictures this woman in Tesco’s, bright and happy, chatting away to everyone. It’s obvious why Arthur would have been attracted to her. The opposite of Stella.

  ‘Called Tracey. What more can you say?’

  Doody had come here to discuss the possibility of Harry being on the train. But Stella’s already embarked upon the inquiry, so there’s nothing to do. Doody had thought they might remember him together, talk about him, imagining that they might be able to communicate at last, or understand each other—or something.

  ‘He died of a heart-attack, you know. Sitting in a dodgem car with her at Blackpool. Dodgems at his age! Pretending to be twenty instead of seventy, lost all sense of respectability. They had to prise him out of the dodgem car because he was so fat. His legs had got wedged in, and she sat with him for ten minutes while they waited for the ambulance. She kept talking to him as if he were alive for those ten minutes. Never shed a tear. That’s what she tells everyone in Tesco’s, anyway. Probably still talks to him as if he’s alive. That would be about her level.’

  Doody feels sorry for the unknown Tracey, and wonders what happened to her. Presumably he didn’t leave her anything when he died. Stella still has the house and a brand new car parked in the drive.

  A door slams in the hall. Stella ignores it.

  ‘Has someone come in?’ asks Doody.

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Gavin. He’s in and out. When he’s not in prison.’

  The kitchen door opens and Harry walks in, carrying a yellow bucket. Seventeen years older, but with that same droopy look that comes from being very tall. The floppy brown hair that won’t stay in place, that nervous tension round the eyes. Doody stops breathing and stares at him.

  ‘Hi, Imogen,’ he says carelessly, as if he sees her every week, and his voice is Harry’s too.

  ‘There’s some food, Gavin,’ says Stella, with a brief enthusiasm. ‘Marks and Spencer’s.’

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Put it in the fridge and I’ll have it later.’ He flashes a grin at Doody, a charming, debonair smile that pierces her with a physical pain. He fills up his bucket with water from the tap. ‘See you around, Imogen.’

  Then he’s gone. The front door bangs again and the house descends back into its lost, sterile silence.

  ‘I told him you were coming,’ says Stella.

  ‘Would you mind…’ says Doody, after a while ‘…would you mind if I looked at Harry’s old room? I’d just like to see it again.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ says Stella. ‘You’ll find it the same as it always was. There was never any point in changing anything. We didn’t use it again.’

  Doody waits at the door, expecting Stella to follow her, but she remains sitting. ‘You don’t mind, then?’ says Doody again.

  ‘No, no, go ahead.’ Stella flaps at her with her hands.

  Doody climbs the stairs, and discovers that nothing in the house has changed. Nobody has ever repapered, or painted, or even dusted. Looking back down to the hall and landing below, she can see dust collected on the lightshades, thick and black and almost solid. It must date back to the same period as the dust in Oliver d’Arby’s cottage. Contemporary dust.

  Once Doody reaches the top floor, she enters Harry’s room with some trepidation. The main feature is a large, dark desk, piled with papers and books, apparently abandoned in mid-study. She walks round and examines everything, the books on the bookshelves. Enid Blyton, Just William, Jennings, Billy Bunter, all collected in series, well thumbed, well read. And Biggles. Doody remembers these, not daring to tell Harry that she’d read them all, that she knew them word for word.

  There are posters on the wall, of Abba, Eric Clapton, Olivia Newton-John; an old guitar in a corner. She hadn’t known he possessed a guitar, let alone played it. But now she realises that she didn’t see most of the contents of the room. She just saw Harry’s face. When she came here, she had no curiosity for his life. Only for him.

  Photographs are lined up on the mantelpiece. She picks one up and rubs off the dust, searching through the faces until she recognises Harry. A team photograph. He looks so young, just a boy. This group of pretend men in their rugby kit, arms folded, hairy legs lined up neatly, looking earnestly into the camera, bursting with health and energy. She’d forgotten Harry played rugby.

  She examines with surprise a photograph of their family in front of a lighthouse. The boys are all young—Harry must be only about ten—and they look clean, healthy, full of sun and fresh air, an idyllic family holiday. It looks exactly like Straker’s lighthouse, the heavy wooden door behind them, the keepers’ cottages on the side.

  She opens the top drawer of a large chest of drawers. Inside there are piles of underwear, balls of socks, rolls of ties. Why didn’t he bring all his worldly possessions when he moved in with her? Did he only ever enter into a world with her half-heartedly? Did he come back here sometimes, when she thought he was working in London?

  Doody sits on the bed, which she remembers well. It’s old-fashioned, with a high dark oak headboard and base. Sitting here, she accepts finally that she never knew him. The Harry who inhabited this room, a young medical student who lived a privileged life, was not the man she had married. She only ever saw a pretend Harry. A young man of jokes and fun, who did not really exist. Their marriage was untrue. Did he think he needed to assert himself as an adult? What was it all for?

  She sits on the bed and tears spring into her eyes, not of anger, not of betrayal, but of sorrow for the eighteen-year-old Imogen, who had had no idea. She had been so innocent that she couldn’t see any of it.

  The real Harry had been so far away from her that she never had a chance to find out about him. If he hadn’t disappeared, or died in the crash, he would never have stayed with her. He would have reverted to his old life, which was centred here in this room, waiting for him to pick up where he left off.

  She goes out and shuts the door. On her way down, she glances into the other rooms. None of them has been left like Harry’s. William’s and Nick’s rooms are nearly empty. They must have taken their possessions with them when they left, with no sense that they would return. Gavin’s room, she sees by peering through the half-open door, is in a state of chaos. Books, papers, magazines, CDs lying around on the floor. Piles of unexpected things, like kettles, fans, stationery sets, quilt covers, all wrapped and in boxes, apparently brand new. Stolen goods? Or does he run a market stall?

  Downstairs, every other room seems abandoned, full of unwashed plates, mugs, soiled clothes. It looks as if Stella has worked her way through them, abandoning each one as it overflowed with rubbish, moving on to the next.

  She is still sitting in the kitchen when Doody gets back. In the same place, in the same position. There is a portable television on the dresser opposite her, so she must be used to sitting there and watching. Has she regressed intellectually so that she now enjoys games shows, soaps, chat shows, anything that’s on? Doody sits down opposite, and starts to worry abou
t her. ‘Do you have any friends?’ she asks her.

  ‘Friends? What are those?’

  ‘Does anyone come and see you at all?’

  She laughs, uproariously, with her mouth wide open. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Are you well, Stella?’

  Stella looks at her suspiciously. ‘You’ve changed, Imogen.’

  ‘I’m older.’

  ‘When did you ever notice anyone else?’

  Doody is shocked. What does Stella know about her interest in other people? ‘Will you let me know when you hear from the police?’ she says.

  Stella nods. ‘Leave me your telephone number.’

  She can’t be as incapable as she looks. At least she went to the police after Doody’s phone call, and she did manage to buy some lunch.

  ‘Thanks for the lunch,’ says Doody, moving to the kitchen door.

  Stella stays on her chair. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Doody goes out through the front door, and finds Gavin outside, washing the big BMW. It belongs to him, not Arthur, as she’d thought.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, looking up. ‘Great to see you.’ He smiles, a friendly, boyish smile. ‘Great weather,’ he says. ‘I like to do my car myself. No one else does it properly.’

  He doesn’t look like a criminal: he’s too open and generous to be involved in violence. What can you go to prison for that isn’t violent?

  ‘Is your mother all right?’ says Doody.

  He stops polishing and straightens up. ‘I don’t know. She’s just the same as she always was.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He frowns—like Harry—so that his eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘It’s a long time since you last saw her, Imogen.’

  ‘I can remember what she looked like then. Probably better than you.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t notice properly any more.’

  ‘Well, you’re not around, are you.’

  He laughs, a huge, infectious laugh that sounds as if it comes from someone who is comfortable with his place in the world. ‘She told you, then?’

  Doody nods. She feels that she should offer some practical advice, an older sister’s protective words, show him that she cares. But she can’t think of anything. She stands looking at him.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we can’t help who we are. It’s all in the genes.’

  ‘The same genes as Harry?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Maybe he was nursing a secret vice, drugs or something. Easy to get supplies when you’re a doctor. Maybe that’s why he disappeared.’

  ‘No! He wasn’t like that.’

  He laughs again. ‘Only joking.’

  He seems so innocent and naïve. How can Doody be sure that Harry wasn’t like that? ‘So what do you do?’ she says. ‘I mean, in between…’

  ‘Oh, this and that. A bit of this, a bit of that.’

  ‘Well, this and that seem highly profitable.’

  ‘Are you referring to something in particular?’

  ‘The car. Not everyone can afford a brand new BMW.’

  He winks at her. ‘I haven’t paid a penny for it. They’ll come and take it away once they realise.’

  He is Harry with a bend in the middle. A slight twist that makes him into an imperfect image of his brother.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mum,’ he says. ‘She’s OK. She’s been like this since Harry left. Serves her right. She shouldn’t have had favourites.’

  ‘Does she manage the practical things, like eating and washing?’

  ‘You mean does she ever clean anything? No, of course not. She never washes up. She piles all the stuff in the rooms she doesn’t use, and when she wants more mugs or plates, she goes out and buys some.’

  Is he joking?

  ‘Honest. Good idea, I reckon. She says she always hated washing-up. Why should she have to do it if she doesn’t want to? Every now and again I fill a few bin-bags and take them to the tip.’

  So the one good thing she remembers about Stella, the cleaning, that wonderful sense of order and cleanliness, was not real either. Doody wants to say something to Gavin. Something that will tell him it matters that he is involved in crime, that he keeps going to prison, but she has no words.

  ‘’Bye, Gavin,’ she says.

  ‘’Bye, Imogen.’

  Chapter 24

  Straker sits at the end of the pier with Doody’s clock and glasses beside him, watching the sun rise. The tide is out and the first hints of half-light separate the beach from the water, picking out clumps of black seaweed and the dark, abandoned shapes of the grounded boats. The shoreline is steely grey, then purple, and then copper-brown as the sun pushes up from the horizon. Water murmurs in the pools between the mud flats. The mud sucks and gargles, rolls the sea round in its mouth, then spits it out again. He can hear the day coming, the rush of activity as birds and shellfish emerge into the new warmth of the morning.

  The wires on the flagpole rattle and hiss in the slight breeze as gulls appear from nowhere and whirl in flurries across the mud, watching the distant channel of low water, waiting for it to expand and creep towards the harbour. Straker can feel their excitement as they soar into the fresh blue sky. Flying is the one good memory he has of his younger self. The anticipation of real pleasure as he climbed into the cockpit, that surge of joy as the wheels left the ground and he rose effortlessly upwards.

  The tide turns while he’s sitting, and the water starts to approach at a surprisingly fast rate. Behind him, the village is waking up, the fishermen coming down and preparing to cast off as soon as the water is deep enough. A good day for them, setting off early on the tide, plenty of time to get out to sea.

  Will they come and find him, the relatives? What do they want? What will they do?

  ‘Are you Mr Straker?’

  He turns in surprise and finds a boy standing behind him, dressed in jeans and a warm jacket, hood up and pulled tight round the face, his hair hidden. He’s holding a fishing-rod and looking amiable, but slightly nervous.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ says Straker.

  ‘Nicholas Turner.’ He holds out his spare hand and they shake hands.

  ‘Where are you from, Nicholas Turner?’

  ‘Over there.’ He waves in the direction of a large house up on the cliffs further along the shore. A metal staircase winds down the cliffs to the beach, with a padlocked gate at the top and another at the bottom.

  ‘Do your parents know you’re here?’ He doesn’t look old enough to be out on his own.

  Nicholas shrugs. ‘How should I know? They’re still in bed.’

  They can hear the fishermen, sorting sails, stowing nets, waiting for the tide to pull them off the mud.

  ‘The thing is…’ Nicholas pauses. ‘I’ve forgotten the maggots. They’re the best—cost me a fortune. I bought them yesterday, but my mum wouldn’t let me bring them indoors, so when I got up and it was still dark, I forgot them.’

  ‘Can’t you go back for them?’

  ‘I’m going to, but Duggie Hollingworth will pinch my place.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Of course it does. The best place is at the end in the middle, where you’re sitting.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Only—could you save it for me? So if Duggie Hollingworth gets here before me, he can’t have the space.’

  ‘OK. How long will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be really quick.’ His forehead wrinkles. ‘Have you got time, or do you have to go? It doesn’t matter that much if you do, only it’d be good if you could keep the space for me. That is, unless you want to stay here anyway.’

  He’s like boys Straker used to know at school. Earnest, educated, polite. Nice boys, who played with him if asked by adults, even when they didn’t want to.

  ‘I’ll save it for you.’

  An enormous grin fills his face. ‘Thanks,’ he says, putting down his fishing-rod beside Straker. He runs back down the pier and along the beach to the locked gate. He leapfr
ogs over without opening it, and races up the steps. Straker feels unexpectedly pleased with himself. He can’t remember the last time he spoke to a child.

  It’s inconceivable that his brother Andy is not married with children. He was so good with people. But if Straker’s an uncle, he’d like to have been told. Why have they made no attempt to contact him? Are they waiting for him to take the first step?

  Nicholas returns with his maggots, and shows them to Straker proudly. There’s something fascinating about their frantic pink and blue wriggling. Straker tries to estimate how many there are in the tin—fifty, a hundred?

  ‘No sign of Duggie,’ he says.

  Nicholas grins. ‘Great. He always gets here early, and I hardly ever beat him.’

  ‘What are you hoping to catch?’

  ‘Fish,’ he says.

  ‘Right.’

  Straker gets up to leave, letting Nicholas take his place. ‘I thought you didn’t talk,’ says Nicholas.

  ‘You were mistaken, then, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I suppose I was. I’ll tell my mum she got it wrong.’ He picks up his fishing-rod. ‘Duggie says…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He says you’re dangerous, that you kill people and eat them in your lighthouse.’

  ‘Does he?’

  Nicholas studies him from under his hood. ‘Is he right?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know how you can tell.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  Nicholas starts to fiddle with his fishing-rod. ‘You don’t look like a cannibal,’ he says.

  ‘Good,’ says Straker. ‘You show remarkable discernment.’ He turns to go. ‘’Bye.’

  ‘’Bye,’ says Nicholas, without turning round. ‘Thanks.’

  The church bell starts to chime. Another bell joins in with a hollow, half-hearted attempt to sound welcoming. It must be Sunday and Doody should be at the cottage. She always comes for the weekend. Maybe she’s upstairs in bed. Straker walks round the edge of the village, anxious to avoid anyone going to church, but the roads are deserted. Most houses have their downstairs curtains still drawn, and there is little sign of life away from the harbour.