Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  The cottage garden feels empty. He leaves the glasses and the clock on the doorstep, and goes round to peer through the back windows. Now that it’s light, he can see in properly. The kitchen appears to be different. The walls have been painted pale yellow and there’s a frieze at eye level, with large hens walking round in single file. He’s impressed by these hens. They are bold and stylish—they tell him that she knows what she’s doing, and she doesn’t need any help from him. A yellow and orange cloth covers the table, and dishes sit in the drainer on the side of sink. It looks like a kitchen where someone lives. A vase of flowers stands in the middle of the table.

  He steps back and takes a breath, shocked by the flowers. He knows flowers are sold in Sainsbury’s, but he’s never given them much thought, accepting they are for confident, knowledgeable people. People who think about appearances, who know what they want.

  He stands behind the cottage for some time and thinks about this. The world he doesn’t know. The world he never knew. How does Doody understand what to do? She’s not exactly conventional.

  It’s her unpredictability that he likes.

  He goes back to the front and sits on the grass in the sun with his back leaning against the wall. He shuts his eyes and thinks of Simon Taverner, feeling oddly attached to him—protective, even. Simon is so old, so frail, so in need of support. Straker starts planning to return, offering to do his shopping, do some repairs for him, decorate his flat, put down carpet…

  It’s Maggie. Whenever he sees Simon in his mind, she is there too, smiling up from the photographs, her presence still tangible after all this time.

  Can he put the accident into some kind of perspective, go on as if it never happened? Or does forgetting mean not thinking about it, letting other things crowd in, take its place? Does he need compartments in his mind? Rooms that are occupied, that he needs to visit only occasionally? Not forget, just walk past, seeing through the open door.

  ‘Maggie, I need to speak to you. I know you said you were going, but I think I’m getting somewhere.’

  Silence.

  Francis: ‘We’re here, old man. Holding the fort.’

  ‘Do you two have relatives?’

  Francis laughs. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  Justin: ‘Aunt Amy, Uncle Fred. Dreadful—my dad used to go out when he knew they were coming.’

  ‘But what about your mum, your dad—you had a sister, didn’t you? Penny, wasn’t it?’

  Justin’s voice becomes softer, more vulnerable. ‘So? Everyone’s got a mum and dad.’

  ‘How old would they be now?’

  ‘Work it out. You’re the one with the brain.’

  ‘What about you, Francis? What about your parents?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Do you think they’ll come and see me? With all the other relatives? Apparently they’re coming here.’

  Justin and Francis yell with laughter. ‘Hey, terrific. The showdown. The Gunfight at the OK Corral. Can we watch?’

  I discover a curious emptiness inside me. My parents won’t be there. ‘I don’t know what they want.’

  ‘Calm down, Straker.’

  ‘Maggie! You’re listening.’

  ‘Only occasionally. Only if I want to.’

  She’s watching over me! ‘I wanted to tell you. About the door, the open door, the room. I don’t always have to go into it, you know.’

  ‘Careful, Straker. You might be growing up.’

  In the next two weeks, he visits the cottage several times, always expecting to find Doody there but missing her on each occasion. There is evidence that she has been, but they don’t meet. Is she deliberately avoiding him? He needs to talk to her, but doesn’t know how to find her. He has no phone number, no home address. Their paths only converge at the cottage. Will she ever speak to him again? It’s nearly the end of August, and the school term will start soon.

  One Sunday, he decides to cut the lilac away from the windows, and he has just started when a man opens the gate and walks up the path. If Straker had seen him coming, he could have gone round the back and avoided speaking to him. As it is, there’s nothing he can do except stand up and wait for him to get within speaking distance.

  ‘Hi,’ says the man. He’s tall and thin, and has straight ginger hair that flops over his forehead. ‘Is Imogen in?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Straker. ‘No.’

  ‘She should be here. They’re bringing in the Tiger Moth today. She won’t want to miss it.’

  So it’s a Tiger Moth. Straker wonders if Doody’s happy with that.

  ‘Look, are you a friend? Of Imogen’s?’

  Straker hesitates.

  ‘You know about the aeroplane?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to come and watch? She’s been renovated and they’re delivering her today. Flying her in. Should be any time now.’

  ‘No,’ says Straker.

  But the man doesn’t seem to hear him. ‘My name’s Tony, by the way,’ he says.

  Straker feels pulled in two directions. He doesn’t want to see the aeroplane again. He’s afraid of what it symbolises, afraid of the dreams and sensations that may return to him. At the same time, the thought of seeing it fly thrills him, sending a tingling sensation down his spine. He dithers between the two.

  Tony gives him no choice. ‘We’d better get a move on.’

  Straker finds himself walking up the road with Tony, who talks without waiting for a response. ‘My wife’s getting fed up with the whole thing. I’ve been down here every weekend working on the field. We’ve had diggers in, levelling it out, and now it’s all turfed. She says if I don’t stop soon, she’ll divorce me. Of course she doesn’t mean it. It’s just her way of telling me she’s had enough. We don’t believe in divorce. I mean, all our friends are splitting up, and you should see their children. Swamped by material possessions, two homes, sets of clothes and toys for each home, but they don’t know whether they’re coming or going. It makes you grateful for what you’ve got, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ says Straker, ‘I don’t really—’

  But Tony is too diverted by his own conversation. Straker wonders if he could just run away.

  ‘Funny Imogen’s not here. I phoned to tell her the date. Maybe she got the day wrong. She’s been busy at home—packing to move down here, I gather. I couldn’t make it yesterday. My daughter was taking part in a show. They all go to holiday clubs. Odd concept. Didn’t do it like that when I was a child. They do everything now, you know, gym, bands, drama, things like that. Keeps them occupied all through the summer holidays. I’ve only got three children, but they go to everything. Sally does ballet and gym in term time as well. They say she has to choose one and drop the other, but she won’t. She’s too good at both of them.’

  So Doody is going to move down to the cottage.

  They arrive at the pathway, and Tony opens the gate properly, with the catch. He stands back to let Straker pass and then shuts it. ‘Ouch!’ he says, and sucks his finger. ‘Must be a splinter.’

  They walk up the pathway, which has been cut back and widened considerably. ‘Dreadful job getting the lorry up here to take her away,’ says Tony. ‘Luckily the wings are hinged—don’t know what they’d have done otherwise.’

  The field has been transformed—flattened, turfed, a windsock up at the end. Four men are standing by the barn with a small tractor containing a fire extinguisher. It all looks painfully familiar to Straker—a more amateur version of the airfield he remembers.

  ‘Any luck?’ says one of them to Tony, as the two men approach.

  ‘No sign of her, I’m afraid,’ he says.

  He introduces them. ‘This is Ben, Frank, Terry, Kasra…’

  Straker shakes hands with them all, but can’t look into their eyes. They seem too young, too eager, too friendly. ‘So it’s a Tiger Moth?’ he says.

  Tony smiles. ‘Yes. Imogen thought it was a First World War aeroplane. Bit disappointed, I thi
nk, but it’s still quite a find. I don’t think she’s decided what to do with it yet, so we’re bringing it back here for the time being.’

  ‘It’s been restored, then?’

  ‘Specialist firm,’ says Tony. ‘You need that nowadays. The safety laws are so stringent.’

  Straker’s legs have started to tremble. He tries to be calm. ‘What was that about the wings being hinged?’

  Tony laughs. ‘Unbelievably clever design. They made them on hinges so they’d fold back, like a moth’s. It meant more flexibility about where you could keep them.’

  ‘Right,’ says Straker, incapable of producing the necessary interest. He turns away, panic threatening to swamp him. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Something I forgot—’

  ‘Here she comes,’ shouts Tony, pointing to the south-west. They follow his finger and see a tiny speck coming out of the sun, hear the little engine puttering away. It grows quickly, the shape becoming clearer until they can see every detail—the flimsy wings, vibrating wires, even the pilot’s face looking down at them through his goggles. He raises a gloved hand and waves.

  He circles the airfield once, disappears behind some trees at the end, then emerges suddenly over the hedge, ready for the approach to the landing strip, directly into the wind.

  Within seconds, the wheels touch, bounce slightly, touch again, then stay. It runs a short distance, slows, turns round 180 degrees, and taxis towards them at the end of the field before stopping.

  The pilot stands up, steps on to the wing, then jumps down. There’s oil on his face, with white rims round his eyes where the goggles have protected his skin. He looks like a giant panda.

  Everyone is talking at once, crowding round him and slapping his back. He pulls off his goggles and grins at everyone. ‘Great flight. Handles beautifully.’

  Straker stands back and watches them. He sees himself a long time ago with Justin and Francis, climbing into the Warrior—

  ‘Tony!’ Doody’s voice floats over from some distance away. She’s striding across the field towards them.

  Shock forces Straker to move. It’s so long since he last spoke to her that he finds he can’t do it. It’s not the right moment. She’s angry. She’s come to shout at Tony, not him. He turns away quickly and dodges round the side of the barn. While she storms up to Tony, he runs round the back and down the path to the road, certain he hasn’t been seen. He can hear her shouting.

  ‘I can’t believe I missed it. It’s my plane. I wanted to be here when he flew in.’

  Straker can just hear Tony’s voice, calm and apologetic: ‘I’m so sorry, Imogen. I went to look for you. You can’t always time these things exactly…’

  There’s a new voice in my dreams.

  ‘Pete, Pete.’ It’s very distant, not as confident as Maggie and the others.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just do.’

  He is someone who was there. Someone who can tell me what happened. I don’t want to hear him, but I do want to hear him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You must know who you are. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Everybody knows their own name. What’s yours?’

  ‘I’m confused, I’m not sure.’

  His voice seems to be fading, growing weaker.

  ‘Your name, I must know your name.’

  I can hear him going away, but know it’s important. ‘Your name, your name…’

  ‘Steve.’

  Straker wakes up with a jerk, the name in his ears. Steve. He knows a Steve. He knew a Steve. Who was he? There was no one on the list of victims called Steve. Was he one of the unidentified nine? But he knew Straker. How? Was he on the plane with him? Steve…Steve…

  He rolls off the mattress, surprised to find that the sun is high in the sky and washing the room with a clear, benign light. Why is he in bed during the day? Magnificent comes through the door from the stairs, rubbing his face against the crooked doorpost and arching his back. Straker puts out a hand and ruffles the thick softness of his fur, and tries to concentrate.

  He has no recollection of coming home. He remembers the flight, the breathlessness, the terror and running away from Doody, but he can’t remember rowing back across the bay, climbing the stairs of the lighthouse or getting into his bed.

  He gets up and goes to the window, his whole body aching. The tide is up, and a fresh wind is whipping the tops of the waves into white, urgent foam. It must be early afternoon. He picks up Magnificent, letting him snuggle into his shoulder, and they climb the steps to the light room. He goes out on to the balcony and stops.

  Doody is sitting on the grass at the foot of the lighthouse, gazing out to sea. Her car is parked nearby.

  She’s come to confront him over her husband. Now he has the chance to speak to her and apologise—but he’s afraid. The idea seems rational and civilised, but it doesn’t take account of Doody’s unpredictability, the level of her fury. He steps back, out of sight, and breathes hard, trying not to make a sound, knowing she can’t possibly hear him up here anyway.

  He leans forward to check, wondering if he imagined it. No, she’s still there, gazing out to sea, looking surprisingly relaxed.

  She turns round and sees him. He steps back, but he’s too late.

  ‘Straker!’ she shouts.

  He can’t hear her, but presumes she’s shouting his name.

  She calls again, putting her hands round her mouth in the way that children do, believing it will make their voices carry further.

  He runs down the stairs, faster and faster, not sure why, but rushing to open the door for her. Then, when he reaches the bottom, he hesitates, suddenly nervous.

  He turns the lock, and the door swings open on its own, because it no longer fits properly. Doody is standing outside. They face each other, and Straker can’t think of anything to say.

  ‘Have you got anything to eat?’ she says.

  He nods, and she follows him upstairs. He finds some Penguins and a packet of Scotch eggs. He still can’t think of anything to say, so he starts to make coffee on his portable stove.

  She takes one bite of a Scotch egg, chews for a second and then fixes Straker with her green eyes. ‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she says.

  So her husband was on the train.

  ‘I wanted to be there when he flew her in. I wanted to see it. And you saw it without me.’

  He breathes again, and pours out the hot water. He’s only got one mug so he’ll have to wait until she’s finished.

  ‘There was a hold-up on the M5. I should have had plenty of time—couldn’t even use my mobile because we were moving slowly all the way.’ She starts to eat more rapidly. ‘I’m so hungry,’ she says, between bites. ‘Why didn’t you stay?’

  He looks at her in amazement. Did she really want him to be there? The murderer of her husband?

  ‘And where have you been? I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘What? What did you think?’

  Straker takes a breath. ‘Your husband,’ he says.

  She says nothing for a while, and just eats. ‘How do you get up there?’ she says. ‘Where I saw you. By the light.’

  He waves at the corner. ‘Up the stairs.’

  ‘Can I go up?’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  He leads the way. They emerge, panting, into the light room and then go out on to the balcony. Magnificent is still there, lying on his back, fast asleep with his paws dangling in the air, exposing his most vulnerable parts, wind ruffling the white hair on his stomach. The great warrior.

  Imogen walks round the light several times, stopping to look out at the sea, leaning over the barrier. ‘Wow!’ she shouts into the wind. ‘You can see the cottage.’

  There’s an oil tanker on the horizon, apparently stationary but maybe moving fast. It won’t be possib
le to tell for a few hours. The roar of the sea is louder up here, and the wind rattles the loose window-frames, whistles through the railings.

  Imogen says something, but he can’t hear in the wind. He looks at her blankly, and she moves closer. ‘It’s all right about Harry. My husband.’

  He’s not sure what she means.

  ‘I don’t know if he was on the train or not yet. But, anyway, it’s OK.’

  ‘So he might not have been on it?’

  ‘I’m waiting to find out.’

  It must take time to identify an unidentified body. He still could have been on it.

  ‘Let’s go back in,’ she shouts.

  ‘Go down the stairs backwards,’ he says in her ear. ‘It’s safer.’

  Once inside, they have to wait a while to let their hearing return to normal.

  ‘I’ve been to speak to his mother,’ she says. ‘I haven’t seen her for years and she’s completely changed—not the same woman at all.’ She takes a breath. ‘I never knew him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Harry. He was a figment of my imagination.’

  ‘But I thought you were married to him.’

  She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t mean a thing. I realised when I went back that we’d been children. We had no idea what we were doing. I don’t think I ever knew the real Harry.’

  Straker doesn’t fully understand what she’s telling him, but she seems pleased about something, so he lets her go on talking.

  ‘It was the photographs.’

  For a shocked moment, he thinks she had been somewhere behind him in Simon Taverner’s flat, watching him go through all the old photographs of Maggie.

  ‘The rugby teams. He played rugby, and he’s sitting there in the photographs, arms folded, his great hairy knees in front of him, looking directly at the camera, completely serious with all those other boys, and I thought, I never knew him. We lived in different worlds. I can’t imagine why he ever got caught up with me. I was so unsuitable.’

  ‘So what happened to him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, and I don’t think I care any more. It was all too long ago.’

  Nevertheless, I forgive you.

  She’s standing in front of Straker, all flushed and excited, and she seems to glow, her eyes sparkling more than they used to. There’s gentle pink in her cheeks, and she appears quite different from when he first met her. Has she lost weight, become fitter and browner from working at the cottage, less sharp-edged? He’s not sure about this—he needs to think—