Natural Flights of the Human Mind

by Clare Morrall

  Straker’s head turns towards Doody again. His mouth opens and she can see his white teeth and pink mouth. ‘Doody,’ he says and smiles, shutting his mouth before the oil gets in.

  Suddenly she feels good, although she’s soaking wet and her Tiger Moth has gone.

  The water slaps against the side of the boat. Connal’s rowing seems more efficient as they head back for the harbour, cutting easily through the sea. The red cliffs are glowing in the afternoon light and their reflection glimmers on the water. It’s just possible to see the stripes of the lighthouse on the next headland as it catches the sun.

  Epilogue

  Harry has been walking for three hours. He caught the train to Exeter and a bus, but then, rather than wait for a second bus, decided to walk—because he likes walking. He has a sleeping-bag with him, there’s no hurry. You don’t have any control over natural processes. He might have to wait several days.

  He thinks of Alison at home, the welcoming atmosphere of her kitchen, people dropping in regularly, knowing that there’s always food available. He thought at first that he would resent this sharing of Alison, the way she has so many friends. They tell her their secrets, ask her advice, want her approval. But what he actually feels is pride that, of all the people who like and need her, he’s the one she chose. She took him in and offered him her home, so he’s different and that’s the only thing that matters in the end.

  And she has never questioned it when he says he doesn’t want to go abroad because he can’t get a passport. He could be a criminal for all she knows, or an illegal immigrant.

  ‘Harry Stanwick,’ she said once. ‘Whatever you want, we do it. No questions, no prying. We live together, we share, we’re happy. That’s it.’

  One day he will tell her.

  Harry adjusts his step to cope with a niggling nerve above his left knee that has bothered him ever since the accident. The extra weight he has gained in the last few years hasn’t helped. He rolls towards the right leg until it feels more comfortable, then continues to walk, enjoying the comfortable rhythm of his stride.

  ‘I want to see it go,’ he said to her yesterday. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘There’ll be lots of other people there. You don’t like people.’

  ‘I know. But I want to see it go.’

  She grinned at him, with the lopsided, knowing smile he loved. ‘Go, then,’ she said.

  ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘What? Hang around in the cold? No way. I’ll be here when you get back. Hotpot, I think, with some fresh lamb from the farm.’

  ‘It may take a few days.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You can ring me. Then I’ll start cooking.’

  His stomach moves as he walks, and he knows he should stop eating so much, but he doesn’t really care. He has come to believe that food is the path to happiness, and wonders why he never understood this before.

  He walks across the uneven grass towards the lighthouse, passing more and more people, cars, motorbikes, television vans. There are men with cameras, professionals with tripods, and amateurs, media people, all of them talking to locals, tourists, visitors, observers like him who have travelled to witness the event. He stops a little way short and watches them all. He doesn’t want to be noticed or interviewed. He puts up his hood and pulls the drawstring so that it covers his mouth. Once he feels secure he walks further on.

  There’s a police cordon well short of the lighthouse.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ says a policeman, as he approaches it. ‘You can’t go any further. Not safe.’

  ‘Any idea how much longer it will take?’

  The policeman smiles. ‘Any time now, the experts say. There again, they’ve been saying that for the last week.’

  The lighthouse is leaning at a precarious angle, unbelievably still in one piece. The edge of the cliff is so close that it looks as if a child could push it over with a single finger. Harry stands for a long time, studying it. He’s seen the pictures in the papers, and it’s exactly as he imagined. He’s not quite sure why it’s so important to him to see it go into the sea. Something to do with his childhood, when he came here with his family, all his brothers, when his life was uncomplicated before he met Imogen. They owned a cottage further along the coast and they came every Easter, running along the clifftop every morning, until they reached the lighthouse. Then home for breakfast. It was a fundamental ritual of their life together until he went off to university and met Imogen. He used to have a photograph in his room—his family when young, posing, with the sea behind them. Happy, innocent.

  The lighthouse is a symbol of all that’s gone before, of the life he abandoned. When it falls into the sea, he hopes it will take his past with it, and demolish some of the burden that he has carried around with him for so many years. Once the cliff starts to crumble, you can’t put it back together again, however much you want to. In the end, the whole thing collapses. Some things just can’t be saved.

  ‘I told you Magnificent would still come back if you didn’t shut him in.’

  He half turns, the voices quite close to him. He sees a tall, wiry man with a dark beard, streaked with grey, leaning on a walking-stick, and a short, sturdy woman next to him, picking up a Siamese cat. She has neatly cut grey-blonde hair, and her face is sharp and animated. As she talks to the man, her eyes are darting around, strong and intelligent. There’s something about the way she stands there, her face cross, that makes him turn away quickly.

  Surely not. He must be mistaken.

  ‘He’ll be all right. Cats are survivors.’

  ‘Nonsense. Cats are not familiar with lighthouses collapsing.’

  ‘Suleiman knows. We passed him on the way up here. Sitting up a tree, watching.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Harry remains still, his heart pounding. It’s Imogen. He knows it’s Imogen. The expression, the voice, the manner. But it’s impossible. His mind whirls, he tries to remember how she looked when he last saw her, the physical details, and he can’t remember. The more he tries to produce a picture, the more vague it all becomes. He has felt the responsibility of his abandonment of her for most of his adult life. More than the worry about his family. The day he stepped out of the crashed train and walked away, the guilt settled down over him like a blanket and it has never left him. He has always known that he should have gone back and identified himself, but when he turned away from the train he became someone else. He was being offered a new life. A new name, a chance to go the way he wanted to go, and although he sometimes wakes at night, almost suffocated by that blanket of guilt, he has never seriously considered giving up his accidentally acquired freedom.

  She laughs. He doesn’t hear what the man says that is funny, or what she says, but the sudden burst of hilarity is something he remembers right from the beginning, the laugh that fizzled and died quietly after they married. And he sees that she’s all right. All his years of worry have been wasted because here she is, happy, married presumably, watching a lighthouse collapse with the same degree of interest as himself. She’s survived. They have both survived and flourished away from each other.

  The pile on the blanket of guilt is wearing thin, becoming threadbare. Maybe only his mother now prevents him tearing it into holes and discarding it completely.

  People start to shout, and there’s a loud roar, a rumbling vibration beneath his feet, like an earthquake.

  ‘It’s going!’

  Huge cracks in the side widen and somehow slide apart, the top leans over at an impossible angle, and breaks off, disintegrating as it flies over the cliff, the violent crash mingling with the wind and waves. It collapses in slow motion, an enormous explosion, bricks spitting out and flying through the air. It’s like-an oversized Lego tower weakened by loose joints, pushed by a child-giant, rolling over, tumbling down into the ever-ready, waiting sea.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the
following:

  Chris, Pauline, Gina, Jeff and Dorothy for their energy, generosity and willingness to argue with me.

  The Gateley family for not minding my presence on their upstairs floor while they get on with their lives.

  Laura Longrigg for all her help, criticism and support. I didn’t realise that having an agent would be such a pleasant experience.

  Tony Podmore for an enlightening three hours going round the Shuttleworth collection of old aircraft at Old Warden, and for persuading me that a Tiger Moth would be more realistic than a Sopwith Camel. They do have a beautiful Sopwith Pup there, however. I was greatly tempted.

  Mark Webb for teaching me how to fly without ever leaving the ground.

  The charming retired lighthouse-keeper, whose name I don’t know, who showed me and my daughter around the lighthouse on the Lizard on a very wet and windy day. I don’t think he will remember us.

  Carole Welch, Amber Burlinson and Hazel Orme, whose rigorous editing was much appreciated, and everyone else at Sceptre, who gave me such a good time when I first met them.

  All those Biggles books from my past. The references to Biggles are the result of my respect and gratitude for a misspent childhood.

  Alex and Heather for sharing my earlier success with such enthusiasm.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…

  About the author

  2 A Conversation with Clare Morrall

  About the book

  6 Writing Natural Flights of the Human Mind

  8 Biggles: A Modest Superhero

  Read on

  12 Astonishing Splashes of Colour: An Excerpt

  About the author

  A Conversation with Clare Morrall

  Where were you born? What events from your childhood stand out?

  I was born in Exeter, Devon, England, and grew up in a fishing village on the estuary of the river Exe not far from Exmouth. I have two brothers and a sister. I was the second child. I attended the village school until I was eleven, then traveled on the train every day to Exeter for secondary school. I don’t remember many details from childhood because I spent most of my time reading and didn’t pay much attention to what was going on around me. I lived in a world of fiction.

  What did your parents do?

  My father was a physics lecturer at Exeter University all his adult life. My mother worked part-time teaching French in adult education, having gained a degree at Oxford during the war.

  When and how did you first take to writing?

  I have been writing as long as I can remember, from as soon as I could read. I wrote stories and began large numbers of Enid Blyton—type novels which I never finished. There was a period when my children were young when I didn’t write or read—I found caring for babies exhausting—but I started writing seriously when I was about thirty. I went to a writing class. After about six months of writing short stories I embarked on my first novel. Astonishing Splashes of Colour was my fifth completed novel and the first to be published.

  Russell Banks dressed window mannequins; Louise Erdrich waved a flag for a road crew; Francine Prose worked in a Bellevue morgue—what jobs did Clare Morrall have prior to becoming a writer?

  I have worked as a receptionist in an X-ray department; soldered printed circuit boards; worked in a seaside café cooking ham and chips, egg and chips, sausage and chips, bacon, beans, and chips, etc.; and I’ve been a lollipop lady. (That is what we in England call a school crossing guard because of the round STOP sign on a stick, which looks like a lollipop.)

  What is your earliest memory of reading and being influenced by a book?

  All my earliest memories are of books. I have a much clearer picture of books than I have of people. I can remember crying at the death of Robin Hood. He told Little John to shoot an arrow into the forest and wanted to be buried where it landed. I could never work out how they would find it.

  Do you still teach music at a prep school?

  Yes, I do still teach at the school and give some lessons at home in the evening.

  “Astonishing Splashes of Colour was my fifth completed novel and the first to be published.”

  Your schedule must be fraught—what does your average weekday look like?

  I teach violin and piano, so I start instructing children at five years of age. When they leave school at eleven they often come to my home so that they can continue. I don’t work as many hours as I used to and my mornings are now free. This means that I can write for three or four mornings a week—the rest of the time is taken up with other necessary things, like visits to the doctor, shopping, etc. I enjoy this schedule. It’s helpful to carry on with teaching, since it gives me structure and means that I regularly communicate with people.

  How many years did you work away at Astonishing? Were you teaching during this time? Lastly, how many times was your manuscript rejected?

  It took about five years to write Astonishing. I was teaching for long hours during this period, and I only had about two hours a week available for writing—sometimes not even that. It was very difficult to fit it in, but I kept going because I wanted to. I sent the manuscript to thirty-three agents before sending it to Tindal Street. Two were mildly interested, but not enough to take it on. One was very interested but changed her mind.

  “It took about five years to write Astonishing. I was teaching for long hours during this period, and I only had about two hours a week available for writing—sometimes not even that.”

  Have you any writerly quirks? When and where do you write? PC or pen?

  A few years ago one of the mothers from my school offered me a room in her home to write, so I go there to do most of my writing. It’s a very big house and I have a room on the top floor, so even if everyone’s at home there is enough room to absorb us all. I don’t mind the children arguing in the distance because they’re not my children! I write my first draft directly on the computer because my mind moves very fast and I want to get it down quickly before I lose it all. I would never let anyone see this draft because it’s usually rubbish. Then I work on it by hand, typing out several revised drafts as I go.

  What are your interests and enthusiasms—any hobbies or outdoor pursuits?

  I don’t have much spare time and until now my main hobby has been writing. But I enjoy gardening—we recently moved, so we had to create the garden from builders’ rubble—crosswords when I have time, and reading, of course.

  Husband, partner, children, pet(s)?

  I’m divorced. I have two adult daughters. Alex lives in London and is a business analyst. Heather is a student and lives at home with me. We have three cats: Benz (we had a Mercedes once, but she died), Portia, and Marmaduke.

  About the book

  Writing Natural Flights of the Human Mind

  NATURAL FLIGHTS started with a picture in my head of a small biplane circling a lighthouse. The picture would not go away, and my interest grew when I saw an advertisement for a vacation home in a converted lighthouse. Living miles away from anyone, alone with the wind and the sea, appealed to me. Lacking the initiative—and the resources—I haven’t moved there myself, but I thought my imagination could produce someone who had.

  I wanted to write about guilt. It is a destructive emotion, but without it you cannot have acknowledgement of responsibility or redemption. How do you live with bad decisions, carelessness, or errors, especially if your actions have led to disaster? I’ve worried about the man who didn’t close the doors properly on the Herald of Free Enterprise passenger ferry or the engineer who last inspected the tire which burst on the Concorde. There is a culture of blame in our society, yet everyone makes mistakes and behaves carelessly on occasion. Most of us are just lucky, and nothing happens. But what if it does?

  “I wanted to write about guilt. It is a destructive emotion, but without it you cannot have acknowledgement of responsibility or redemption.”

  It is also about death and grief. I wanted to touch and care about the people who die in the accident.
They should not be just numbers, but people with real lives and relatives and dilemmas. I am interested in the impact of premature death on families and friends, and the way it goes on affecting them, reaching out its tentacles and drawing them in, long after the event. Grief can be passed down. It can alter people’s personalities, their relationships within families, the way they bring up their children, and the way those children bring up their own children. Sudden violent death must inevitably take generations to resolve.

  The biplane turned out to be a Tiger Moth, and Biggles makes a fleeting but significant appearance in the novel. We have furiously argued in my writing group about how much Biggles should be included, but I am most influenced by the fact that we always end up laughing. I like this. Humor and grief are both the result of heightened emotions and are closer than we realize. Tragedy is always more powerful if there is humor as well. Biggles and the Tiger Moth need to be there.

  I squeezed a lot into this novel and rejected a lot more, but the rejected characters are already crowding their way back into my thoughts, queuing up for a place in my mind, and jostling for position. New pictures are forming in my mind that won’t go away. The next novel is just around the corner.

  “I am interested in the impact of premature death on families and friends, and the way it goes on affecting them, reaching out its tentacles and drawing them in, long after the event.”

  Biggles

  A Modest Superhero

  I CAN’T REMEMBER the moment when I decided to allow Biggles some space in my new novel, but I imagine he just turned up one day demanding attention. An ingrained loyalty to past escapism meant that I had to take him seriously. There’s an inner store in my mind, a bag of glittery details that I’ve accumulated over the years. Biggles was probably sitting around waiting for an opportunity and jumped out when I was rummaging around for something else.