Flightsend

by Linda Newbery

  ‘In green tights!’ There were shrieks of laughter.

  ‘Let’s all go! Get front row seats!’

  Charlie couldn’t help sticking up for Angus. ‘I think it’s brave of him. Not many people would have the nerve.’

  ‘Not many people would have the legs.’

  ‘Not many people would have the utter stupidity,’ Lisa said. ‘I mean, imagine hauling yourself into school every day, after everyone else has left.’

  ‘So, are you disappointed he didn’t come tonight, Charlie?’ Dawn asked, in a snidey way.

  ‘Oh yeah, Angus for Charlie!’ Fraser made smooching noises. ‘Woah! They’re an item – latest celebrity couple! Call Hello! magazine!’

  Rowan must have made it up, about him wanting me to come tonight, Charlie thought. She looked at her watch and considered phoning her mother.

  ‘Don’t get a lift home from anyone who’s had too much to drink,’ Kathy had told her. ‘I’d rather come and fetch you myself. I don’t like the idea of you being driven about by someone I don’t know. Someone you hardly know, by the sound of it.’

  Charlie knew that her mother would be lying awake, waiting for her to come in. Kathy never complained about it – she trusted Charlie not to do anything daft – but was unable to sleep until she was safely indoors. When Charlie thought of all the disasters that could possibly befall her – car accidents, kidnap, murder, death from sudden illness – she worried more on her mother’s account than on her own. She couldn’t let Kathy down by getting herself killed, maimed or disfigured. Kathy would never get over it.

  All the same, Charlie didn’t want to drag her out of bed at this hour, if Fraser could take her. He was being loud and unfunny, but she didn’t think he’d drunk too much. She looked across at Lisa, who was sitting in a very drawable, languid pose, sprawled on the sofa with one leg curled underneath her and an arm draped over the cushioned back. Charlie thought of the drawing she could do if only she had a sketchbook and pencil; thought of showing it to Oliver Locke tomorrow.

  She’d had enough of sitting about. She went to find Rowan, and found her coming downstairs trailing Russell by the hand.

  ‘Where’ve you been? I want to go home,’ Charlie said.

  ‘We were just coming to look for you.’ Rowan giggled. ‘We fell asleep.’

  ‘Oh, is that what you’ve been doing?’ Charlie asked, sceptically. ‘Let’s collect Fraser, then, and go. If we can prise him away from Dawn.’

  Dawn, hearing about the arrangements, said she was coming, too. Charlie was relieved to find that they were all coming out to Lower Radbourne in the car, rather than Fraser dropping them off at their much nearer homes before taking her on alone.

  They got into Fraser’s battered Escort, Dawn in the passenger seat, Charlie in the back with Russell and Rowan. Fraser put a CD in the stereo and turned up the volume. He drove far more aggressively than he had on the way to the party.

  ‘Careful, there’ll be police about,’ Dawn warned. ‘Lisa’s brother got nicked last Saturday, speeding.’

  Fraser slowed, but once out of town on the country lanes he put his foot down again. He and Dawn were singing along to the music, something Charlie didn’t recognize; Russell had fallen asleep against Rowan’s shoulder.

  Charlie closed her eyes, thinking of Flightsend and bed; then she opened them wide as the car leapt away from a junction. Fraser was driving with one hand on the wheel, his spare arm round Dawn’s neck, and Dawn was giggling and leaning against him. Knowing the lanes well, Charlie kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead, the hedges and gateways illuminated by the headlights. She needed to provide a more attentive pair of eyes for Fraser.

  ‘Fraser, slow down – slow down! – there’s a sharp bend here—’ she called out.

  They were approaching the corner by Devil’s Spinney, a right-angled bend. Fraser braked, not enough. He jerked his spare arm from behind Dawn and grabbed the wheel, losing control so that Charlie saw tree trunks looming dizzily in front of them.

  ‘Oh! Look out!’ Dawn shrieked. ‘There’s a dog, or something—’

  Fraser wrenched at the wheel. Charlie felt a small thud of impact, and Dawn screamed as the front of the car tilted and came to a stop, centimetres away from a gatepost. Fraser clicked off the stereo. Charlie’s ears buzzed in the sudden, blessed silence. It felt like being on a roller-coaster that had come to an abrupt stop, her insides swinging back to their normal place.

  ‘What?’ Russell asked blearily.

  Dawn clapped both hands over her face. ‘Oh, you hit it – that dog!’

  Caspar. The image of Caspar dead and bleeding by the roadside leapt into Charlie’s brain, though there was no reason why he’d be wandering the lanes on his own at night. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the door catch. She felt drunk and befuddled, although she hadn’t had much to drink. She didn’t want to see, but she had to.

  Dawn had got out too, stumbling in her high heels. ‘Uurgh! Don’t touch it! Oh, gross!’

  It was a fox, hit a glancing blow and thrown into the middle of the road. There was enough moonlight for Charlie to see the gleam of teeth, the pale fur under the chin, the bushy tail. A cub, she thought. She touched it carefully, feeling the warmth, the softness of the fur. She had heard and felt the impact; a young creature couldn’t survive that.

  She turned on Fraser, who was examining the front of his car. ‘Look what you’ve done!’

  ‘It’s not my bloody fault!’ he retaliated. ‘The thing was just there.’

  ‘Oh no, what shall we do?’ Dawn wailed. She stood shivering, huddling herself in her arms.

  ‘If you back the car off the verge, I’ll see better in the headlights,’ Charlie told Fraser.

  ‘Sod that. What is it, a fox? You see dozens of the things dead on the roads.’

  Dawn started to cry. ‘Oh, the poor little thing. Is it dead, Charlie?’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Rowan came over to look. ‘Did we kill it? Oh no, how awful! Is it all bloody?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not leaving it here, in the middle of the road,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Uurgh! You’re not going to touch it!’ Dawn jumped back and clung to Fraser.

  Charlie lifted the limp weight of the fox cub and carried it round to the front of the car. In the beam of the headlights she could see its eyes glazing in death, its mouth parted. She didn’t want to look more closely in case there was some horrible injury.

  ‘What is it?’ Rowan asked.

  ‘A fox cub. A beautiful fox cub.’ Charlie carried it through the gateway and laid it down gently in the long grass under a tree. She thought: if I hadn’t agreed to this, it’d still be alive.

  ‘Ugh, Charlie! You’ll catch fleas.’ Dawn was half-giggling, half-crying, leaning against Fraser. ‘Is it dead?’

  ‘Did you hit a tree?’ Russell asked Fraser, fully awake now.

  ‘No, only just missed it. I swerved to avoid that damn thing. The car’s all right.’

  ‘You were going too fast,’ Charlie said. ‘Much too fast.’

  Fraser glared at her. ‘Don’t start treating me like a murderer. It’s only a fox, for Christ’s sake. There are dozens of the things wandering about the roads. What did you expect me to do, crash the car? Kill us all?’

  ‘You were already out of control, before the fox!’ Charlie flashed. ‘If you hadn’t been driving so fast—’

  ‘Well, I was! What are you, Special Branch or something? Going to report me for dangerous driving?’

  ‘Oh, do stop arguing,’ Dawn said, sniffing. ‘It’s dead now. Hadn’t you better move the car, Fraser, in case something comes round the bend?’

  They all stood aside while Fraser started the engine and reversed off the verge. Dawn, Russell and Rowan got back in, and Charlie saw Rowan fastening her seat belt; she hadn’t bothered before.

  ‘Get in, Charlie,’ Fraser said curtly through the driver’s window.

  ‘No thanks. I’ll walk.’

  ‘Don’t be an idi
ot. Get in.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’

  ‘Oh, but Charlie,’ Dawn wailed. ‘You can’t walk off on your own in the middle of the night, miles from anywhere!’

  ‘I’m not miles from anywhere. I’m nearly home.’

  Charlie reached into the car for the small rucksack she’d taken to the party, with her keys in it; then she said a curt ‘Bye,’ and turned to walk the half-mile back to the village. She breathed the cool night air, reassured by the safe, familiar sounds of her footsteps on tarmac and leaves overhead stirring in a faint breeze. An owl screeched somewhere nearby. The car stayed where it was for a few moments; then, presumably urged by Dawn or Rowan, Fraser drove slowly behind her, all the way home, in a ridiculous procession. She didn’t look back. When she got to Flightsend, Fraser reversed down the track, yelled at her, ‘Don’t bother saying thanks for the lift, or anything!’ and pulled away fast, with a squeal of tyres.

  Charlie let herself in, and was greeted by a sleepy Caspar. Kathy came to the top of the stairs in her nightshirt, and called down: ‘Who was that shouting? How was the party?’

  ‘Awful. Really awful,’ Charlie said. She’d been longing for bed but was now wide awake, and furious. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute. D’you want coffee?’

  *

  There was a different model for Sunday’s portrait class – an old man, with a craggy, interesting face. No glasses this time, but lots of wrinkles. By the coffee break, Charlie had produced two sketches, one of which she intended to work up during the afternoon. She’d miss part of the next session, as she was due in the kitchen an hour before lunch, which was always a traditional roast on Sundays.

  Everyone took their coffee out to the lawn. Charlie, seeking shade, found a place under the mulberry tree, and Oliver Locke came to join her.

  ‘How was the party?’

  ‘Terrible.’ Charlie wasn’t going to explain; she wanted to forget about it.

  ‘Why? Boyfriend stand you up?’

  Charlie shook her head. ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend.’ And didn’t particularly want one, she’d realized at the party; there was no one there she was remotely interested in. She liked some of the boys from her form, but only as friends. They were all so immature, she thought now. Especially Fraser Goff, who was a year older.

  ‘How well do you know Sean?’ she asked Oliver.

  ‘Sean?’ He was lying back on the grass, looking up at the canopy of leaves.

  ‘Sean Freeland, PE teacher.’

  ‘Oh, that Sean. Seems a nice guy. He’s one of those muscular, athletic types that makes the rest of us feel flabby and wimpish. I don’t know him at all well, no. Why d’you ask? Are you going to tell me you’re hopelessly in love with him? At least two of the girls in my form are.’

  ‘No! I just wondered. So you don’t know about him and—’

  Oliver lifted his head. ‘No, who?’

  ‘Him and my mum.’

  Charlie wished she hadn’t started this; she’d assumed he would know about Sean and her mother. But there were sixty-something people on the staff, and Sean, being a PE teacher, was busy most lunchtimes with practices and matches. Oliver’s department was in a separate building, and the art teachers were a close-knit group. It wasn’t really surprising if he and Sean hardly knew each other.

  ‘Sean Freeland and your mum?’ He raised himself on his elbows to look at her. ‘Are they going out?’

  ‘Not any more. Sean lived with us for five years.’

  ‘When your mum was on the staff? I remember her, vaguely, the year I started. She left to have a baby, didn’t she? Why did they split up?’

  Oh God. She’d have to tell him the whole story.

  Then she saw, to her vast relief, the plump woman called Audrey – the one who’d complimented her on her drawing yesterday – coming over the grass towards them.

  ‘Charlie,’ she called out, ‘you live in the village, don’t you? Do you know the local footpaths? Sheila and I were thinking of going for a walk later, before we go home.’

  ‘Sure, there’s a map in the entrance hall.’ Charlie got quickly to her feet. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Rowan phoned that evening. ‘I’m sorry about last night. I’ve tried to phone you three times already. It wasn’t a very good party, was it?’

  ‘I’m surprised you noticed,’ Charlie said.

  Rowan ignored this. ‘And I’m sorry about Fraser. I mean, he told Russell he liked you, he really did. I know you must think I was making it up, but I wasn’t, honestly.’

  ‘You think I’m disappointed ? I couldn’t care less about Fraser. He’s a total nerd who killed a fox and was more bothered about his stupid car.’

  ‘It was awful about the fox. Dawn cried nearly all the way home.’

  ‘Dawn!’ Charlie said scornfully. ‘Fraser’s welcome to her.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think it was my fault,’ Rowan said. ‘Because I really did want you to have a good time. There’s this other party next Saturday—’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll be working.’

  ‘Well, when will I see you? We’re going to Tenerife for a fortnight, the Monday after the sixth form days. D’you want to come over before we go?’

  She could offer to come here, Charlie thought. She said, ‘I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

  ‘What with?’ Rowan sounded curious. ‘Have you met someone, out there in the sticks?’

  To Rowan, meeting someone meant meeting a boy.

  ‘Of course I haven’t,’ Charlie said. ‘Who is there to meet? I’ll see you at the leavers’ do on Friday. Are you going to the play? A Midsummer Night’s Dream? I am, if I can get time off.’

  Rowan giggled. ‘Aberdeen Angus in his fairy costume? Oh yes, I’m not missing that.’

  Charlie rang off, thinking without real envy of Rowan’s Tenerife trip. Rowan’s family always had a beach holiday, never venturing far from their chosen resort, bringing back photos of themselves by the poolside which might as well have been taken in their back garden. Russell was going with them this time; otherwise Rowan would probably have refused to go.

  Charlie and her mother didn’t have money to spare for going away, and anyway Kathy couldn’t leave her nursery plants at this time of year. Charlie’s last holiday had been five days with her mother and grandmother in Scarborough last summer. Before that, there had been trips to the Lake District with Sean and Mum, staying in a cottage. Charlie thought of boat trips on Coniston Water, walks on the fells, huge meals afterwards in Ambleside or Keswick: the only kind of holiday she knew. She thought of the names of the fells – wonderful, evocative names. Helvellyn and Haystacks. Cat Bells, Red Screes and Blencathra.

  Moving into her bedroom at Flightsend, sorting through her stuff, Charlie had found an old photograph of herself and Sean on the summit of Great Gable, taken by Mum. They were both smiling and windblown, Sean in a green fleece, Charlie twelve and unselfconscious, with her hair in plaits. She remembered that day: the long, hot ascent, the worn scree paths near the summit, herself and Mum tiring, Sean encouraging, then the triumph of reaching the top, and not wanting to go down. Charlie liked that photo, and the memories that went with it, and had pinned it to her cork board. Her mother, in and out of the bedroom, must have noticed it there but had never once referred to it. It might have been three strangers who climbed Great Gable.

  Landing

  Charlie laid out the portraits on the kitchen table to show Kathy, who was impressed.

  ‘They’re very good. Especially that one.’ She pointed to the portrait of the old man. ‘I mean, I’ve never seen that man but I feel as if I have. He looks as if he’s about to open his mouth and speak to me.’

  ‘Yes, I like that one best. Mr Locke – Oliver – is a brilliant teacher. He can always tell you just the right thing when you’re stuck.’

  ‘I think the whole Art department is very strong, judging by the results,’ her mother said. ‘What’s the name of that young woman, the head of department? Oh – Lizzie
something – Lizzie Pearson. She’s supposed to be outstandingly good. And there’s that older man, Nigel something, who’s had screen-prints exhibited at the Arts Centre.’

  Charlie felt unreasonably annoyed by the implication that anyone could be as good as Oliver Locke. Anyway, she hadn’t been talking about school. There would be a two-week gap before Oliver next came to Nightingales – next weekend’s courses were Butterflies and Moths of Northamptonshire, and Map-Reading for Beginners. She was determined to have something good to show him in a fortnight’s time, something she would do on her own. She thought she might do some drawing on the airfield, try to capture its atmosphere of isolation.

  Kathy had completed her garden plans for Nightingales and was due to show them to Dan and Fay that afternoon, while Charlie looked after the plant shop. The plans, drawn to scale on squared paper, with a separate plant-list, looked very professional to Charlie, but her mother was anxious. ‘I’ve never done this before – worked properly to scale, or planned in such detail. With my own garden, it’s all instinct and guesswork.’

  ‘You should think about it,’ Charlie told her. ‘Offering a garden design service. You could put an ad in the paper. It’s the trendy thing nowadays, isn’t it – having someone design your garden?’

  ‘Who’d take me on? I haven’t got any qualifications.’

  ‘You could get some.’ Charlie, who occasionally browsed through her mother’s gardening magazines, had seen short design courses on offer, with diplomas awarded at the end. ‘It doesn’t really matter what. Just as long as you get letters after your name.’

  ‘I’ve already got letters,’ her mother reminded her. ‘BA. And PGCE. Post-Graduate Certificate in Education,’ she added in response to Charlie’s puzzled look.

  ‘Well, you can use those. Pretend it stands for – wait – Botanical Adviser. Professor of Garden Creativity Extraordinaire.’

  Kathy looked sceptical. ‘Hmm. Are you taking Caspar out?’

  ‘Yes. Now.’ Charlie cleared away her drawings.

  She thought she might draw the rusted cross and the long grasses at the foot of the tree, but although she walked confidently to what she thought was the place, she couldn’t find it. She couldn’t see the cross, or the badger sett. Caspar was no help, more interested in snapping at the brown butterflies that fluttered among the grasses. It couldn’t be that difficult; all she had to do was follow the perimeter fence. The hot, dry weather had turned the colours all tawny: bleached grasses, rust-coloured sorrel, yellow hawkbit.