He loved her; she knew he did. Not in the dizzy, sick-with-longing way she now loved him; but still. It was more than enough to make her happy.
Flight’s End
When the guests came in for Sunday breakfast, Charlie sneaked a look round the doorway to see where Oliver Locke was sitting.
‘You do this end, I’ll do the other,’ she said to Suzanne.
‘OK. You get the newly-assertive. Don’t give them burnt toast or slopped coffee.’
Charlie had successfully avoided Oliver all weekend. He’d tried to talk to her on Friday night, cornering her in the entrance hall: ‘Look, I’m sorry if you didn’t like having Kieran. I won’t ask you again.’
He was so thick-skinned; he didn’t understand at all. Aloof, Charlie told him, ‘I liked having Kieran. He’s great. I don’t mind having him again.’ It’s you I’ve taken a dislike to, she added silently, moving off with her tray of glasses before he could say more. At each meal-time since, she’d made sure Suzanne did the waitressing for his end of the table. (‘What, did he pinch your bum, or something?’ Suzanne asked. ‘I’m still waiting for him to pinch mine.’) Charlie didn’t want to see more of Oliver than she had to; but at dinner she noticed that he’d seated himself next to the youngest and most attractive woman on his course, and was giving her the full dazzle of attentiveness and charm.
When the breakfast tables had been cleared and the dishwashers stacked, Charlie had toast and coffee with Jon and Suzanne before leaving for home. Oliver and his group had set up their easels on the lawn. It would have been good to learn watercolour technique, but she no longer wanted Oliver to be the one to teach her. She felt ashamed of her recent wish to produce something that would win his praise. Until she went back to school, she’d work for her own approval, no one else’s. There were always two groups of students for sixth-form Art; she’d ask to be in Ms Pearson’s class rather than Oliver’s.
Today Dietmar was coming for lunch. Charlie couldn’t remember when her mother had last cooked for a visitor, other than Anne; when Charlie left she’d been in the full fluster of preparation. As she’d be back at Nightingales at lunchtime, Charlie thought she’d leave her mother to it, and take Caspar out.
In a few hours’ time, she’d see Sean.
Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea for Sean to come at the same time as Dietmar. Last night, overwhelmed by the thought of seeing him at all, she’d forgotten that small detail. Perhaps Mum and Dietmar would go out after lunch …
She rounded the bend towards the village green and there Sean was, walking towards her.
Charlie stopped. She had conjured him so often into her thoughts that she almost thought he was a mirage. This afternoon, he’d said.
He smiled, waved, came up to her. ‘Are you OK, Charleston? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, her words muffled into his shoulder as he hugged her. He smelled freshly-showered, of mint shampoo and something astringent. Just for a second she let herself imagine it was a real, romantic embrace.
‘Kathy said I’d find you at Nightingales,’ he said. ‘She was frantically chopping and weighing things.’
‘She’s got someone coming for lunch.’
‘Yes, she told me. The German guy.’
‘Oh,’ Charlie said uneasily. ‘I hope she wasn’t – you know, rude or anything? You know how she can be. I thought you said this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I did, but then the bloke in the flat downstairs asked if I’d help unload a piano this afternoon, so I’m here now. And no, Kathy was all right. She even made me coffee while I waited, because she said you’d be busy. She said why don’t I get you to show me round Nightingales.’
‘OK. Let’s go back there. You haven’t got long, though, if you’re sorting yourself out for Turkey and heaving pianos. Actually I haven’t got long.’ She looked at her watch. ‘We start getting ready for lunch at half-past eleven.’
‘Better than nothing. I’d like to see Nightingales, anyway, after hearing so much about it.’
Having spent all week in imaginary conversation with Sean, Charlie couldn’t now remember a single thing she’d wanted to say. She walked beside him, trying to fix every detail in her mind to be taken out later, and treasured. His feet, in black laced boots, walking beside hers. His sideways look and smile; the exact green-brown of his eyes. The husky note in his voice when he laughed.
He told her about his week in Wales, about the Crib Goch climb and the micro-navigation, by which time they were in the grounds of Nightingales, outside the dining-room window. Kathy’s garden design was beginning to take shape. Builders had been in to lay the paths and to make the raised pond on the terrace, and soon Kathy would start the planting.
‘It’s all bare and new at the moment,’ Charlie said, ‘but if you imagine it with shrubs and plants, it’ll look really good. Mum’s shown me the drawings.’
Sean looked round at the mullioned windows and the rampant wisteria. ‘It’ll suit the house. She ought to do more of this. She’s good at it.’
‘Yes, I think she will, now. This was a good start, because lots of people will see it. Fay said Mum ought to put an advert in the entrance hall. She even wants Mum to be a course tutor. I think Mum ought to, because it’ll bring in some money and make sure people have heard of her. It’s not as if she doesn’t know how to teach.’
She took Sean round to the other side of the house, through the courtyard and out to the main slope of lawn. She’d forgotten Oliver, out here with his group. He was talking to one of the students, crouching by the easel, gesturing with one hand.
‘Oh – I forgot to tell you Oliver Locke’s here for the weekend,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you want to go down and say hello?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Sean said. ‘Let’s not disturb him.’
Charlie caught something in his tone. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘Not much,’ Sean said.
‘Why not?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Let’s just say I don’t come across him much at school, and I’m quite happy with that.’
Charlie remembered talking to Oliver under the mulberry tree, mentioning Sean; Oliver saying, ‘He’s one of those muscular, athletic types that makes the rest of us feel flabby and wimpish.’ Charlie heard now what she hadn’t at the time: sarcasm, disparagement. It had been said as a joke, but not entirely a good-natured one. Oliver had a way of turning such things into a put-down: Sean was a type, not a person; he was fit and sporty, therefore, Oliver’s tone implied, he had no brain. If Oliver made such a remark now, she’d say something sharp in retort. She couldn’t think why it had taken her so long to see through Oliver Locke.
She began to tell Sean about Kieran as they walked slowly towards the house. Then Rosie came out of the open door and ran down the grass towards them.
‘Tarlie, Tarlie!’ She raised her arms, wanting to be picked up.
‘Rosie!’ Charlie lifted her, swung her high, put her down again. ‘Rosie, this is Sean.’
‘Torn,’ Rosie said, with the sly smile that meant she was mispronouncing on purpose. She put her head on one side and looked appealingly at Charlie. ‘I want to play with Tie ran.’
‘No, Kieran’s not here today,’ Charlie said. ‘D’you want to come for a walk with us?’
Then she glanced at Sean.
She hadn’t even thought about it. She was used to Rosie now: to the name, to Rosie herself. Even Kathy, after running away that first time, had got used to seeing her here. Charlie was tuned to her mother’s loss – always trying to protect her from the hurt of a chance sighting or a misplaced word. But Rose would have been Sean’s child too.
He was gazing at Rosie, his eyes shiny with tears. Charlie felt herself tingling with confusion.
‘Oh God, Sean, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think.’
He didn’t answer; he blinked furiously and rubbed at his eyes with a forefinger. Charlie wondered whether to give him her tissue; men never seemed
to have them. Her own eyes filled with tears in sympathy as she picked Rosie up and cuddled her. Then she heard a loud, unmistakable voice from the rose garden. It declaimed: ‘Of course there’s such a wide interest these days that you shouldn’t have trouble filling a course, and I’m sure Jiminy will step into the breach at the shop,’ and Henrietta walked through the archway with Fay. It was too late to hurry away in another direction without looking rude, and anyway Charlie had Rosie in her arms. She tried to compose her face, and was about to introduce Sean to Fay when Henrietta stepped forward, getting in first.
‘It’s Sean, isn’t it? We met before. I see you’re like me, a sufferer from pollen allergy. These roses are gorgeous but they do make us pay a price for their beauty, don’t they? You must come into the shop and look at my homeopathic remedies. I carry quite a range.’
‘Henrietta’s going to run a course on herbal healing,’ Fay explained.
Charlie did the introduction. Sean, sniffy but under control, said some complimentary things about Nightingales. Fay said, ‘I’ll take Rosie indoors. Dan was supposed to be looking after her, but she’s managed to escape. Would you like to come in for coffee?’
‘Thanks, but I must be going,’ Sean said.
‘Let’s take you back to your dad then, Miss Runaway,’ Fay said to Rosie, taking her from Charlie. She and Henrietta walked on up to the house; Charlie and Sean went through to the courtyard.
‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said again. ‘About Rosie. I never even thought—’
‘It’s all right,’ Sean said. ‘I ought to be used to it by now, seeing other people’s children, hearing about them. But every now and then it just gets me – seeing that little girl come to you, you picking her up – it’s how things might have been, if—’
‘Yes. I know.’
They sat on the bench. Charlie thought of the other conversations she’d had here, with Oliver, before her opinion of him had plummeted. Now, the person she most wanted to be with, the person she had longed to see, was beside her and she couldn’t think of anything to say. The weight of their shared loss was heavy between them.
Then Sean said, ‘I wanted to see Kathy today, as well as you.’
‘Oh?’
He nodded. ‘So it was lucky I found her on her own, and more approachable than usual.’
‘What happened?’
Charlie stared at him, thinking: Surely he and Mum aren’t getting together again, after he’s tried so hard; not now.
‘We talked,’ Sean said. ‘Properly, for the first time in ages. I told her that – I’m not going to keep pestering her any more. It’s over. It’s taken me a long time to realize, but at last I do.’
‘Oh.’
Sean was sitting forward on the bench; he examined the splayed fingers of one hand. ‘She’s done better than me, in a way. She’s – well, not accepted it, that’s not the right word – but she’s found ways to be positive. To make a new, different life. Sorting herself out, starting the gardening business – even meeting this Dietmar guy. It’s not easy for her. And it’s not fair if I keep trying to drag her back.’
‘Don’t make it sound as if you’ve done something wrong!’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. But,’ he said, looking at her, ‘the one thing that’s made it bearable is knowing she’s got you. Otherwise I’d have been desperately worried about her. You’ve been fantastic.’
Charlie closed her eyes. Please don’t tell me I’m mature and sensible, she thought: she felt anything but. With her eyes shut she felt quite dizzy. When she opened them, the rose garden reeled, like a roundabout coming to a standstill.
‘Are you all right?’ Sean asked.
No. Seasick.
‘Course,’ she said. ‘But what about you?’
‘How d’you mean?’ ‘You said Mum’s done better than you. Sorting herself out. What about you?’
Sean shrugged, examining his fingers again. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ve got a job, somewhere to live, friends. Things to do.’
Charlie had a brief, silent struggle with herself. She couldn’t bear to think of Sean dejected and lonely, living by himself in his flat; he deserved better. He ought to have someone to love him.
But she wasn’t that person.
Disappointment and loss tugged at her, weighed heavy. It was no use fantasizing.
Sean would meet someone else, as her mother had always said. Someone his own age. Someone who was ready to have a baby. Charlie felt a surge of jealousy towards this unknown future person. But she saw that if she really loved Sean, she should be generous enough to hope that this person would turn up. Soon.
‘Anyway,’ Sean said. He sat back against the bench and stretched his arms above his head, as if pushing away negative thoughts. ‘When I get back from Turkey we’ll have another day in the Peak District, shall we? I thought next time we might—’
People coming. Loud voices: ‘I mean it’s perfectly obvious to me that Daphne would never dream of gossiping about such a thing, whatever Sheila may have imagined Megan meant …’ Two women in flowered dresses, absorbed in their conversation, walked slowly into the courtyard from the archway opposite, not even noticing Charlie and Sean.
‘Oh, look at the time,’ Charlie said. The morning sessions must be over, the guests released for their pre-lunch wanderings and chat. ‘I’m meant to be laying the tables. Jon will have a fit.’
‘I ought to be going, too,’ Sean said. ‘I’ve got a bag of smelly clothes to take to the launderette.’
‘And yes, about the Peak District,’ Charlie said. ‘Definitely. Please.’
She went with him to the front gate. Jon would be getting indignant in the kitchen, but instead of hurrying back she stood and watched Sean getting smaller and smaller as he walked away, about to disappear into three weeks of absence. Her eyes blurred as he reached the bend into the village and turned to wave.
*
That afternoon Charlie walked with her mother, Dietmar and Caspar over to the airfield. Back at Flightsend she’d found her mother and Dietmar still at the table in the garden, sharing grapes and a bottle of wine; it had been a long, leisurely lunch. Afterwards, Kathy suggested the walk.
‘You come with us, Charlie. I’ll put the Closed sign up.’
Charlie couldn’t remember her mother ever doing this before at a weekend. It marked the day as special.
‘Oh, by the way, Rowan phoned,’ Kathy said, clipping Caspar’s lead on. ‘She’s just got back. She wants you to play tennis one afternoon next week, with her and Russell. She thought you might ask Angus. And Angus rang, too. Not about tennis, about something else. You’re in demand today.’
‘But Rowan’s hopeless at tennis! And Russell’s brilliant, the school’s number one player.’
‘Angus is your Morris-dancing friend, with the hat and bells?’ Dietmar asked. ‘Is he a tennis-player also?’
‘Yes, that’s Angus. At least, he was a Morris dancer for that day – you never know what Angus is going to do next. He’s about the same as me at tennis – that is, average but not spectacular, but there’s nothing he can’t have a reasonable go at – so if the two of us play Rowan and Russell it’ll even out. I’ll phone them both later.’
They took the shorter way to the airfield, down the footpath that led beside the Post Office, and into Hog Pond field, soon to be transformed into Honeysuckle Coppice. The earth-diggers had moved in during the week and begun clearing part of the field. Abandoned now for the weekend like yellow beached whales, they marked the division between freshly-dug earth and the wild, untouched part of the meadow, where white butterflies hovered over the thistles and ragwort.
‘Oh, it’s awful,’ Charlie said. ‘All this’ll soon disappear under concrete.’
‘Charlie has secret NIMBY tendencies,’ Kathy said to Dietmar. ‘You know – Not In My Back Yard? Come on, Charlie, it’s not that bad. It’ll look a sight for a while, but when the houses are finished it won’t make an awful lot of difference to the village. Hey, there’ll be new
gardens to be designed and planted—’
‘Mum!’ Charlie reproached. ‘You’re turning into a hard-headed businesswoman! Never mind the destruction of the environment – all you see is a career opportunity!’
‘Besides,’ Dietmar said, ‘it looks as if this field has been furrow.’
‘No, I think you mean …’ Charlie knew that furrow wasn’t the right word, but couldn’t think what was.
‘Furrow? You mean after it’s been ploughed up?’ Kathy said. ‘No, I don’t think it’s been ploughed for ages.’
Dietmar stopped, frowning. ‘No. Farrow. That’s what I meant.’
‘But farrowing is to do with pigs,’ Charlie said. ‘It’s when a pig has piglets. You say a pig has farrowed, don’t you? That’s right, isn’t it, Mum?’
‘No, I wasn’t meaning pigs,’ Dietmar said. ‘Even though you say this field is named Hog Pond.’
‘Harrow,’ Kathy said. ‘That’s when they trail a sort of wiry or discy thing over the ground, to break up clods. And you say something was a harrowing experience.’
Dietmar still wasn’t satisfied, shaking his head, puzzled.
‘Got it!’ Charlie said. ‘Fallow. The field’s been lying fallow. It hasn’t had anything grown in it.’
‘Yes! Thank you, Charlie. That is what I meant to say. If the field is fallow and not used for farming, then a few houses are perhaps a reasonable use. But fallow is also deer, I think?’
‘Yes, it is. Fallow deer. Furrow, farrow, harrow, fallow – no wonder we’re in a muddle,’ Kathy said, laughing. ‘It’s a tongue-twister!’
‘Tongue-twister?’ Dietmar queried. ‘A twisting of the tongue, to say something very difficult, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All these words so similar. Now German is such a simple, straightforward language.’
They reached the stile and climbed over into the airfield. Dietmar walked straight to his father’s cross and they all stood there for a few moments. Charlie thought: people were here, doing their jobs, watching from the control tower, while it happened – the aircraft burst into flames and Dietmar’s father burned to death within a few metres of people who’d have saved him if they could. Even though he was enemy. His mission, Dietmar had told her, was to destroy the bomber planes on the ground. Instead, his own plane had been destroyed, and him with it. She was surprised and moved by Dietmar’s attachment to the father he’d never known; Dietmar had followed him not only to the place of death but also into the sky, in the Cessna. If the airfield ever were taken over for a housing development, she thought, at least the story had come to light. It wouldn’t be lost, churned up by the earth-movers and dug into the ground.
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