Flightsend (4 page)

But it hadn't even occurred to Charlie to think of
herself as rich and idle. It seemed no more likely in
the past than it did in the present.

A flagged path from the courtyard led to the utility
room, walk-in larder and kitchen. Jon, who did all the
cooking, was already stirring something in an
enormous saucepan. Charlie knew better than to
expect friendliness or conversation – he always
became frantic at this early stage of a meal, giving curt
instructions, darting about the kitchen on fastforward.
He was only twenty-five, and dreamed of
being a highly-feared autocrat in the kitchen of a
trendy London restaurant. Later, when desserts and
coffee had been served, he'd award himself several
glasses of wine, share a meal with Charlie and
Suzanne, and wind down.

'Lettuce,' was all he said now, furiously grinding
pepper.

Charlie nodded and fetched the box of lettuces
from the store room. While she was washing them at
the sink, Suzanne arrived. Through the sound of the
running tap, Charlie heard her explaining to Jon:
'Sorry I'm late, it's just that I had to pick up Jason
from the child-minder because Sam had to collect his
car from the garage, you see it was having its full
service and they hadn't finished on time because of a
problem with the transmission—'

'Quiches,' Jon said. Suzanne, pulling a face, arrived
at the double sink beside Charlie, with a sieve full of
tomatoes to slice thinly for garnishes.

'Black mark for me. I should have known he
wouldn't listen. The thing was . . .'

She went into a fuller explanation of her domestic
problems. Charlie, only half-listening, said, 'Never
mind. You were hardly late, anyway. What are the
courses this weekend, did you see?'

'I did look at the programme. Creative Writing was
one, and the other was Landscape Painting. One of
the tutors was just going into the Well House.'

'Writer or painter?'

Suzanne giggled. 'Couldn't really tell. Could have
been either. Anyway, he looked all right.
Very
all right.'
Suzanne widened her eyes. She was always on the lookout
for male talent. Just as a sort of hobby, she'd told
Charlie; like window-shopping. The only man she
actively flirted with was Jon, which was perfectly safe,
since Jon lived with a partner called Andrew and wore
a wedding ring with J and A entwined on it.

Charlie finished making up the bowls of green salad
and went to lay the table. The long, narrow dining
room had once been a library; it still contained shelves
of leather-bound books and had a stone fireplace with
a mirror over it. The guests and tutors – forty or so,
when the place was full – all sat at one long table,
which made serving the meals quite straightforward.
While Charlie was fetching the laundered tablecloths
and napkins from the trunk, Fay came in, wearing an
elegant navy-blue dress and a slightly strained
expression. She was holding a buttoned shoe of
Rosie's.

'Hello, Charlie. I've got a favour to ask. We're fully
booked for the next few weeks – it's marvellous really,
but a bit much for Suzanne on her own. I was
wondering if you'd like extra hours during the week?
Your exams are nearly finished, aren't they? It'd be
mornings, evenings and Sunday lunchtimes. Sunday
evenings off and all day Monday. Give it some thought
– you don't have to decide now.'

'No, it's OK. I'll do it,' Charlie said. 'Apart from a
couple of mornings the week after next, when I'm
back in school for a sixth-form induction thing. But I
can still come for those evenings.'

'Good! That's sorted, then. Tell Jon exactly when
you can come and he'll draw up a rota. I want to ask
your mother something, too. She does garden design,
doesn't she, as well as plant-growing? I wonder if she'd
do some work for us? The garden needs a good
sorting-out, by someone who knows what they're
doing. And we want to redesign the patio.' She waved
a hand at the small terrace outside the library,
overlooking a sloping lawn. 'Make more space for
people to sit out. Perhaps have a pool. Do you think
she might take it on?'

'I'll ask,' Charlie said, thinking: at least it'll earn her
some money, but what about Rosie? How will
Mum feel about seeing Rosie, Rosie's toys, Rosie's
shoes?

Fay saw her looking at the red buttoned shoe she
was absent-mindedly holding. 'Oh – I picked this up
on the stairs. Rosie must be around somewhere with
only one shoe on – I'd better find her. Ask your mum
to give me a call if she's interested, could you?'

Once the guests came in, bringing the glasses of
wine Fay served in the entrance-hall, there was no time
for conversation. Charlie and Suzanne dashed in and
out with starters, warm bread rolls, offers of second
helpings, and tried to remember who'd asked for
vegetarian, vegan or gluten-free food.

Charlie had occasionally helped out on Friday
evenings before. These first meals, when people didn't
yet know each other, were always polite and reserved,
with conversational openers of the 'Have you come
far?' and 'Have you been on one of these courses
before?' variety. Charlie felt that her waitress role
made her invisible; most people, apart from the odd
word or smile of thanks, barely registered her
existence. From this perspective, she found it interesting
to watch the group dynamics over a weekend: to
guess who'd be revealed as an extrovert by Sunday
lunchtime, who the grumpy, dissatisfied one, who the
gossip. At this stage, they all looked dull and middle-aged
to her; most of Nightingales' clientele was her
mother's age or older, with many of them well into
retirement. Fay and Dan were considering offering
Nightingales to school parties, but at present guests
under the age of thirty were an extreme rarity.

Carrying a hot vegetable dish to the far end of the
table, she was surprised by a youngish man catching
her eye and winking. No, she hadn't imagined it; he
was definitely looking at her, smiling. She did a double
take, recognizing one of the art teachers from school.
Mr Locke, Oliver Locke. Not her teacher; she'd been
in Ms McGrath's class, but the art staff were a friendly
lot, always drifting in and out of each other's classes to
chat and to look at the students' work. Mr Locke, she
remembered, had admired the still life she'd done for
one of her exam pieces. Now, he broke off his
conversation, and called out: 'Charlie! Didn't know
you worked here.'

'Hello! Yes, just weekends, but more in the holidays.'
She put down the dish and lifted the lid,
releasing a steamy, fragrant cloud. She ought to be
used to meeting teachers out of school, her mother's
and Sean's friends, but it still made her feel
awkward.

'Charlie's at Westbury Park, where I teach, for my
sins,' Mr Locke explained to the people either side,
who nodded and smiled. 'She's going to do Art next
year, aren't you?'

'Well, I'm not sure,' Charlie stalled. She hadn't
committed herself yet.

'Let me tell you,' Mr Locke said, 'that it'll be a
terrible waste of talent if you don't.'

'What are
you
doing here, anyway? Are you—?'

'Tutoring Landscape Painting. I've known Dan and
Fay for years. They've persuaded me to take on a fair
whack of courses this summer. I'm staying in the most
delightful cottage in the grounds. The Well House, it's
called,' he explained to the guests. 'Come and see
what's going on in the workshop, if you're around,' he
added to Charlie.

She met Suzanne head-on in the kitchen doorway,
balancing three plates. 'Hey! Just found out who it was
you saw earlier – the Art tutor,' Charlie said in an
undertone. 'His name's Mr Locke – Oliver Locke.
He's a teacher at my school.'

Suzanne's eyebrows shot up. 'Lucky you, then. Can
I join the sixth form?'

'Why wait that long? There's time for a quick
enrolment in Landscape Painting,' Charlie said.

'Anyway, here's a challenge for you. Guess which
one's the Creative Writing tutor? Female, I'll give you
that as a starter.' Suzanne hurried on with her plates.
She was very quick on her feet, in spite of wearing
high-heeled, pointy-toed shoes which Charlie
wouldn't have been able to walk in.

Serving the main course and dessert, Charlie
surveyed the guests. For her and Suzanne, this was a
regular game, identifying the tutors; Suzanne even
kept the score. Charlie, so far, had proved best at birdwatchers
and herbalists, while Suzanne specialized in
long-distance walkers and bridge players. Jon was
usually too busy to take part, but had once scored with
an egg-painter.

'It's the youngish one with long hair and a floaty
scarf and long silver earrings,' she told Suzanne, when
the dessert plates had been cleared.

'Nope! Knew you wouldn't get it. It's the short,
squat one with a tweedy jacket. I heard her introducing
herself to Fay. Have a look when you take the
coffee in.'

Charlie looked. The only woman who fitted
Suzanne's description was stout and fierce-looking,
with orange lipstick, and iron-grey hair pinned back in
a bun. 'Of course most Rottweilers have super
temperaments,' she was telling someone. That fitted:
she looked more likely, Charlie thought, to be
running Dog Obedience.

When everything had been stacked and cleared
away, Charlie walked home in the midsummer dusk. It
was past ten, but difficult to believe that it would ever
be really dark tonight. Upstairs, she opened her bedroom
window and looked out. On some of the warm
nights recently she'd seen a bat flitting after insects
near the cottage eaves. The flicky, swooping shape
darted in, too agile and too late for a bird, so quickly
that her eyes couldn't keep up.

She leaned against the window frame, reluctant to
go to bed. No bat tonight; but Frühlingsmorgen,
spread against the back fence, called to her senses. Its
flowers, like pale stars, gleamed in the twilight, and
she could imagine that the warm air carried its scent
to her even at this distance.

'I suppose it's too much to hope that you might sell
barbecue equipment?'

The woman called across the yard as if summoning
a servant. Charlie, who'd just changed into jeans after
the breakfast stint at Nightingales, saw her mother
come out of the polytunnel to explain that no, this was
a nursery, not a garden centre, and that barbecues
could be bought from the big place on the
Northampton road.

'Oh.' The woman managed to convey, in a single
syllable, weary resignation to life's hardships and the
suggestion that she deserved better. 'Any bedding
begonias?'

'No. I don't do bedding plants, only hardy
perennials.'

The woman gave a tut but no
Thank you
, swished an
irritable arm at Caspar, who was only being curious,
and went back to the car parked across the yard
entrance. She was just the sort of person, Charlie
thought, to complain about the bad manners of the
younger generation. Kathy greeted Charlie with a
wry smile and brushed potting compost off her hands.

'Another one. I had one last week asking for garden
furniture. I mean, isn't it
obvious
?'

'You'd think so,' Charlie said, placing her feet more
firmly to avoid being knocked over by Caspar. 'There's
a village fête next month, did you know? Fay and Dan
are doing refreshments, at the house, and Henrietta
from the shop is having a stall.
You
could have a stall.'

'Not if I have to do bedding begonias,' Kathy said.

She was wearing jeans and a loose, checked shirt
and her hair was freshly-washed, gleaming coppery
lights in the sunshine. Charlie looked at her, thinking,
for the first time in ages, that her mother looked
healthy, young, even
pretty
. Her face had lost the
haggard look that Charlie had thought was here to
stay. Her new way of life must be doing her good,
regardless of tiresome customers.

'Shouldn't you
get
bedding begonias, if that's what
people want?'

Kathy scratched Caspar behind the ears, making
him wriggle and smile. 'Oh sure. Would you like me to
sell gnomes with fishing rods, as well? I phoned Fay, by
the way, about doing her garden. I said I'd go round
tomorrow morning.'

'Yes, she told me.' Charlie had been surprised, relaying
Fay's message over their early-morning mug of tea,
by her mother's ready agreement. Perhaps the recent
visits from non-connoisseurs were making her
desperate for money.

'Oh, Rowan phoned while you were out. Not
important, but could you phone back, she said.'

'I'm taking Caspar out first,' Charlie said. Rowan's
offhandedness yesterday deserved a cool response.
'Coming? Or are you too busy?'

'I am a bit. You won't forget your Geography
revision, will you? Now that you're doing this extra
work at Nightingales.'

'I'm not likely to forget, am I? Don't worry. I'm
devoting the whole afternoon to Urban Development
and Land Use. Come on, Caspar! Walk!'

Caspar bounded ahead as she went to the kitchen
for his lead. She decided on one of their favourite
walks, along the lane past Lordsfields Farm and over
the stile into the disused airfield. She knew from the
local map that there wasn't really a right of way across
the airfield, but she saw other people walking their
dogs there, and no one seemed to mind. Caspar
squirmed in anticipation as she turned into
Lordsfields Lane. He loved the airfield, where rabbits
grazed on the grassy edges, especially in the mornings
and evenings. Charlie didn't think the rabbits were in
actual danger. Caspar was so hopeless as a lurcher that
he'd have little idea what to do with one if he got
close; their bobbing white scuts as they dashed for
cover made him leap about excitedly but without
much sense of purpose. If he ever caught one, Charlie
thought, he'd back off in alarm, or else give it a
friendly lick.

Her spirits surged as she walked past the farm. It was
a perfect day, the early freshness giving way to the
promise of heat. Placing her feet carefully, she smelled
the sweetness of cow-dung where the Friesian herd
had recently crossed from the yard after milking. Now
the cows were in the meadow, knee-deep in buttercups.
Charlie knew that modern farming wasn't as
idyllic as it sometimes seemed, but when she saw cattle
grazing by the willows that fringed the stream it was
hard to feel anything other than deep, cow-like
contentment.

She climbed the stile and watched Caspar dither –
leap over or wriggle through? – before flattening himself
into an undignified squirm, all the time looking
up at Charlie's face for approval. A trodden path led
to the airfield's perimeter track. Here, she let him off
the lead and watched him trot off, snuffling in the
long grass.

Charlie didn't know much about the airfield, only
that it was in such a derelict state that it couldn't have
been used for decades. The triangle of runways intersected
a crop of barley. At the far end, where a lane led
in from the road, there was a crumbling brick
structure that could once have been a control tower.
Farther back, in what was now a dense coppice, were
the curved roofs of Nissen huts. It all made her think
of old war films, black-and-white, with officers barking
out, 'Scramble! Scramble!' and pilots dashing for the
cockpits of their Spitfires. Those brave young men –
not much older than she was – had taken to the skies
to fight off enemy invaders. It seemed a war-film cliché
now – the ultra-British accents, the heroism, the tragic
losses – but nevertheless it had once happened.
Happened here? Someone would know. Some of the
pensioners in the village would remember. Might even
have flown the aircraft themselves. It was hard to
believe that the dashing young pilots in RAF uniform
could now be as old as the leathery-faced men she saw
in the village shop buying their newspapers and tins of
dog food, but simple mathematics said that it was
so.

She walked along the main runway, intending to go
round by Devil's Spinney at the other end and make a
circuit back through the village. The concrete was
worn and corrugated under her feet, cracked here
and there with grass and mayweed growing through.
She could smell the pineapple scent of the crushed
mayweed as she walked, and the air was so still that she
heard each footfall, with a background of Caspar's
snufflings, and birdsong from the wood. It was so
peaceful here – there was almost, she thought, a
timeless hush about the place – that it was hard to
imagine the air disturbed by the clamour of aircraft
engines.

And then she heard one. An insect-buzz in the back
of her consciousness at first, deepening to a drone.
She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. A tiny
plane, mosquito-like at this distance, but coming
closer, lower. Heading straight for her. For a few
seconds her heart pounded and she almost dashed
into the barley for cover, back in the war films again
where Stukas screamed down on fleeing refugees.
Caspar was barking, excited but anxious, his tail
between his legs. Charlie realized that the plane was
coming in to land; the runway wasn't the best place to
be standing. She grabbed Caspar's collar, tripping
over him as he tried to dash round her in a circle; the
aircraft levelled out, not landing after all, but
skimming low over the runway and flying on past. A
light aircraft, white, with red stripes on the wings and
tailpiece. No, she wasn't day-dreaming, or conjuring
up some aerial ghost from the airfield's past; it was a
real, modern-day light aircraft. Most likely the pilot
was aiming for the flying club closer to Northampton
and had made a mistake. Charlie felt rather ashamed
at her panic, and was glad that no one had seen.

She released Caspar and walked on, thinking of a
brief conversation she'd had with Mr Locke at breakfast.
While most people had been tucking into the
traditional egg, bacon and tomato, he was peeling an
orange and drinking black coffee. When she'd
said, 'Hello, Mr Locke,' he'd smiled at her and said,
'Call me Oliver, for God's sake, Charlie. Mr Locke
makes me feel all crusty and school-teacherly and
about fifty. If you insist on calling me Mr Locke, I shall
call you Miss Steer. Good name for an artist, by the
way.'

She hadn't understood that. Did he mean that it
would
be a good name for an artist, or that there was
already an artist called Steer; or was he saying that
she
was an artist? She hadn't wanted to seem ignorant by
asking, but the Rottweiler writing woman, next to him,
had asked for Worcester sauce and she'd forgotten the
remark until now. Perhaps Mum would know. When
she'd told Kathy, with the early morning tea, about Mr
Locke – Oliver – being a tutor this weekend, Kathy
had woken up properly. 'Oh yes? Young Lochinvar?'

'Why do you call him that?' Charlie asked.

Her mother smiled. 'Anne started it. I hardly know
him – he was appointed just before I left. But handsome
young men are a bit of a rarity on the staff of
Westbury Park.'

That struck Charlie as distinctly unfair to Sean, who
was both younger and in her opinion better-looking
than Mr Locke.

'He's not that young—'

'Sorry, you're right,' her mother interrupted. 'How
stupid of me. He's positively ancient – at least thirty,
possibly even thirty-one. How will the poor man
manage without a Zimmer frame?'

'—nor all that handsome, as far as I can see,'
Charlie finished.

'Have a better look, next time,' Kathy said.

Well, Charlie thought. If two of them, Suzanne and
now her mother, lost their sense of judgement at the
mere mention of his name – no,
three
, counting Anne
– there must be something about him. She looked,
covertly, bringing extra toast for his end of the table.
Yes, OK, he was quite handsome in an unflashy sort of
way: well-cut brown hair, blue-grey eyes, even features.
And he had a
very
nice smile, like a light turning on
and shining in your direction. She thought: I wonder
if that's why Mum agreed to go to Nightingales?

No. She wouldn't run after Mr Locke, surely? Not
after all the months of shutting herself away from everyone.
Not when she could have Sean back. If Sean was
too young, then so, surely, was Oliver Locke, only two or
three years older. Charlie preferred to think that her
mother was attracted to Nightingales by the offer of
work, and the money. Mum would never chase a man.
Her whole point, in breaking off and starting this new
life, was to prove that she could manage without one.

Charlie entered the coolness of Devil's Spinney. A
few weeks earlier it had been a haze of bluebells, the
air full of their scent. By now the strappy foliage had
collapsed limply, with dead flower stalks drooping.
Whatever was supposed to be devilish about the place,
Charlie had yet to discover. At first, Kathy had been
uneasy about Charlie walking around the fields and
woods by herself, but Charlie had argued that she
wasn't alone; she had Caspar. However un-guard-doglike
Caspar was, few muggers would attack a person
with a big dog in attendance. In any case, what
mugger would choose to hang around a deserted
wood miles from anywhere, in the hope that a victim
might chance to come the same way? It was far more
risky, Charlie said, to wait at the bus stop in town on a
Friday night. Not altogether a wise thing to draw to
her mother's attention, since any social life that came
her way during the summer was likely to depend on
buses and lifts.

She walked home through the village, and phoned
Rowan.

'
Hi
, Charlie.' Rowan said. 'Come over this afternoon?
We could revise our Geography together.'

'Oh? Why the change of plan?'

'I felt a bit mean yesterday,' Rowan said. 'You know,
saying I was busy all weekend. It's ages since you came
round, like you used to.'

'What's Russell doing this afternoon?'

There was a faint hesitation before Rowan said,
'Actually, he's playing in a tennis match.'

'Oh, I see,' Charlie said scathingly. 'Russell's busy so
you're at a loose end.'

'
Please
come, Charlie. It'll be great. Dad's filled up
the swimming pool.'

'I thought you said for revision?'

'We can't revise
all
afternoon. Bring your notes,
though.'

'Well, OK then,' Charlie said. 'But I've got to be
back here at six, for Nightingales.'

'I know,' said Rowan.

Cycling over, Charlie realized that Rowan had
counted on that. The invitation was for the afternoon
only; Russell would be available again by this evening.

Rowan's family had started off with a fairly ordinary
semi-detached house but had spent enormous
amounts of money on improving it. First an extension
and conservatory; then the loft conversion, which was
now Rowan's bedroom, with an en-suite bathroom;
more recently the swimming pool. A garish shade of
turquoise blue, it abutted the conservatory and took
up most of the garden. Charlie blinked, dazzled by
sunlight on water. The whole family was in the garden,
on sun-loungers: Rowan, her parents, and Rowan's
younger sister Victoria, who wore a crop-top and
minuscule shorts.

'Budge up, V, and make room for Charlie,' Rowan
said. Victoria, plugged into her Walkman, moved
along one place, making a great show of reluctance.
Charlie could hear the tinny
tssk tssk
of whatever she
was listening to.

'Long time no see, Charlie!' Rowan's dad was
loud-voiced, large-stomached and amiable. 'Let me
get you a drink.' He actually had a poolside wheeled
trolley, loaded with bottles and cans, glasses and an ice
bucket. 'Coke? Iced tea? Fruit punch?'

'Punch, please,' Charlie said. She thought he meant
home-made, with chunks of fruit floating on top, but
it came out of a can.

'How's your mum's nursery business getting on,
then?' Rowan's dad asked. 'I must get over there
one of these afternoons and buy a few plants off
her.'