Natural Flights of the Human Mind (10 page)

Straker does seventy-five press-ups, his knees creaking more than usual, then eats his doughnuts. He goes downstairs, washes, changes his socks, and runs down to the front door,
shutting it behind him. He takes his bicycle out of the keeper’s cottage, but then leans it against a wall and goes to look at the edge of the cliff. No change. No sharp, bright, clean break.

He returns to the bike, gets on it, stops, gets off, stands silently and tries to sort out his thoughts.

He’s going to take the sails off Miss Doody’s roof. He should never have interfered. She came all the way out here to say that, so she must have meant it.

He starts to cycle, but there’s something wrong with the reasoning, however much he tries to analyse her intentions. Why would she want to leave holes in her roof so that the rain comes in? What does she really want? Should he go? Shouldn’t he go?

He has no idea, and wonders if she does. There’s something so irrational about all this that he can’t work it out. Thoughts should be logical. They should run on straight lines so that you can see the beginning and the end.

He stops thinking and climbs down the cliff to his boat, which is just beginning to float on the rising tide. There’s a powerful swell, and it takes some time, with the boat rocking alarmingly, to get the right balance before he starts rowing. But he can control it. He’s stronger than the wind.

He moors alongside the pier as usual, and climbs up the ladder to the flagpole. The harbour is deserted. Too early in the morning, but he can see a woman pinning out washing further along the beach. She pushes her clothes line up with a prop and the washing comes instantly alive, ballooning out towards the sea, filling with invisible bodies, flapping triumphantly over the pebbles. He can’t recognise her from this distance, and wonders if she’s like him, unable to sleep.

The three gnomes are missing from the bench, and he imagines them at home in their beds. Do they lie alongside wives who don’t know them? Wives who spend all their days away from the men, glad to see them out of the house
for the day? Do they talk when they come together for meals?

Does anyone talk? He sometimes hears people’s voices, but it always seems as if they have nothing to say.

‘How much are those apples?’

‘One twenty a kilo.’

‘Kilos? Ridiculous. What’s wrong with pounds?’

‘The nectarines look nice.’

‘Did you pay the milkman?’

‘Can we buy some Mars bars?’

Nobody listens to anyone else. What’s it all for? He must have done it once himself, along with the rest of the world, although he has great difficulty remembering details from his previous life. It now feels as if he’d only been acting, doing things without thinking because everyone else did them.

He walks up the hill to Miss Doody’s house, his thoughts churning away too fast as he argues with himself. He is not at all sure he’s doing the right thing. He tries counting, backwards from two hundred, in sevens, but he arrives at four too quickly and nothing has changed. When he reaches the gate, he stands outside for a while and studies the cottage. The sails don’t look so bad. Their whiteness glows in the early sunshine, and they look somehow as if they are in the right place, a piece of the bright morning hiding the dilapidated structure of the cottage.

They haven’t completely stayed in place. One end has come away and is flapping in the breeze, catching against the lilac tree. But the noise is not hostile. It feels right for the neglected nature of the place, and the sail billows out bravely, refusing to be contained.

He climbs the tree at the side, calculating the strength needed to counteract the wind. A wood-pigeon bursts out from the top of the tree, flapping wildly, threatening his balance. He steadies himself before carrying on.

Once on the roof, he hesitates and discovers that he doesn’t
want to do this. He looks round at his previous handiwork, and it’s not bad. The bricks have stayed in place, even after the heavy wind in the night, and most of the nails have held.

He sits there for some time in the sun, starting to relax at last, tiredness creeping up on him. The sky is filling up with clouds, but the flashes of sun are warm and comfortable. He can see the lighthouse in the distance.

Maggie is still not talking, but she’s there, somewhere close, listening, judging in silence
.

‘Here’s to you, Pete,’ says Justin, drinking heavily from a can of lager. ‘You and me and Francis. Best mates.’

‘You don’t kill your best mate,’ says Francis
.

‘He didn’t kill us, did you, Pete? It was an accident.’

‘Yes, an accident.’

Maggie can send her reproach through the air without speaking
.

A long silence. ‘OK. Not an accident,’ I say
.

Justin takes another swig of lager. ‘Could have happened to anyone. Could have happened to me.’

‘It didn’t, though, did it? It was me.’

Francis joins Justin in his generosity. ‘Wrong time, wrong circumstances, all came together at the wrong moment. Bad luck.’ He and Justin laugh together. Cold and unreal. A dead laugh
.

‘No, not bad luck. Bad attitude. I can’t escape judgement.’

Maggie is there. She always was. ‘OK, Straker, step one. Confession. Well done.’

‘Leave me alone, Maggie. I don’t need you. I can work it out for myself.’

‘I am your conscience.’

I know
.

The wood-pigeon flaps back and wakes him up. He breathes heavily for a while, trying to calm himself, waiting for the sweat to dry. Maggie is closer to him than usual. She’s eating into his mind, forcing him to confront things he doesn’t want to confront. He licks his lips and tastes the fear that he’s fighting to control.

Go away, Maggie. I need to do this in my own time. Leave me alone.

If I want to stay, Straker, I’ll stay
.

He needs to make a decision. What he would like to do is nail down the part of the sail that is flapping, then go away. He might as well finish the job properly. At least the sails stop the leaks and that will give her time to do some work inside. Then he can go back to his lighthouse and pick up his rhythms again.

Curiously, he’s brought a hammer and nails with him as well as pliers. Did he know he was going to do this?

He climbs over to the loose part and folds it down neatly. He can see where it’s come away from some rotted wood, so he feels along until he finds a stronger part and hammers it down, furtively looking over his shoulder, unable to shake off the feeling that he shouldn’t be here.

The nails go in easily. He pulls at the sail, but it holds. He puts the hammer into his pocket and eases his way back over the roof.

‘Straker!’

He stumbles and nearly falls. This cannot be happening.

‘What in the world’s going on?’

She’s standing below, looking up at him, her face red and angry, in the same brilliantly blue blouse that she was wearing yesterday. Her hair glitters in the sun, shiny, almost metallic, hard and threatening.

‘What are you doing?’

He freezes, trying to shrink back into himself, make himself as small as he can, willing himself to disappear.

Anne was standing by the open train door watching a BR man in uniform approach. Where was Jerry? It didn’t take that long to buy a newspaper. She was trying not to worry, but her legs were trembling.

‘On or off?’ said the man. He was wearing a turban and had a black bushy beard, streaked with grey. When he opened his mouth to speak, she could see that he had long, protruding teeth that made him look slightly menacing.

‘No!’ she said urgently. ‘My husband!’

‘Train’s due out,’ said the guard. He was very tall, standing too close and towering above her.

‘I know,’ said Anne. ‘He’s only gone to get—There he is!’

She watched Jerry shuffle across the platform, and relief flooded into her like the warmth of a cup of tea. Jerry running was an unusual sight, his hollow angular body struggling against its innate lack of rhythm. Even in her anxiety, she felt a stab of affection. He was academic, not athletic, she thought fondly.

The man turned and watched Jerry hurrying up to the carriage. ‘Come on, sir,’ he said. ‘Can’t hold the train up just for you. Next time you must arrive early if you want to buy a newspaper.’ Unexpectedly he smiled, and the menace evaporated. He held the door while they both got on.

‘Sorry,’ said Jerry. ‘I just got caught behind a—’

But the man wasn’t interested. He slammed the door and moved on up the train.

They swayed through the carriage until they found two seats opposite each other. ‘This’ll do,’ said Jerry, and sank
down, still struggling to get his breath. He put the newspaper on the table.

‘I don’t know why you bothered,’ said Anne. ‘You’ll have time to read it later.’

‘You know I like a crossword on a train journey.’

He sat back, gave a sigh of relief and folded the
Guardian
on to the back page. ‘Ah,’ he said, after a few seconds. ‘Of course,’ and he wrote in his first answer.

Anne watched him for a while, knowing he didn’t want her to say anything. When she decided that he was comfortable with his crossword, and possibly wouldn’t speak again until they reached Birmingham, she settled back and got her knitting out of her bag. She hadn’t forgotten to bring that. She held it up to admire. It was a navy jumper with a ship on the front, for Jeremy, her fourth grandchild, whom they had been to see today. She was very proud of the jumper. All her children had had one, and now she was knitting for the next generation. This was the ninth, each one a slightly different colour but the same design. She had photographs of every child wearing this jumper. There was a line of them up the side of the stairs. The children hated them. ‘Take them down, Mum,’ they had all said, at one time or another. ‘They look like flying fish. They’re in very bad taste.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said comfortably. ‘I like them. They’re my taste, so I don’t care what you think.’

She smiled to herself and gazed out of the window as she knitted, so familiar with the pattern that she could do it by instinct.

‘Excuse me.’

She turned her head and saw an elderly, bald man standing above her. She glanced at Jerry, but he was concentrating on his crossword.

‘May I sit next to you?’

She looked around to see if there were empty seats anywhere else, but there weren’t. She didn’t really want to sit next to
anyone. ‘Of course,’ she said, moving her bags and putting them on the floor.

‘I wonder,’ said the man, ‘could I put my cello on this seat and sit opposite? I prefer to travel facing the engine.’

‘Oh,’ said Anne. She couldn’t see a cello. ‘Jerry,’ she said. ‘Move your stuff. He wants to sit next to you.’

‘Sorry?’ said Jerry, raising his eyes from the paper. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’

The man went behind the seat and reappeared with his cello in an untidy leather case that was becoming unstitched on the sides. ‘Thank you,’ he said, beaming, and attempted to lift it. He did not look strong enough.

‘Jerry!’ said Anne.

Jerry looked up again. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Let me help.’

He stood up clumsily, and together they lifted the cello on to the seat.

‘Thank you,’ said the man, and sat down. He had gone very red and seemed to have some difficulty breathing.

‘Are you all right?’ said Anne.

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ His little bald head bobbed up and down while he twisted himself to get a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his streaming face.

Jerry went back to his crossword. He had already completed a third clue, Anne noted with relief. He would be in a good humour if he could finish it on his own. She’d help him if he asked, but he resented it. He saw it as a matter of pride. She saw it as a matter of convenience. It wasn’t her fault that she was better at crosswords than him. He might be very clever, but he didn’t necessarily think in the devious way that was essential for crosswords. He was too literal, she liked to think. Too logical.

‘It’s tricky, taking the cello on a train,’ said the elderly man.

‘Yes,’ said Jerry, without looking up.

‘Do you have to buy a ticket for it?’ asked Anne.

‘Oh dear,’ said the man. ‘I haven’t. I didn’t realise it would take up so much room.’

Typical man, thought Anne. Lack of forethought. ‘Never mind,’ she said, smiling warmly. ‘Let’s hope the ticket collector doesn’t notice.’

He leaned forward. ‘I’m going on an orchestral course in Birmingham. Haven’t played in an orchestra since I was at university. Quite an adventure, really. Always too busy working until now.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Anne.

‘Do you live in Birmingham?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ he said, his head going up and down again. ‘Good.’ A toy dog in the back of the car, nodding every time they went over a bump.

Jerry put the newspaper on the table. ‘It’s not like you to forget the paper. It’s very extravagant to buy two.’

Anne looked up from her knitting and read the paper upside down. ‘Mother-of-pearl,’ she said.

Jerry stared at her. ‘What?’

‘Two across. Mrs Oyster. Mother-of-pearl.’

He snatched away the paper. ‘I know. I was just going to write it down.’

‘Of course you were,’ she said.

He looked at her suspiciously, uncertain if she was serious or not, then leaped to his feet. ‘I’ll get us some tea, shall I?’

Anne smiled at him. ‘That would be nice, dear. Thank you.’

The little man had to stand up to let Jerry out. ‘Sorry,’ said Jerry, as he stepped on his foot. ‘Sorry.’

‘Get me something nice to eat,’ said Anne. ‘Some shortbread, or a KitKat or something.’ She thought of her spreading waistline, then banished the guilt.

‘Right,’ he said, and waited to let some children pass. There seemed to be hundreds of them, in groups of four or five, swaying with the rhythm of the train, trying to work out their money as they went.

Jerry nodded towards his crossword. ‘Don’t do it, will you?’

‘Of course not, dear. Why would I?’

He didn’t trust her. He picked up the paper and tucked it under his arm as he followed the children down the carriage. Anne could hear him muttering to himself about children as he went. He had never liked children. Not even his own. Didn’t know what to do with them.

She glanced at the man with the cello and he smiled at her. She felt tired, and decided to avoid his gaze in future. Smiling endlessly and pointlessly was very wearing. She thought of her children and grandchildren, planning their next family get-together like a military operation. She realised as she sat there that she was happy.

It wasn’t her fault she was better at crosswords than Jerry.