Natural Flights of the Human Mind (8 page)

They didn’t eat like that in his family. His father had had a voracious appetite and would keep eating until there was nothing left. His mother struggled to feed him. She made enormous casseroles so that he could fill his plate over and over again, but he still complained that there wasn’t enough. Pete and his brother used to watch him eat, see his mouth working non-stop like a cement-mixer. You could hear his jaw click as he chewed, and the food going round and round. When he spoke, they could see it in his open mouth, half recognisable, half blended. Then he would rush to swallow so that he could take another forkful. They had to eat at the table in the dining room, but their father was allowed to have a tray on his lap while he listened to the wireless. He would comment on the news as he ate, giving further glimpses of the breaking-down stage.

‘That girl’ll be dead when they find her,’ he pronounced, into the stillness of the living room.

‘Never trust a policeman,’ he said, as he downed a roast potato. ‘They’re all crooked.’

They finished long before him and came to listen to the wireless. Their mother ran backwards and forwards with refills for him. The house was too big, the distance too great for this. They had a hall twenty yards long, with wood panelling and chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.

‘Self-made man,’ he said, with satisfaction about some successful industrialist. ‘Same as me.’

They watched, fascinated, as he speared a piece of steak with his fork, and bit a huge mouthful off the side.

‘Is that it?’ says Miss Doody. ‘Don’t you have anything more substantial?’

I didn’t invite you to dinner, he thinks.

‘It’s my roof,’ she says. ‘I want to do it. I told Jonathan that I couldn’t afford to pay someone, but he doesn’t listen. Just because he earns pots of money, he thinks the whole world is stinking rich. He forgets too easily.’

She stops talking for a while. The wind blows her hair back towards the mainland. He can see darker roots below the blonde.

‘I inherited the cottage from my godfather. Just like that. I didn’t know anything about it until it landed in my lap. I was going to sell it. Jonathan offered to pay for the roof, but he won’t do it really. He wants things to be a sound investment. He would take one look at the cottage and tell me it needs knocking down. Then he’d tell me to build a new house or sell the land. He wouldn’t care. It’d just be an investment or a useful windfall. He only thinks in terms of money.’

Her voice is less harsh when she’s talking properly. He sits further back than her so that she doesn’t keep looking at him. But he has to strain sometimes to hear what she says.

‘The thing is, I like the cottage. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it up. It would be all mine. Not like where I live now—in a school.’

He knew she was a teacher. It was obvious.

‘I can saw and hammer and paint. It’s my job. Why can’t I do the roof?’

He wishes she wouldn’t keep going on about the roof. He’ll take the sails down tomorrow.

‘Children have no respect. I had one boy ready to punch me. Year six, eleven years old, his fist just under my nose. I could
see the flicker of indecision in his eyes. Yes or no. Of course he would have been expelled, but that wouldn’t have saved my nose, would it? It might have been worth it, I suppose, if I’d never had to see him again. Useless headmaster. Thinks I’m stupid. Wants to call me “dear”, pat me on the head. He might do that to Doris the Lion Tamer, although I can’t see her taking it. Was that your cat?’

Does she always talk like this? Too many words, not enough links, too loose a chain.

‘I shouldn’t have come. I suppose it was pretty stupid coming out here on my crutches. It’s not broken, the ankle. I had it X-rayed. Just sprained. “Rest it,” they said, but it’s so boring. Haven’t you got anything else to eat?’

He’s not sure. He has to think. What does she like? Ricotta and spinach cannelloni? Alphabet spaghetti?

‘I found you from the post office. Tall man with a beard, doesn’t talk. The woman who works there was useless, but someone else knew you. Said you lived in a lighthouse. I wish it was me. Never having to talk to anyone.’

You’d have problems with that.

Tell her your name, Straker
.

‘People are so stupid, they drive me crazy.’

He realises that it’s a long time since he last spoke out loud. Do you lose the ability if you don’t keep it oiled?

‘And you can always be higher than everyone else.’

He clears his throat. That makes a noise. Encouraged, he opens his mouth.

‘I spend a lot of time on my school roof. You can watch without being seen.’

He hesitates, shuts his mouth, opens it again.

‘Jonathan says they might be antique tiles. They could be worth a fortune.’

‘My name is…’ he starts to say, but no sound comes out. He coughs and tries again. ‘My name is Peter Straker.’ His voice sounds odd, as if someone else is doing the talking.

She doesn’t even turn to look at him. ‘I know that,’ she says. ‘They told me in the post office.’

A seagull swoops down in front of them, and lands two yards away. It must have smelt the stale doughnut.

Mike folded his arms, stretched his long legs out in front of him and yawned loudly. He admired the way his jeans frayed at the bottom, the loose threads hanging over his trainers. The two children who had been sitting opposite him had gone to the buffet car, and there would be a few minutes of blissful space.

‘Hand over your mouth when you yawn,’ said Geraldine, next to him. ‘You’re setting a bad example for the children.’

‘Sorry, miss.’ He straightened and flashed a grin at her, knowing that he looked charmingly boyish when he smiled.

She frowned, her dark, heavy eyebrows coming together, almost meeting in the middle. He had never considered her to be attractive, but looking now at her pale brown hair, scraped back into a ponytail, he was unexpectedly stirred. The way the pearl of her ear-lobe glistened with downy gold hairs, the high cheekbones slightly flushed against the pale eggshell white of her forehead.

He turned away in a hurry. Careful, he said to himself. You can do without this now.

‘Miss?’

They both looked at Sarah Wilson, who was standing by Geraldine.

‘Yes, Sarah?’

‘Wayne went to get a KitKat from the buffet, but when he got there he couldn’t find the fifty pence piece in his pocket and he says me and Tracey pinched it, but we didn’t, miss, and now the man is getting annoyed because Wayne opened the KitKat before he paid for it and he hasn’t got the fifty pence and me and Tracey didn’t have any money.’

Geraldine sighed and got up. ‘Where is Wayne now?’

‘In the buffet car. There’s a big queue.’

‘Show me the way.’ Geraldine picked up her bag, grimaced at Mike and set off after Sarah.

Mike watched her lurching down the swaying carriage. There was something about the way her body moved that affected him. He knew it would be a bad idea to get involved with someone at school again, but even so…She had a gawkiness that he liked. It looked as if she knew she couldn’t move naturally, but she was pretending she could, and in doing so, she became more awkward.

‘Sir?’

Mike looked across at Leroy, who had slipped on to the seat opposite. ‘Leroy?’ He liked being called ‘sir’. He felt he deserved the respect and sense of authority that had settled on him automatically as soon as he had started training. Eighteen months as a teacher. Pretty good, he told himself every now and again, when he stood facing the bathroom mirror.

‘My dad says I can have a dog.’

‘Great, Leroy.’ It was getting dark outside, he noticed. He could see car lights on the road that ran parallel to the train. The cartoon figure of a sausage with a grinning face loomed against a red background on the side of a lorry. It was overtaking in the inside lane. Typical lorry driver, he thought. That’s why he’s not a teacher.

‘What sort of dog should I have? A spaniel or a corgi or a beagle or a terrier or a red setter?’

Stop him, thought Mike. This is going to go on all the way home. ‘You like dogs, then?’

Leroy nodded, his big eyes wide open and excited. ‘My dad doesn’t.’

‘Right.’ The conversation was dragging.

‘My uncle likes dogs, though.’

‘Great.’

They passed a station so fast that they couldn’t read its name. Leroy’s eyes darted backwards and forwards very quickly as he tried. ‘Where was that, sir?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Was it Glasgow?’

‘No, Leroy. Not Glasgow.’

Leroy sat quietly for a bit. ‘Do you think a Dobermann pinscher would suit me? Or an Alsatian or a…’

Mike sighed. ‘Stay with a spaniel.’

Leroy nodded. ‘My dad says I can have a dog when I’m sixteen.’

‘Ah. Right.’ Only another seven years, then.

Simran returned from the buffet car. ‘Sir, he’s in my seat. That’s my seat.’

‘OK, Simran. Don’t push him. He’s going quietly.’

Geraldine came back and slid in beside him. He turned to look at her. ‘OK?’

She nodded. ‘He had the fifty pence all the time in his pocket. The man wasn’t helpful, I must say. If he hadn’t got so annoyed, Wayne wouldn’t have panicked, and there wouldn’t have been a problem.’

They could hear the general chatter of the children up and down the carriage, quieter than when they’d set off in the morning. The excitement had dissipated and most of them were content to sit and examine their souvenirs.

Mike watched Helen opposite him as she fingered a small model of the Statue of Liberty. ‘Why did you buy that, Helen?’ he asked.

‘I like it, sir.’

‘You know what it is?’

‘Yes. The Statue of Liberty.’

‘And where is the Statue of Liberty?’

‘New York,’ she said, without a pause for thought. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Mike felt depressed. He leaned against Geraldine slightly
and was pleased that she didn’t draw away from him. He could feel the warmth of her arm against his and he could see the shape of her nose in the corner of his eye. Sharp, angular, scrubbed clean, but somehow vulnerable.

‘Fancy a Chinese takeaway when we’ve got rid of them?’ he said.

She hesitated and he held his breath. ‘Depends on the time,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to pick up some shopping for my mum.’

‘We could do that first, if you like.’

She glanced at him with a slight smile. ‘OK,’ she said.

Yes! He examined his new trainers, observing with satisfaction that their pristine whiteness was already fading. Right now, at this moment in time, life was just right. He’d discovered this before. If you don’t look forward and you don’t look back, you can fix yourself in now and enjoy it. Never mind about Fiona, who would be spouting tears down the phone at him for the next three weeks, and never mind how he would introduce Geraldine to his flatmate, Barry, who had stipulated no more girlfriends for six months or he would chuck him out.

He was conscious of Geraldine’s perfume. Devon Violets, he thought, infinitely preferable to Fiona’s heavy Chanel No. 5. He admired her feet tied securely into Doc Martens. A practical woman. Someone who knew her own mind. Someone who would not want more from him than he could give.

‘Fancy a coffee?’ he said, good-naturedly getting to his feet, stumbling over her legs on purpose.

Sitting next to Straker, eating his crisps, Doody realises that she’s made a mess of things. She’s not at all sure why she came. It seemed logical at the time, but now the anger has subsided, she can’t quite recall her burning desire to confront him. When do the buses stop running? Even if she rings for a taxi, she can’t avoid the difficult walk back to the road. She wishes she’d never set eyes on the man. ‘It’s all very well you producing food, but what am I supposed to do now?’

He doesn’t answer. Of course. ‘How does someone as stupid as you survive?’

She pushes the worry to the back of her mind. She walked here. She can walk back. Her shoulders ache from using the crutches, there are blisters on her feet, but she’ll just have to get on with it. If she has to do something she’ll do it, however hard it might be. She could walk to the North Pole, climb Everest, or sail round the world. She doesn’t give up. She’ll even take on the challenge of a roof.

She scrambles awkwardly to her feet and glares at Straker, trying to decide if he really murdered someone. ‘I’ll be off now,’ she says.

He doesn’t seem to know how to react.

‘Could you pass me the crutches?’

He obeys. This pleases her enormously. ‘Thank you.’

It’s easier to use one crutch as a walking-stick and carry the other under her arm, as it eases the strain on her shoulders. She turns her back on the sea and looks up at his lighthouse. ‘Have you thought about painting it?’ she says.

If only it were her lighthouse. There’s a certain satisfaction
in being higher than everyone else, looking down. When she was a child, before her father died, she used to spend long hours in the old yew tree at the bottom of the garden, reading Biggles books. Jonathan used to search the garden for her, calling pathetically. She could just see the top of his head as he passed below, but she never gave in to the temptation to throw a berry down at him. Poisonous yew berries. She remembers the feel of them, squashing their waxy red between her fingers.

She starts walking. Not too bad. Everything aches a bit, but she’ll loosen up. Nobody ever died of stiffness.

‘Stop!’

She stops. She’s tempted to ignore him, but it’s always possible that he has a Land Rover stored away somewhere, and she doesn’t want to reject a genuine offer of help. Ninety per cent of her doesn’t believe in this, but she’s prepared to give the other ten per cent a chance. She turns round. He’s flapping his arms in his imbecilic way, and gesturing towards a cottage on the other side of the lighthouse. She waits to see what will happen.

‘Get a move on,’ she says. ‘It’s going to get dark soon.’

He nods and seems to want her to follow him to the cottage, but she stays where she is and watches him. Maybe he’s just offering her a bed for the night, but the possibility of a vehicle still makes her wait.

He disappears inside and reappears pushing a bicycle with a large box on wheels attached to the back. ‘Very helpful. How am I supposed to ride a bike with a sprained ankle?’

He shakes his head. He brings the bike over, takes the crutches from her, and puts them down on the grass. Then he pulls her towards the cart.

‘It’s not going to work,’ she says. She’s not very tall, but she’s solid. He’s tall, but not very solid. He’s determined to try, so she gives up and climbs in awkwardly. There isn’t enough room, so she sits on the bottom and hangs her legs over the
side, balancing the crutches across the top. It’s extremely uncomfortable.

‘You’ll never do it,’ she says, as he gets on the bike.

She’s right. He makes several attempts to start pedalling, but can’t go fast enough to balance, so each time he falls over to the side.

‘It was obvious it wouldn’t work,’ she says. ‘Bikes aren’t made for pulling human beings.’

She climbs out and sets off again on her own, feeling even more annoyed with him. Aren’t men supposed to be useful? ‘Thanks anyway,’ she says, over her shoulder. ‘Nice try.’

She doesn’t look back. She’s tired of him. This is all his fault. If he hadn’t come into her garden, she wouldn’t have chased him and she wouldn’t have hurt her ankle. If he hadn’t messed with the roof, she wouldn’t have come out to this absurdly remote place. She wants to tell him all this, she would like to shout at him, but it would waste time, so she carries on walking.

Straker sweeps past on his bike and stops in front of her.

‘Get out of the way,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a long way to go.’

He gets off and positions the bike so that it bars her way. She hesitates, not sure what he wants to do. ‘It doesn’t work,’ she says. ‘I’m too heavy.’

He pulls her by the arm until she’s standing by the bike. He takes the crutches out of her hands and put them back into the cart. Then he bends down and pulls her leg over the bike.

‘I told you. I’ve got a sprained ankle. I can’t cycle.’

He ignores her and takes the bad ankle in his hand.

‘Ouch!’ There’s a strap on the pedal, and he puts her foot into it. She sighs and looks at the sky. The man’s an idiot. She knew that the first time she saw him.

‘It’s getting late,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to be stuck out here in the dark. I don’t suppose the council puts up street-lights just for dotty old men in lighthouses.’

He puts her hands on the handlebars. Then he takes her other foot.

‘Hey!’ she yells. ‘Give me some warning, will you?’

They sway wildly, but he manages to hold the bike upright. He’s much stronger than she’d realised, and she feels suddenly nervous. She’d forgotten that he might be dangerous. He’s seemed so vague and woolly up until now that she hasn’t worried seriously about him.

He fits her foot on the second pedal. Doody decides that he might know what he’s doing so she stops resisting. He pulls himself upright, looks at her once directly with his blue eyes and starts walking, one hand on the handlebars and one on the back of the saddle. They move forward, precariously at first and then more smoothly as they both get the hang of it. The crutches bounce along in the cart behind them, clattering in protest.

Her feet move round with the pedals, but she’s not controlling them, so she doesn’t apply any pressure. Straker has to walk in an uncomfortable position, leaning to the side with his legs just missing the pedal.

‘Yes,’ she says, after a while. ‘It works.’

He doesn’t reply.

There’s nothing left to say. He guides the bike and they travel bumpily but competently towards the main road. She worries about his blue eyes, and that he’s more intelligent than he pretends.

Just before they reach the road, a bus appears at the top of the hill, heading towards them, moving fast.

‘Quick!’ she shouts. ‘Where’s the bus-stop?’

Straker looks up and sees the bus for himself. He swerves the bike suddenly and she nearly falls off.

‘Hey! Be careful!’

He puts his head down and starts running, on a collision course with the bus. Doody manages to free one hand from the handlebars and wave wildly at the driver. She struggles to stay upright.

‘You’re going to kill us both!’ she shouts at him, but he ignores her.

The bus slows down. ‘It’s seen us!’ She’s exhilarated by the race. ‘It’s going to stop!’

Unbelievably, it pulls up a few yards ahead of them. Straker runs the bike smoothly along the Tarmac on the side of the road until they’re outside the opened door.

‘Hang on!’ she yells at the driver. ‘Give me a second!’

‘No rush, love,’ he says, and leans on his steering-wheel as they struggle to get her off the bike.

Straker guides her on to the steps after he’s released her from the pedals, and goes back for the crutches. As he hands them to her, the bus driver goes back into action.

‘Hold on,’ he says, and the automatic doors start to shut.

She leans against the bar as the bus edges away and struggles to find some money in her pocket. ‘Do you go to Hillingham?’ she asks.

The driver smiles wearily. ‘There’s nowhere else you can go, love, travelling in this direction on this road.’

‘Don’t call me “love”,’ she says. ‘How can you love someone you don’t know?’

He raises his eyebrows and concentrates on the road.

Straker has gone, already lost in the distance behind them. She feels unexpectedly guilty. Perhaps she should have thanked him.

She hops down from the bus in Hillingham and balances on her crutches while it drives off. The sun is low in the sky, but everything still looks bright and light. Curiously, she feels good. Sitting in the sun and the wind has warmed her and she feels relaxed and well, but hungry.

On the bus, she’s been planning. It’ll take too long to drive home tonight, and she’s not sure if the ankle is strong enough after today’s walk. She could buy something to eat, and spend the night in the cottage.

There’s probably no electricity.

There’s definitely no electricity.

The cottage will be creepy in the dark.

Candles.

She goes into a small supermarket (Open Eight Till Late) and fills a basket with bread, cheese, bottles of lemonade, cakes, apples and a bar of chocolate. She’s the only customer, and there aren’t any candles.

The woman at the till is elderly, grey-haired and red-cheeked. She has a label on her overall, identifying her as Sharon, but she must be too old to be called Sharon.

‘I need some candles,’ says Doody. ‘Do you have any?’

‘Oh dear, I don’t know. I’ll go and ask Fred.’

She gets up from the till and disappears to the back of the shop. This worries Doody. How does Sharon know if she’s honest? Can she tell from looking at her?

A man comes into the shop and shuffles up and down the aisles, talking to himself. ‘I told Poppy to leave the dog. “No,” she said. “If I go, Rover goes.” Golden Delicious, a quarter of ham, proper butter, none of this artificial stuff…’

He comes up behind Doody, clutching an empty basket, and stands there for a while, still muttering. She half turns towards him, but he has his back to her.

‘Waste of time,’ he says, after a minute of waiting, and puts his empty basket on the floor. Then he shuffles out of the door.

‘I thought so,’ says Sharon, appearing from the chocolate-biscuit aisle. ‘Fred thinks he’s got some in his office. If you want to go back and wait for him, he’ll bring them down.’

‘Shall I pay for these first?’

‘No, no.’ She flaps her hands at Doody. ‘Go down Fruit and Vegetables. Potatoes on your left, baked beans on your right. There’s a back door at the end, to the left of the fridge. Go and wait there. He says he’ll bring them when he finds them.’

Doody walks to the back of the store, and realises that her ankle is not as painful as it was. If she walks slowly, she
doesn’t need to lean on the crutch. Thinking of Straker pushing her on his bike all that way, she fights down a sense of guilt. The fire of anger that keeps her alive is struggling to stay alight, on the verge of snuffing out, and it makes her feel insecure.

Fred appears in a white coat, looking like a doctor. ‘Hello, madam,’ he says. ‘Fred Hopkins.’

He’s probably expecting her to say, ‘Imogen Doody,’ so she says nothing.

He’s small and old, with a high, domed forehead, and a rolling, bouncing double chin. His skin is tanned and leathery like the post-mistress’s and he stands with a slight stoop. ‘Were you the lady…?’ he says, and stops.

‘I wanted some candles,’ says Doody.

He nods vigorously and produces a packet of twelve from his pocket.

‘Brilliant,’ she says.

He hesitates before handing them over. ‘Were you expecting a power cut?’

‘No.’

‘Only I’ve found a whole carton of them. Perhaps we should bring them into the shop. In case everyone needs them in a hurry. If there’s a power cut.’

‘There isn’t going to be a power cut,’ she says. ‘It’s only my cottage that doesn’t have any electricity.’ Why did she tell him that? It’s none of his business.

But he smiles suddenly, and his face disintegrates into hundreds of ready-made creases. ‘I knew it,’ he says. ‘You’re the lady at the cottage.’

Doody’s annoyed with herself for destroying her anonymity. ‘What cottage?’

‘The cottage on the corner,’ he says. ‘Oliver d’Arby’s old place.’

She’s shocked to hear someone say his name like that, out of nowhere. ‘Did you know him?’ It’s quite reasonable that
people in the village should have known him, but it feels as if Fred knows all about her private life.

He nods vigorously. ‘Odd chap. Flew aeroplanes, played the violin—’

‘No,’ says Doody. ‘The cello.’

He looks confused. ‘Maybe. He just disappeared, you know. Nobody knows what happened to him. One day he was in here, buying Mr Kipling Cherry Bakewells, and a pound of tomatoes. The next day he was gone.’

‘You don’t know what happened to him, then?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nobody knew. He didn’t tell anyone. A nice couple were living there in the last few years. Bob and Carol Macklethorpe. He’s dead now, of course, and she’s in a home in Exeter. I go and see her sometimes, but she doesn’t recognise me. Alzheimer’s. It’ll get us all in the end.’

So the tidiness wasn’t from Oliver d’Arby but an elderly couple. Doody’s disappointed.

But if there were tenants, who had collected the rent? Someone must know where Oliver d’Arby is.

‘Been empty for about five years now. Oliver’s been gone twenty, twenty-five…’

He reminds her of Jonathan. More interested in his own conversation than hers. ‘How much are the candles?’ she asks.

‘Oh, take them, take them.’

She’s not sure if he’s giving them to her or trying to get rid of her. ‘So how much are they?’

‘Nothing. Free. My pleasure.’ He becomes more professional. ‘Always good to see a satisfied customer. I’ll have to charge you if you need any more, of course. Ninety-nine a box, or maybe one pound fifty.’ He turns away as he talks and his voice drifts into a vague mutter.

Doody goes to pay at the till. ‘There was a strange man in here a few minutes ago,’ she says. ‘He talked to himself about a dog.’

‘Oh, that’s Charlie. He usually comes in about now. He
never buys anything, but he’s harmless. You think he’s weird, you should see the man from the lighthouse.’