Flights of Angels

by Victoria Connelly

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, as she always did, acknowledging the fact that if she was fine, she would be at work on a Friday afternoon and not sat opening her mind to a bereavement counsellor. She couldn’t help remembering her very first visit, and how the simple act of allowing herself to be helped had crippled her with tears for the first half-hour.

  ‘Did you find time to read the book I gave you?’ Dr Lynton asked, walking over to the little table in the corner of the room where a kettle and tea tray were laid out.

  ‘Yes.’ Claudie’s hand dived into her handbag. ‘It’s here somewhere.’

  ‘And what did you think of it?’

  Claudie passed it back to him and he immediately returned it to its home on one of the shelves.

  ‘I thought,’ she began, scanning her brain for her opinion. ‘I thought it was interesting that there are actually different stages of grief.’ She took off her jacket and sat down in the smaller of the chairs in the room.

  ‘You don’t take sugar, do you, Claudie?’

  ‘Well, I like just a little,’ she said, not daring to say that she actually liked one very large sugar. But it was the same every week. He could never get it right.

  ‘Black?’

  ‘Just a little milk, please.’

  ‘And did you agree with the stages of grief suggested?’ he asked, handing her a cup of tea which looked far too strong and not milky enough by half.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking the cup and sipping nevertheless.

  ‘And do you think you can identify any which you’ve experienced?’ He sat down heavily in the large chair next to the Swiss Cheese plant.

  Claudie took another sip of tea. It tasted worse than the stuff at work. She didn’t want to talk about stages of grief, but how could she get away with it and move on to what she really wanted his opinion on?

  ‘Dr Lynton?’ she began. ‘I’ve been thinking about what the book said about hallucinations.’

  ‘You’ve been hallucinating?’

  ‘No!’ she said quickly. ‘Not about Luke. Although, sometimes, when I’m shopping, or walking to work, I’ll see somebody who looks like him. I know it’s not him, of course, but it’s terrible.’ She paused. ‘I sometimes find myself staring at strangers, almost as if they were to blame for not actually being him. Sometimes, they don’t even look like him at all, but there’ll have a similar way of walking, or a similar tilt of the chin. Do you know what I mean?’

  Dr Lynton nodded.

  ‘Hallucinations can take any form, can’t they?’

  He nodded again, obviously not wanting to interrupt her train of thought.

  ‘Well, I’ve not only been seeing people who remind me of Luke. I’ve also been seeing other people.’

  ‘What? Other people who have died?’

  ‘No.’ She put her tea cup down and bit her lower lip, anxiously twisting the little band of gold on her left hand. ‘Little people. I think.’

  Dr Lynton removed his tiny glasses and squinted across the room at her. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  Claudie puffed out her cheeks and shrugged. ‘I think I saw a little person hiding in my pen pot at work.’

  Dr Lynton’s head jerked forward like an inquisitive bird’s. She gave him a moment to comprehend exactly what she’d said.

  ‘You think you saw?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t be sure. I mean - it was so quick - like a little bolt of lightning - only in the shape of a human.’ She watched as he turned his pen over and over in his hand. He didn’t say anything, but that was quite usual. He was probably thinking, which always gave Claudie the opportunity to stare at him. She looked at his mass of white hair. It was extraordinarily thick, and his eyebrows alone could have stuffed a cushion quite comfortably. And then she stared at his nostrils: great, dark, flaring affairs, like twin caves. He really was quite striking.

  ‘And you’ve been sleeping all right?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Eating properly? Not drinking too much?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Because there are all sorts of explanations for hallucinations. You might have just got something in your eye.’

  ‘Dr Lynton, I assure you, it was nothing like that. This was real - physically, it was very real.’

  ‘Did you have physical contact with it?’

  Claudie shook her head. ‘I didn’t dare. I thought about it, briefly, but I was too scared that it might break the spell.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Claudie sucked in her cheeks. She probably sounded completely mad. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last, ‘I guess I thought that if I’d tried to reach out and touch it, it would be like pressing the stop button on the video in the middle of a wonderful film.’

  His forehead wrinkled, as if he was perplexed by her terminology. She had a habit of comparing everything to films, and Dr Lynton obviously wasn’t on the same wavelength.

  ‘And it wasn’t Luke you saw?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no. I’m almost sure this was a girl.’

  ‘Because it’s not unusual to look for your loved one - in any form. People find comfort in the most unlikely things.’

  ‘You must think I’m mad.’

  ‘You’re not mad, Claudie, and you must stop thinking that you are.’

  ‘But is any of this normal?’

  He gave the tiniest of smiles. ‘Who can truly define what normal is?’

  There was a few moments’ silence. Finally, Dr Lynton got up from his chair. Immediately, Claudie knew what was coming.

  ‘I can highly recommend this-’ he stretched up to reach the third shelf in one of the alcoves, his red jumper riding up his broad back.

  ‘Oh, no - please! No more books, Dr Lynton.’

  He turned round, looking slightly disappointed.

  ‘But may I ask for a cutting of your lavender?’

  For a moment, he looked puzzled. ‘You’re into aromatherapy, are you?’

  ‘No. Not really. But it’s worth a try.’

  Cabin Cottage stood at the far end of Lantern Yard, its sky-blue stable door and tiny windows crammed with herbs always a welcoming sight after a hard day at the office.

  Kristen adored it, but would often curse the precipitous steps that led to her and Jimmy’s home as they didn’t do her high heels any good. That was the problem with living in Whitby. It was all very pretty to the visitor, but they didn’t have to negotiate the neck-break steps and tiny alleyways that became impossible during the tourist season.

  ‘We live here!’ Kristen often wanted to shout as she’d try to sneak home in her lunch break, elbowing her way through coachloads of jet jewellery-seeking, ice cream-licking holidaymakers.

  But oh! When they went home at the end of summer - what bliss! It was true that the weather would close in for almost six months, but there was nothing cosier than to snuggle down in Cabin Cottage; the sound of the wind whipping up the harbour, and the seagulls reeling in the lead grey sky.

  ‘I’m home!’ Kristen shouted, closing the door behind her with her foot, and walking straight into the kitchen. She didn’t need to shout as the place was so small, but she could never guess what Jimmy was up to. He might have his saw on the go, or be lost in a world of six-inch masts and never actually hear her.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Through here,’ he shouted back.

  ‘I hope you’re not making sawdust in the living room again,’ Kristen warned, immediately tripping over a cardboard box. She picked it up. She didn’t recognise what it had once housed but it was certainly some kind of woodwork tool.

  She sighed, her mouth forming a firm, narrow line. ‘What are you up to in there?’ She threw the box behind her and walked into the living room. And there he was. He’d pushed all the furniture back against the wall and was sat in the middle of the carpet. Newspaper was spread out everywhere and he was hovering over a pile of timber.

  ‘You’re home early, love,’ he said, his eyes remaining fixed on his new project.


  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Jimmy looked up, his pale eyes looking bloodshot from intense concentration, and his sleeves rolled up to real his thick, tattooed arms which Kristen loved. ‘Blimey. Is it teatime already?’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat, is there?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Jimmy! Didn’t you go out at all today?’

  ‘Yes, but-’

  ‘You only made it as far as the DIY store?’

  He looked up and grinned at her. She knew him too well.

  ‘I’ll go and get some chips,’ she sighed. ‘You tidy up in here. Simon’s coming round later.’ Kristen took a fiver out of her purse and dumped her handbag on the old flower-festooned sofa. ‘I won’t be long, so make sure the table’s set.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain!’ he laughed. It was his little nickname for her when she became too authoritative.

  Kristen walked back through to the kitchen, tripping over the cardboard box again. She picked it up and took it out into the yard. God, the place was tiny, she sighed. She often wished she could add a square metre of space for every time she thought how small the cottage was. If they could, they’d own half of Whitby by now.

  She leant across to the windowsill and deadheaded a plant that had seen better days, its flowers dry and brittle, crumbling into nothing between her fingers. The windowsill could do with tidying up too. In fact, the whole place would benefit from a lick of paint.

  The cottage had belonged to Jimmy’s mother and, when she’d died, she’d left it to him. Newly divorced, Jimmy had been only to pleased to move in and, when he’d met Kristen, he’d staunchly refused to give it up.

  Kristen had done her best to make the place their own, insisting, point blank, that he got rid of the collection of lace doilies which made it look as if it had been snowing indoors, and the musty-smelling antimacassars which haunted the sofa and chairs.

  Several trips to the local charity shops, and a few tins of Country Cream later, and Cabin Cottage had looked like a completely new place. But it was still too small to start a family in, Kristen mused as she walked back up the steps into town. Not that Jimmy had any plans of that sort. He’d never once mentioned marriage, no matter how many hints Kristen dropped. He’d been bitten very badly the first time round and had no intention of inflicting further injuries on himself, despite their two years of domestic bliss together. Still, there was always tomorrow, Kristen thought, ever the optimist.

  When she got back, Jimmy had managed to set the table, but they were forced to step over his project in the middle of the floor.

  ‘What are you making?’ she asked.

  ‘The shop wants more of those yachts I made last year.’

  Kristen nodded. She supposed she should be glad that he had something to keep him occupied during the low season. Come high season, she hardly ever saw him as he owned one of the pleasure trip boats down in the harbour. The money wasn’t brilliant, but Jimmy never wanted more out of life than an occasional pint and a packet of cigars.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ he said, his mouth crammed with fat chips.

  Kristen nodded, aware that she was usually full of office gossip.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Claudie.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Kristen knew it was a phrase that had been bandied around so often during the last few months that it was as familiar as what’s for tea? or move that bloody saw from the front room, will you?

  ‘She’s been acting very strangely lately.’

  ‘Isn’t she meant to?’ Jimmy asked.

  ‘Yes. But this is a different strange. She’s become - well,’ Kristen hesitated, ‘odd.’

  Jimmy picked up his fish and bit into it. Kristen watched him for a moment, awaiting his response, expecting some words of wisdom at any moment. But they didn’t come.

  ‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘What do you think we should do?’

  Jimmy looked up from his wrapper. ‘Eat our chips before they get cold.’

  Kristen tried not to mind Jimmy’s response, but she did wish he’d listen to her more.

  What many people didn’t realise was that friends suffered too when someone died. Claudie just wasn’t the girl she used to be, and Kristen missed her so much that it sometimes hurt. She missed the warm-hearted, honest advice Claudie would give her when she needed to share her problems. Right now, though, it wouldn’t be fair to burden Claudie with her niggling worries about Jimmy. It wasn’t the done thing, was it? Look, I know your husband died, but can’t you give me some advice about where my own relationship is going? No, Kristen had to be the shoulder for Claudie, and where did that leave her to turn?

  She couldn’t help but miss the old Claudie. The girl who’d made her laugh by dancing round the harbour imitating Ginger Rogers when she’d had one too many. The girl who hid cream cakes in the stationery cupboard until the bosses were safely ensconced in a meeting. What had become of her? Where had she gone? And would she ever come back again?

  Kristen sighed as she squirted tomato ketchup over her chips because she knew it wasn’t just Luke who’d been lost. It was Claudie too.

  Claudie lay back in a lavender-scented froth of warm bubbles. She’d gone a bit over the top with the lavender in York, buying candles, bubble bath, soap, and a tiny bottle of essential oil. She’d potted her cutting from Dr Lynton, but determined to buy her own complete plant for her kitchen windowsill as soon as she could.

  She was tired. York always left her feeling drained, but lavender was meant to be good for fatigue, as well as a whole host of other complaints. She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the way that Luke used to shout through the bathroom door at her if she was more than half an hour.

  ‘I don’t want my wife drowning!’ he’d call, poking his head round the door with a cheeky wink. She’d thought about it too. It would be so easy to slip under the foamy world into oblivion.

  Suddenly, her eyes snapped open, her skin covered in tiny goosebumps. It was that strange sensation again: the feeling of being watched which she’d experienced at work. She sat upright and looked round the tiny bathroom as if she half-expected to see somebody there.

  ‘Who is it?’ she whispered. But there was nobody there. Of course there wasn’t.

  She sighed, and sank back down until her shoulders were dressed in bubbles again. She must try and relax. Perhaps she hadn’t added enough essential oil to her bath.

  She was just about to reach for the little glass bottle when she saw her. And there was no mistaking this time.

  For there, dancing between the shampoo and the loofah, was a perfect tiny, diamond-bright girl.

  Chapter 3

  Simon Hart was not in a good mood. After an hour and a half of two-finger typing, he sat back in his threadbare office chair to proof-read his work. Then, just as he thought he’d got things sorted out, his computer had crashed. He hadn’t saved his work, of course.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had just been one of those days. Trouble was, it was turning out to be one of those years. It was all very convenient to blame everything that went wrong in his life on Felicity Maddox, but it wouldn’t be a complete overstatement.

  October was when the trouble had begun. He’d known something had been wrong with Felicity for some time because she’d been acting strangely. Not that that was terribly unusual for Felicity, but this was different. She seemed restless and hostile.

  For almost two years, they’d shared a house on the edge of town, far removed from the picturesque cottages surrounding the harbour. But it was cheap and convenient. Trouble was, Felicity, belying her name, wasn’t happy with it.

  ‘When are we going to move?’ she’d moan every couple of days. ‘I hate this dump!’ Simon hated it too, but he was doing his best to make it as a self-employed website designer, so couldn’t possibly think about upgrading something as frivolous as living quarters. There was no cash. Except for the emergency rations in their join
t account.

  ‘Just be patient. We’ll get there,’ he always promised with a smile and a kiss. But his words would always fall on deaf ears.

  And so, the circle of discontent continued until, one day in July, he’d come home to an empty house. And an empty bank account. Felicity Maddox had done a runner with the rations.

  There was nothing Simon could do about it except get over it and start again.

  Six months later, he was still getting over it, and it didn’t help that he couldn’t type or couldn’t spell.

  He switched the computer off, not bothering to reboot it. Stretching his arms out in front of him, he sighed heavily. He’d have to start it all again. Later. First, he’d have a cup of tea.

  He walked through to the kitchen, grimacing at the intestinal debris from his take-away the night before. He had to get himself sorted out. He opened the cupboard and took out a white mug with a lip-shaped chip before shuffling towards the tea canister. Opening it up, he delved inside, his fingers scraping the metal bottom. He’d run out of teabags.

  He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and, in doing so, caught sight of the clock. It was ten past eight and he should have been at Kristen’s over an hour ago.

  ‘God - Simon! You look terrible!’ Kristen gasped half an hour later, ruffling his hair affectionately as he stepped into her kitchen.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, letting her kiss him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He ran his fingers through his curly fair hair and sighed by way of an answer.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Kristen said. ‘Have you eaten?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘How about shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘Hey! How come I didn’t get shepherd’s pie?’ Jimmy called from the living room.

  ‘’Cause you got fish and chips!’ Kristen yelled back.

  ‘I don’t want to put you out,’ Simon said, his belly rumbling loudly at the mere mention of food.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Here,’ she said, pulling a can of Jimmy’s lager out of the fridge. ‘Go through and sit down. If you can find room.’