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.’
‘Great,’ Charlie said. ‘She’d like that.’
‘Didn’t you bring your swimsuit?’ asked Rowan, who was wearing a slinky green one with high-cut legs.
‘It’s in my bike bag.’
Charlie never sunbathed; her fair skin burned easily and she was prone to freckles. Besides, nothing would induce her to lounge in her swimsuit in front of Rowan’s parents, and supercilious Victoria, who by way of welcome had given her an indifferent stare; she’d have felt like one of those fat women on old-fashioned seaside postcards. All the females of Rowan’s family were slim and beautiful, with glossy dark hair and smooth, unblemished skin. Charlie would put on her swimsuit for swimming, and not till then. She manoeuvred herself into the shade cast by a huge parasol.
Rowan’s mother, having sat up to say hello, smoothed sunblock on her arms and legs and lay back, eyes closed. Rowan’s dad flicked through the pages of the Daily Mail; Victoria was engrossed in her Walkman and a fashion magazine. It looked as if they were presenting themselves to the sun for the afternoon. They had all the paraphernalia of sun devotees: cushioned loungers, parasols, eyeshades. Charlie and her mother never did this; they always had something to do. They might sit on the grass to drink tea, but only before getting back to the range of jobs that queued for attention: young plants to be potted up and priced, labels to be handwritten, or the bathroom to be painted. Even before, if Kathy had sat in the garden she’d be reading some weighty book about the Russian Revolution or the House of Hanover. We’re just no good at relaxing, Charlie thought. She couldn’t just sit here. She felt twitchy and uncomfortable. She couldn’t even really talk to Rowan, with everyone else listening.
Then Rowan’s dad stretched, yawned, and said, ‘I thought you girls were going to swim?’
‘OK,’ Rowan said. ‘D’you want to go up to my room to change, Charlie? You coming in, V?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t want to get my hair wet. I only washed it this morning.’
‘That’s terrific, that is,’ her father said. ‘I spend thousands on the pool and she doesn’t want to get her hair wet.’
Charlie’s swimsuit was high-fronted with a racerback, for serious swimming, not poolside loafing. Coming down from Rowan’s room, she threw off her shirt and jumped straight in. The water was deliciously cool after her cycle ride, and the heat of the paved garden. She ducked under and surfaced, flinging back her hair.
‘Ow! You’re splashing me!’ Victoria complained, flicking water off her magazine.
‘Move further back then, whinger,’ Rowan told her. She sat on the poolside, dipping each leg before lowering herself in. For Charlie, the pool was too shallow for diving and too small to do more than a few strokes in each direction. Still a little piqued with Rowan for using her as a Russell standin, she made the most of her swim, doing several proficient lengths of each of her strokes. Breast-stroke, front crawl, back crawl, butterfly – showing off, really. Rowan swam in a cautious breast-stroke, keeping her head above water and herself out of Charlie’s way.
‘You’re making tidal waves!’ Victoria co
mplained.
‘Go, Charlie! Someone enter this girl for the next Olympics!’ Rowan’s dad called out. ‘I’m glad someone doesn’t mind getting wet!’
Victoria tutted and moved her lounger to a safer distance. After a few more protests, she stood up, pushed her feet into sandals and announced, ‘This is so boring. I’m going round to Trudi’s.’
Charlie stopped swimming and leaned against the poolside, watching ripples dance as the water settled. Victoria clacked into the house, and her mother opened one eye to say, ‘Hormones. She’s just discovered boys, and how to be rude. She’ll get over it.’
‘Sooner the better.’ Rowan climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel round herself. ‘OK, Charlie. Revision time. You can use my shower and I’ll use Mum and Dad’s.’
Charlie showered, and attempted to brush her hair out of its tangle. Every so often she grew impatient and threatened to have the whole lot cut off, but Kathy always talked her out of it.
‘You’ve got fantastic hair, Charlie! Real Pre-Raphaelite flowing locks. Some people pay a fortune to get hair like yours. Don’t cut it off, please.’
Charlie, not excessively concerned with her appearance, was never quite able to resist this appeal to vanity. Her hair was a curly gingerish mane, wild and unkempt, but if her mother thought it looked Pre-Raphaelite then maybe it was worth keeping. Charlie had discovered the Pre-Raphaelites last year, and saw what her mother meant – all those dreamy, otherworldly women, with hair like rippling fire.
She and Rowan spread out their Geography notes and textbooks on the bed. While Rowan went downstairs for more drinks and cake, Charlie selected Geology as the opening topic. However, Rowan had other ideas.
‘I’m getting worried about your social life,’ she announced, arriving with a tray.
‘My what? It’s on the list of extinct species. There was a last-minute campaign, but too late.’
Rowan put down the tray and passed over a large slab of lemon cake. Her own piece, Charlie noticed, was much smaller.
‘Exactly. That’s why I want to do something about it.’
Charlie sprawled on the bed. ‘Really? What, you can spare time to unglue yourself from Russell?’
‘Come on, Charlie. I’m serious. I feel a bit mean, especially now you live out in the Back of Beyond.’
‘I like the Back of Beyond. I’m getting used to it.’
‘That’s just what I mean. You’ll turn into one of those country types with green wellies and a loud voice. You’ll end up marrying a sheep farmer. Or joining the Women’s Institute, selling jam at the church fete.’
‘Yeah, yeah. What are you planning to do, then? Pair me off with a Russell clone?’
‘No. Well, not really.’ Rowan licked the tip of her forefinger and dabbed up crumbs from her plate.
‘What, then?’
‘Persuade you to take a night off work at that Nightingales place. Come to Lisa’s party next Saturday.’
Charlie thought about it. Lisa Skillett was in their form, not a particular friend of hers. ‘She hasn’t asked me,’ she pointed out.
‘No, but she will. And guess who’s specially hoping you’ll go?’
‘Who?’
‘Fraser. You know, Fraser Goff, in year twelve, who lives near Russ? Come on, Charlie, you deserve one night out, don’t you?’
‘Fraser wants me to go?’
Rowan giggled. ‘Yes, he was sort of hinting to Russ. “Your girlfriend goes around with that girl with the hair, doesn’t she?” is what he said. That’s you.’ She leaned over and tugged at a damp strand. ‘The girl with the hair. Mind you, if he could see it now …’
‘That doesn’t sound like wanting me to go to the party. He could have meant ”that girl with the awful hair”, as in “Why doesn’t she sort herself out?” ‘
‘No, he wants you to go. He asked Russell to find out if I could find out if – well, you know. So that’s what I’m doing.’
Charlie considered. ‘So now, if I go, it’ll look as if I’m only going ‘cos he’s there? I hardly know him.’
‘Just say yes, and stop making all this fuss. It’s not like it’s a blind date, or anything like that. We can just have fun. All our friends’ll be there.’
‘How’ll I get home?’
‘No problem. Fraser’s got a car.’
Charlie looked down at her empty plate and realized that she’d eaten the entire slice of lemon cake, large as it was. She wasn’t sure about committing herself to being driven home by Fraser. Still, it was a way of solving the transport problem, and Rowan was right – she did deserve a night out at the end of the exams.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can get Saturday night off. I’ll ask. I’m not saying yes.’ She picked up a sheaf of notes. ‘Anyway, Geography.’
Feet clumped up the stairs to the attic room and Victoria stood in the hatchway, scowling.
‘Have you taken my gunmetal eye pencil?’ she demanded of her sister.
‘No, I haven’t! I haven’t touched any of your stuff! Don’t come barging in here accusing me. Anyway, I thought you were going to Trudi’s?’
‘She wasn’t in,’ Victoria said sulkily. ‘Her sister’s taken her shopping.’
‘Well, perhaps she’s nicer to her sister than you are to yours!’ Rowan retorted. ‘Why’d I want to take you shopping, stroppy little madam? Why don’t you go on your own, if you’ve got nothing better to do than trail round town?’
Victoria’s lower lip jutted. ‘Oh yeah, what with? The poxy amount Mum and Dad give me?’
Rowan laughed. ‘Don’t expect me to subsidize you. And remember I want my black top back. Washed.’
‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be seen dead in it.’ Victoria gave her sister a final contemptuous look, and clomped back down the stairs.
Rowan pulled a face at Charlie. ‘That’s the worst of this room. No door. People can come straight up without asking. V’s getting to be such a pain. She used to be sweet, but these days she thinks she’s the world’s leading expert on anything to do with clothes, music, boys – you name it. It’s always’ – she put on a whining voice – ‘What’s that sad thing you’re wearing? or What does Russell see in you? or How can you go out with your hair like that? And she’s so rude to Mum and Dad. You should hear the things she gets away with. I’d never have been allowed to. And she gets more pocket money than I got at her age, and does nothing to help around the house.’
‘She’ll get over it,’ Charlie said.
‘You sound like Mum. She’ll get over it, and meanwhile everyone’s expected to put up with Madam Mouth. Why should we?’
‘All part of family life.’ Charlie contemplated the idea that Rose might, one day, have been thirteen and stroppy. Whenever she thought of Rose growing up, she imagined her at two, three, maybe six – never as sulky-faced and pubescent. The Rose of her imagination was always sunny-tempered, charming and amenable – rather a lot, she realized, for anyone to live up to. Rose hadn’t had to.
‘At least you’ve got a sister,’ she said mildly. ‘And a proper family.’
Rowan’s hand flew to her lips.
‘Oh God, Charlie. I’m sorry. Foot in mouth.’
‘Never mind.’ Charlie brandished the sheaf of notes. ‘Now, do you know anything whatsoever about Glaciation, and could you care less?’
Philip Wilson Steer
‘You know the old airfield?’ Charlie asked her mother. She passed a sandwich crust to Caspar, under the table.
‘Mmm. Don’t think I can’t see you feeding Caspar. Please don’t do that – I’ve asked you before. He’ll start to be a nuisance when we’re eating. I don’t like it when dogs beg. It’s undignified.’
‘Was it used during the war? For fighters, you know, Spitfires, in the Battle of Britain?’
‘Not very likely.’ Kathy was making notes about propagation in an exercise book with Westbury Park School printed on the cover. She looked up, and straightened the glasses she wore for reading. ‘The Battle
of Britain was fought over Kent and Sussex, to stop the German bombers from getting to London. Northamptonshire would have been a bit of a detour.’
‘But it does go back to wartime, doesn’t it? The airfield?’
‘Oh yes. Hasn’t been used since, by the look of it. It was most likely used as a training airfield, this far inland. For bombers, I should imagine. As the war went on, there was more demand for bombers than for fighters. Most of the operational bases would have been along the south and east coast – Lincolnshire, Norfolk, places over there. Why d’you want to know?’
‘Just wondering. When I was there this morning with Caspar, an aeroplane came in low, really low. A little light aircraft, one-man, I should think. I thought it was going to land on the runway.’
Kathy looked at her. ‘And you thought it was a wartime Spitfire making an overdue landing?’
Charlie laughed. Caspar was pressing his face against her thigh under the table, and she hoped he wasn’t slobbering on her smart Nightingales skirt. ‘No! I was just wondering, that’s all.’ By now, thinking of the aircraft swooping low and the pounding fear that had almost made her dive into the barley stalks, she wasn’t entirely sure that she hadn’t dreamed it. She remembered the other thing she wanted to ask. ‘Mum, is there an artist called Steer? Someone Steer?’
‘Oh yes,’ her mother said promptly. ‘Philip Wilson Steer. An English painter, early twentieth century – a sort of Impressionist, I think. I’ve got a biographical dictionary if you want to look him up.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlie looked at her watch; she had to leave in five minutes. ‘It’s great to have a mum who knows everything.’
‘I wish.’ Kathy went into the sitting-room for the book, and came back with it open at the right page. ‘Here he is. Philip Wilson Steer. 1860–1942. Yes … influenced by the French Impressionists … leader of the English movement … known for seaside scenes. The Beach at Walberswick … Oh, I remember Walberswick, on the Suffolk coast. Do you? We stopped off there when Sh—’
Charlie looked at her. Kathy corrected herself. ‘On our way to the RSPB reserve at Minsmere.’
Charlie knew what the unedited version would have been. ‘When Sean took us to the RSPB reserve at Minsmere.’ Oh, great, she thought. Sean’s name can’t even be mentioned now. She remembered that day: the shining expanse of water called The Scrape, the wading birds that you didn’t see until you peered carefully through binoculars. They’d seen avocets and a hen harrier and climbed steps into a hide that was right up in the tree canopy.
Flightsend Page 5
