Flightsend (5 page)

'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 stand-in, 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 complained.

'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?'

'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.

'And I went on holiday there when I was about ten,'
Kathy continued. 'I think I've seen that painting too,
the famous one.'

She passed the book to Charlie, who read the entry
more closely.

'Why didn't you tell me? That we've got the same
name as a famous painter?'

'Never thought of it, I suppose. We're not related, as
far as I know. And I don't think he's all that well
known. Not what you'd call a household name, like
Picasso or Monet.'

'Yes, I think if my name was Charlotte Picasso, I'd
have made the connection by now.' Caspar shifted his
head, and Charlie reached a hand down to feel her
skirt. Yuk! Her fingers met warm slobber. She stood up
and tore off a piece of kitchen roll. 'Mum, do you
think I should do Art next year, instead of Biology?'

'But I thought you'd made up your mind. You can't
do Art just because of Philip Wilson.'

Charlie dabbed at her skirt and wiped dried mud off
one of her shoes. 'Art was always the other one I might
choose. Perhaps I'll do both. Some people keep four
subjects in year thirteen.'

'Yes, but I don't think you'd better be one of them,'
her mother said candidly. 'You wouldn't cope.'

'Thanks, Mum.'

'I'm being realistic,' Kathy said. 'You're a
conscientious slogger – you wouldn't cruise through
four A-Levels. People who do four are usually taking
related subjects, like Sciences and Maths, not four
entirely different ones. It'd be too much. You'd end
up not doing well in any of them.'

Charlie humphed.
Conscientious slogger
sounded dull
and worthy, far less exciting than artist, which was
what Mr Locke had called her. 'Right, I'm going,' she
said, pushing Caspar away before he could dribble on
her again.

Her mother put a bottle of white wine in the fridge
door; Anne was coming over for the evening. 'We'll
talk tomorrow – you need to get it sorted out. What's
brought this on, then? Have you decided Oliver's
more handsome than you first thought?'

Charlie decided to treat this remark with deserved
contempt.

'Have a nice evening. And don't get too girly and
giggly with Anne,' she said, as her parting shot.

Mr Locke, however – she couldn't get used to thinking
of him as Oliver – seemed to assume that she'd already
made up her mind about sixth-form Art. He made her
jump, calling her name as she crossed the courtyard.
She hadn't seen him, in the shade of the wall, where
he was sitting on the bench with a sketchpad and a
glass of wine. The two cats were with him, Puss on the
bench, Boots sprawling underneath.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Didn't mean to startle you. You
looked miles away.'

Charlie had jumped because she'd been thinking
about him as she came through the gate, and now
here he was, as if her thoughts had conjured him up.

'What are you doing?' she asked, hoping he
couldn't read her mind.

Dumb question; it was obvious what he was doing. It
looked quite idyllic: the sunlight on warm brickwork,
the climbing roses, the shady bench, the cats and the
wine. He smiled and said, 'Hiding, really. I like these
courses but it gets on top of you after a while, people
always asking questions and wanting help.'

She moved closer. 'Can I see?'

He held out his sketch-pad. He was drawing the
archway into the herb garden; a soft pencil sketch,
with the detail of the stonework and a rambling rose;
shade in the foreground, looking through into
sunlight.

'That's lovely!'

He looked at her. 'No better than you could do,
with practice.'

Yeah, right.

'I've found out what you meant, about my name,'
she said. 'Philip Wilson Steer. English painter,
influenced by the French Impressionists. Born in
eighteen-something and died in nineteen-forty-something.'
'You've been researching?'

'My mum knew.'

'Steer's your father's name, presumably?' He had
put down his wine-glass and was stroking the cat,
caressing his head and ears and making him purr like
a small engine.

'No, it's Mum's. My father left when I was two. He
went back to Canada and I never see him. His name's
Colin Cudrow. Mum and I were called Cudrow at first
but when he left, Mum went back to Steer.' Charlie
wasn't sure how much Mr Locke knew about her
mother, or about Sean or the baby; whether it was
common knowledge among the staff.

Oliver tried it out. 'Charlotte Cudrow. No, Charlie
Steer's much better.' He wrote it in the air with his
pencil, like someone signing a painting, with a final
flourish. 'Charlie . . . Steer. Cudrow sounds like a line
of cows in a milking parlour. Join me for a few
minutes? There's wine in the entrance hall – shall I
fetch you some?'

'I can't! Jon would go ballistic.'

'The temperamental chef? If you had one glass of
wine?'

'If I sat out here chatting. There's a great pile of
lettuce and tomatoes waiting for me in there.'

'You get time off during the day, though? Why don't
you join my group tomorrow? You've got far
more talent than most of these people, I can tell you.'
Charlie, unable to help feeling flattered, shook her
head. 'I've still got exams to revise for. Geography and
German. I didn't do as much as I meant to, today.'

'You'll have finished by next weekend, won't you?
I'm going to be around, on and off, for the next few
weeks. Portraiture next weekend; Life Drawing after
that. It'd be a good chance for you to get some work
in your sketchbook.'

Charlie knew he meant the sketchbook that formed
part of sixth-form coursework. He smiled at her,
relaxed and unhurried, leaning against the back of
the bench. She was beginning to feel flustered – partly
because she expected Jon to appear at the store-room
door any moment and yell at her. 'But I haven't made
up my mind yet,' she said. 'It's only a possibility.'

He looked at her seriously. 'Charlie, if you don't do
Art, it'll be a criminal waste of talent.'

'Really?'

'I mean it. You'd do well, perhaps even brilliantly.
With good teaching, of course.'

She looked at him sitting there on the bench. Yes,
OK, Mum and Anne were right. He had the sort of
face that grew on you, so that after a while you
couldn't think why you hadn't noticed immediately
what a good-looking man he was. He had an intent
way of gazing at her that made her feel she was
worth looking at. A shaft of sunlight fell across the arm
that was resting on the side of the bench; he wore a
white linen shirt with wide, short sleeves. Charlie
looked at his shapely forearm, his hand resting
on the curve of wood, and thought: I could draw that.

'I'll be late,' she said. 'No, I
am
late. See you later.'

Inside, washing, shredding and chopping the salad,
she thought again about her subject choices. She had
talent, he'd said; said it twice. Charlie wasn't used to
being thought of as talented. Her mother's view,
conscientious slogger
, was shared by most of her teachers.
You have worked conscientiously this year
was a phrase that
appeared often in her subject reviews. She took it to
mean that she was quite unexceptional.

'You'd do well,' he'd said, 'perhaps even brilliantly.'

Brilliance, talent – the words danced in her head
like taunting fireflies. Should she slog away at her
academic subjects, or take the chance to do something
at which – if he'd been sincere – she might excel?

She began to like the idea of herself as artist. The
people who did Art in the sixth form were a group
apart, more like college students (Mum said) than like
school pupils; on friendly first-name terms with their
teachers, drifting in and out to work on their projects
or just to chat. The exam results were always
exceptionally good, and each year several students
went on to Art Foundation courses. Her existing
combination of subjects began to seem less than
enticing: each would involve hours of reading, essay-writing,
sitting in classrooms. She would drop Biology.
Pleased to have decided, she went cheerfully about
her waitressing duties. When she went to his end of
the table to serve the main course, Oliver Locke gave
her a conspiratorial smile, as if it was all settled
between them.

'Don't be too long,' Kathy said next morning, when
Charlie fetched the lead from the hook behind the
door. She was drinking coffee and flicking through
the Sunday paper, having already changed from the
faded jeans she wore for gardening into a smarter pair
of trousers and a cream top. 'I said I'd go round at
eleven.'

Charlie looked up at the kitchen clock. 'Why
are you ready so early, then? It's only quarter past
ten.'

Her mother gave an embarrassed laugh. 'Nerves, I
s'pose. It's ages since I've been anywhere other than
the builders' merchants or the supermarket.'

Charlie looked at her, noting the carefully brushed
hair, the discreet make-up. Kathy hadn't worn makeup
for ages.

'You're only going round for a chat,' Charlie said.
'It's not like a job interview. Fay isn't at all off-putting
– you know that, you've seen her. And Dan's all right,
too.'

In fact Charlie had rarely spoken to Dan, Fay's
husband, who was a musician. His eyes glittered
behind round glasses and he had a beaky nose and a
tangle of wiry hair, and looked to Charlie like a mad
composer. (Gustav Mahler, Jon said.) He occasionally
ran courses on madrigals and Early Music and tended
to drift around the place humming to himself. He'd
been introduced to Charlie, but several times since
had passed her without noticing. He wasn't likely to
intimidate Kathy. Charlie had the impression that Fay
was the one who took decisions at Nightingales.

'I know, but . . .' Kathy looked down and turned a
few pages of the newspaper, stopping at the gardening
feature.

'Don't worry,' Charlie said more gently. 'I won't be
long.' Her mother had asked her to look after the
shop, as she was beginning to call it now that it
attracted a trickle of customers.

Charlie whistled Caspar, calmed his excitable
bounding and clipped on his lead. Kathy had been so
engrossed in getting Flightsend organized, in setting
up the nursery and planning for the future, that
Charlie had almost forgotten this aspect of her breakdown:
a tendency to panic about going out, meeting
new people. The garden chat would be fine, but
suppose Rosie appeared unexpectedly? Perhaps,
Charlie thought, I should have warned Fay: asked her
to keep Rosie out of the way. But that would have
meant explaining the whole story, and she didn't want
to give the idea that her mother was neurotic or
unreliable. At least Mum
knew
about Rosie now, and
wouldn't be shocked into bolting out of the gate.
Charlie hoped.