Flightsend (8 page)

'Oh, I – got side-tracked.' Charlie felt a rush of heat
to her face.

But Oliver only laughed, and studied the drawing
carefully. 'Now
that's
better. That's more like your real
work. It's got all the freedom and confidence that's
lacking so far in the portrait. Here, try it like this.' In
a corner of the sheet, he deftly sketched in the
model's forehead, the eyebrows, the glasses. 'Look at
the way the glasses rest on the bridge of the nose. The
way the sides of the glasses come out beyond the
brow-bone. The angle of the lenses. That's what you're
not getting yet.'

He moved on, and Charlie tried again, finding it
easier. Listening to him talk about
the brow-bone
,
the
nose
, she felt less embarrassed about the impromptu
sketch. To an art teacher, bodies and faces were just
objects occupying space, shapes with curves and
planes and textures. She worked more steadily now.
Next time he came to look, he just nodded approvingly
and went on. After a while there was a break for
the model, and do-it-yourself coffee made from an urn
on the trestle table. People looked at each other's
drawings, and one of the women complimented
Charlie on hers.

'Oh, you're
good
. Are you an art student?'

Charlie had thought she might go home at
lunchtime, but Oliver clearly expected her to stay all
day. When they broke for lunch – just sandwiches and
fruit laid out buffet-style in the dining-room – he told
her, 'I've brought a book for you. Philip Wilson Steer.
Come over to the Well House with me on the way back
and I'll get it for you.'

The Well House was a tiny cottage, close to the Long
Barn, usually used for accommodation for one of the
tutors; the other had a small flat above the stables.
Charlie was curious about the Well House, which was
tiny and octagonal, like a garden summerhouse.
If there'd ever been a well, there wasn't one now.

'I like it here,' Oliver said, as they walked down the
narrow path. 'It's well away from everyone. I always ask
for the Well House.'

'Why don't you go home at night?' Charlie asked.
'You must live fairly close?' She wondered if he were
married, or living with someone.

Oliver pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked
the green front door. 'It's only temporary, where I'm
living. I'm in the middle of what you might call an
upheaval. That's why I'm here so much just now. Fay
and Dan are good friends, and I like helping them
out.'

'Are you married?' Charlie asked.

He looked at her. 'Not any more.'

He stood back for her to go in first. She was disconcerted
to find herself in his bedroom; not that she
shouldn't have known, as it was obvious from the outside
that the Well House had only one main room.
There was a bed, a desk, flowered curtains at the
window, a bookshelf laden with art books. The bed was
neatly made, and a pair of his boots stood at the foot.
Through a door she could see into a tiny tiled bathroom.
Oliver followed her in, leaving the front door
open.

'Here it is.' He pulled down a glossy book from the
shelf. 'Philip Wilson, your namesake. You can borrow
it. Keep it as long as you like.'

She flicked it open, and saw inside the front cover:
To Oliver, with love from Rosalind.

'My ex-wife.' He saw her reading it.

'Is she an artist?'

'No. She's a librarian.'

Charlie wondered about the break-up. Was there
another story here of loss, loneliness and rejection?
Was Rosalind obstinate and unapproachable, like
Mum? She longed to know more, but felt that she'd
been blunt enough already.

Oliver looked at his watch. 'Come on. It's time to
get back.'

Charlie had had enough of this party. It was nearly one
in the morning and she'd have to be up again in six
hours' time. Rowan and Russell had disappeared
into one of the bedrooms, and she didn't want to be
the one to disturb them. Fraser Goff, supposedly keen
for her to come, had said little to her all evening and
was now wrapped round Lisa's friend Dawn who was
wearing what looked like a black nightdress. Charlie's
ex-boyfriend, Stephen Gee, had made a big show of
arriving with a glamorous dark girl called Melinda
from a different school, and kept looking at Charlie to
make sure she'd seen. Charlie hadn't taken much
notice of any of this earlier in the evening, when she'd
been laughing and joking with a group who were looking
at Lisa's photos of last year's ski trip, but by now
the party had deteriorated. A second wave – friends of
Lisa's older brother – had arrived after the pub closed,
and colonized the kitchen. There was so much dope
in the garden that a sweet-smelling drift came in
whenever anyone opened the door, and head-thumping
music made conversation impossible. Lisa's
parents had gone away for the weekend, leaving Lisa
and her brother, Rob, to clear up next day, so there
was no reason for the party to end this side of Sunday
afternoon. Charlie had fended off a drunken friend of
Rob's who lurched at her in a waft of beer and sweat,
and now she wanted to go home.

'Hey, you know who's not here, Lisa?' she heard
Dawn saying. 'Aberdeen Angus!'

'Oh, Angus is a prat,' Fraser said. 'He'll be
rehearsing for the play. You know he's King of the
Fairies? I mean, who else would volunteer for
that?'

'In green tights!' There were shrieks of laughter.

'Let's all go! Get front row seats!'

Charlie couldn't help sticking up for Angus. 'I think
it's brave of him. Not many people would have the
nerve.'

'Not many people would have the
legs
.'

'Not many people would have the utter stupidity,'
Lisa said. 'I mean, imagine hauling yourself into
school every day, after everyone else has left.'

'So, are you disappointed he didn't come tonight,
Charlie?' Dawn asked, in a snidey way.

'Oh yeah, Angus for Charlie!' Fraser made
smooching noises. 'Woah! They're an item – latest
celebrity couple! Call
Hello!
magazine!'

Rowan must have made it up, about him wanting
me to come tonight, Charlie thought. She looked
at her watch and considered phoning her mother.

'Don't get a lift home from anyone who's had too
much to drink,' Kathy had told her. 'I'd rather come
and fetch you myself. I don't like the idea of you being
driven about by someone I don't know. Someone
you
hardly know, by the sound of it.'

Charlie knew that her mother would be lying awake,
waiting for her to come in. Kathy never complained
about it – she trusted Charlie not to do anything daft
– but was unable to sleep until she was safely indoors.
When Charlie thought of all the disasters that could
possibly befall her – car accidents, kidnap, murder,
death from sudden illness – she worried more on her
mother's account than on her own. She couldn't let
Kathy down by getting herself killed, maimed or disfigured.
Kathy would never get over it.

All the same, Charlie didn't want to drag her out of
bed at this hour, if Fraser could take her. He was being
loud and unfunny, but she didn't think he'd drunk
too much. She looked across at Lisa, who was sitting in
a very drawable, languid pose, sprawled on the sofa
with one leg curled underneath her and an arm
draped over the cushioned back. Charlie thought of
the drawing she could do if only she had a sketchbook
and pencil; thought of showing it to Oliver Locke
tomorrow.

She'd had enough of sitting about. She went to find
Rowan, and found her coming downstairs trailing
Russell by the hand.

'Where've you been? I want to go home,' Charlie
said.

'We were just coming to look for you.' Rowan
giggled. 'We fell asleep.'

'Oh, is
that
what you've been doing?' Charlie asked,
sceptically. 'Let's collect Fraser, then, and go. If we can
prise him away from Dawn.'

Dawn, hearing about the arrangements, said she
was coming, too. Charlie was relieved to find that
they were all coming out to Lower Radbourne in the
car, rather than Fraser dropping them off at
their much nearer homes before taking her on
alone.

They got into Fraser's battered Escort, Dawn in the
passenger seat, Charlie in the back with Russell and
Rowan. Fraser put a CD in the stereo and turned up
the volume. He drove far more aggressively than he
had on the way to the party.

'Careful, there'll be police about,' Dawn warned.
'Lisa's brother got nicked last Saturday, speeding.'

Fraser slowed, but once out of town on the country
lanes he put his foot down again. He and Dawn were
singing along to the music, something Charlie didn't
recognize; Russell had fallen asleep against Rowan's
shoulder.

Charlie closed her eyes, thinking of Flightsend and
bed; then she opened them wide as the car leapt away
from a junction. Fraser was driving with one hand on
the wheel, his spare arm round Dawn's neck, and
Dawn was giggling and leaning against him. Knowing
the lanes well, Charlie kept her gaze fixed on the road
ahead, the hedges and gateways illuminated by the
headlights. She needed to provide a more attentive
pair of eyes for Fraser.

'Fraser, slow down –
slow down!
– there's a sharp
bend here—' she called out.

They were approaching the corner by Devil's
Spinney, a right-angled bend. Fraser braked, not
enough. He jerked his spare arm from behind Dawn
and grabbed the wheel, losing control so that Charlie
saw tree trunks looming dizzily in front of them.

'Oh! Look out!' Dawn shrieked. 'There's a dog, or
something—'

Fraser wrenched at the wheel. Charlie felt a small
thud of impact, and Dawn screamed as the front of the
car tilted and came to a stop, centimetres away from a
gatepost. Fraser clicked off the stereo. Charlie's ears
buzzed in the sudden, blessed silence. It felt like being
on a roller-coaster that had come to an abrupt stop, her
insides swinging back to their normal place.

'What?' Russell asked blearily.

Dawn clapped both hands over her face. 'Oh, you
hit it – that dog!'

Caspar
. The image of Caspar dead and bleeding by
the roadside leapt into Charlie's brain, though there
was no reason why he'd be wandering the lanes on his
own at night. Her hands shook as she fumbled with
the door catch. She felt drunk and befuddled,
although she hadn't had much to drink. She didn't
want to see, but she had to.

Dawn had got out too, stumbling in her high heels.
'Uurgh! Don't
touch
it! Oh, gross!'

It was a fox, hit a glancing blow and thrown into the
middle of the road. There was enough moonlight for
Charlie to see the gleam of teeth, the pale fur under
the chin, the bushy tail. A cub, she thought. She
touched it carefully, feeling the warmth, the softness
of the fur. She had heard and felt the impact; a young
creature couldn't survive that.

She turned on Fraser, who was examining the front
of his car. 'Look what you've done!'

'It's not my bloody fault!' he retaliated. 'The thing
was just
there
.'

'Oh no, what shall we do?' Dawn wailed. She stood
shivering, huddling herself in her arms.

'If you back the car off the verge, I'll see better in
the headlights,' Charlie told Fraser.

'Sod that. What is it, a fox? You see dozens of the
things dead on the roads.'

Dawn started to cry. 'Oh, the poor little thing. Is it
dead, Charlie?'

'What's happened?' Rowan came over to look. 'Did
we kill it? Oh no, how awful! Is it all bloody?'

'I don't know. I'm not leaving it here, in the middle
of the road,' Charlie said.

'Uurgh! You're not going to
touch
it!' Dawn jumped
back and clung to Fraser.

Charlie lifted the limp weight of the fox cub and
carried it round to the front of the car. In the beam of
the headlights she could see its eyes glazing in death,
its mouth parted. She didn't want to look more closely
in case there was some horrible injury.

'What
is
it?' Rowan asked.

'A fox cub. A beautiful fox cub.' Charlie carried it
through the gateway and laid it down gently in the
long grass under a tree. She thought: if I hadn't
agreed to this, it'd still be alive.

'Ugh, Charlie! You'll catch fleas.' Dawn was
half-giggling, half-crying, leaning against Fraser. 'Is it
dead?'

'Did you hit a tree?' Russell asked Fraser, fully awake
now.

'No, only just missed it. I swerved to avoid that
damn thing. The car's all right.'

'You were going too fast,' Charlie said. 'Much too
fast.'

Fraser glared at her. 'Don't start treating me like a
murderer. It's only a fox, for Christ's sake. There are
dozens of the things wandering about the roads.
What did you expect me to do, crash the car? Kill us
all?'

'You were already out of control, before the fox!'
Charlie flashed. 'If you hadn't been driving so fast—'

'Well, I was! What are you, Special Branch or something?
Going to report me for dangerous driving?'

'Oh, do stop
arguing
,' Dawn said, sniffing. 'It's dead
now. Hadn't you better move the car, Fraser, in case
something comes round the bend?'

They all stood aside while Fraser started the engine
and reversed off the verge. Dawn, Russell and Rowan
got back in, and Charlie saw Rowan fastening her seat
belt; she hadn't bothered before.

'Get in, Charlie,' Fraser said curtly through the
driver's window.

'No thanks. I'll walk.'

'Don't be an idiot. Get in.'

'
Don't
tell me what to do!'

'Oh, but
Charlie
,' Dawn wailed. 'You can't walk off
on your own in the middle of the night, miles from
anywhere!'

'I'm not miles from anywhere. I'm nearly home.'

Charlie reached into the car for the small rucksack
she'd taken to the party, with her keys in it; then she
said a curt 'Bye,' and turned to walk the half-mile back
to the village. She breathed the cool night air,
reassured by the safe, familiar sounds of her footsteps
on tarmac and leaves overhead stirring in a faint
breeze. An owl screeched somewhere nearby. The car
stayed where it was for a few moments; then, presumably
urged by Dawn or Rowan, Fraser drove slowly
behind her, all the way home, in a ridiculous procession.
She didn't look back. When she got to
Flightsend, Fraser reversed down the track, yelled at
her, 'Don't bother saying thanks for the lift, or
anything!' and pulled away fast, with a squeal of tyres.

Charlie let herself in, and was greeted by a sleepy
Caspar. Kathy came to the top of the stairs in her
nightshirt, and called down: 'Who was that shouting?
How was the party?'

'Awful. Really awful,' Charlie said. She'd been longing
for bed but was now wide awake, and
furious. 'I'll tell you in a minute. D'you want coffee?'

* * *

There was a different model for Sunday's portrait class
– an old man, with a craggy, interesting face. No
glasses this time, but lots of wrinkles. By the coffee
break, Charlie had produced two sketches, one of
which she intended to work up during the afternoon.
She'd miss part of the next session, as she was due in
the kitchen an hour before lunch, which was always a
traditional roast on Sundays.

Everyone took their coffee out to the lawn. Charlie,
seeking shade, found a place under the mulberry tree,
and Oliver Locke came to join her.

'How was the party?'

'Terrible.' Charlie wasn't going to explain; she
wanted to forget about it.

'Why? Boyfriend stand you up?'

Charlie shook her head. 'I haven't got a boyfriend.'
And didn't particularly want one, she'd realized at the
party; there was no one there she was remotely
interested in. She liked some of the boys from her
form, but only as friends. They were all so
immature
,
she thought now. Especially Fraser Goff, who was a
year older.

'How well do you know Sean?' she asked Oliver.

'Sean?' He was lying back on the grass, looking up
at the canopy of leaves.

'Sean Freeland, PE teacher.'

'Oh,
that
Sean. Seems a nice guy. He's one of those
muscular, athletic types that makes the rest of us feel
flabby and wimpish. I don't know him at all well, no.
Why d'you ask? Are you going to tell me you're hopelessly
in love with him? At least two of the girls in my
form are.'

'No! I just wondered. So you don't know about him
and—'

Oliver lifted his head. 'No, who?'

'Him and my mum.'

Charlie wished she hadn't started this; she'd
assumed he would know about Sean and her mother.
But there were sixty-something people on the staff,
and Sean, being a PE teacher, was busy most
lunchtimes with practices and matches. Oliver's
department was in a separate building, and the art
teachers were a close-knit group. It wasn't really
surprising if he and Sean hardly knew each other.

'Sean Freeland and your mum?' He raised himself
on his elbows to look at her. 'Are they going out?'

'Not any more. Sean lived with us for five years.'

'When your mum was on the staff? I remember her,
vaguely, the year I started. She left to have a baby,
didn't she? Why did they split up?'

Oh God. She'd have to tell him the whole story.

Then she saw, to her vast relief, the plump woman
called Audrey – the one who'd complimented her on
her drawing yesterday – coming over the grass towards
them.

'Charlie,' she called out, 'you live in the village,
don't you? Do you know the local footpaths? Sheila
and I were thinking of going for a walk later, before we
go home.'