Flightsend (10 page)

'Hardly at all, I should think. Apart from my mum's
polytunnel, for her plants. She's a gardener, she runs
a nursery. Why don't you come home now, and see?
My mother would love to meet you, to hear all about—
She's a History teacher – I mean used to be. She knows
a lot about, about the war.'

'I would love to,' the man said. 'But I can't leave the
aircraft here. It is unauthorized landing, you see. I
have no permission to be here. I am a trespasser.'

Charlie was reluctant to give up her idea. 'You could
hide it,' she suggested. 'Park it –' she wasn't sure if
park
was the right word to use for an aircraft – 'over
there, close to the trees. Then unless the farmer
actually comes over here, he won't know.'

She could tell that he really wanted to see
Flightsend. He smiled and said. 'All right. I'll take the
risk.' Then, formally, he held out his right hand. 'My
name is Dietmar Kolbert. And yours?'

Walking with Dietmar down the lane, Charlie felt
anxious about her impulse to bring a stranger home.
What if Mum was as rude as she'd been to Sean? What
if she spoke only in monosyllables, or retreated into
her office?

She needn't have worried. Kathy was fascinated by
Dietmar, and the fragments of his story gabbled
by Charlie in confused order. After showing him the
nursery, Kathy offered coffee; Dietmar accepted, and
they all sat at the garden table, with Caspar lying
underneath.

'So you planted our Frühlingsmorgen rose?' Kathy
asked him. 'We wondered about it.'

'Yes, I planted it as my own memorial for my father.
My mother has one also in her garden in Hamburg,
bought at the same time. They are twins,' Dietmar
said. 'I'm delighted to see how it thrives. It is in good
hands, here.' He looked round at the exuberant
borders, the veronicas and hardy geraniums that
spilled over on to the grass.

'I can't take much credit,' Kathy told him. 'We've
only been here since February. Someone else did most
of this planting.' She looked at him. 'You? Are you a
gardener?'

Dietmar nodded. 'Not an expert like yourself. But I
like to dibble.'

'Do you mean dabble?' Charlie couldn't help
asking. 'Or is that ducks?'

Kathy laughed. 'No, dibble!
Dibble
– to dibble –
means to make holes for planting. With a trowel.' She
mimed.

'Then I think I meant dabble,' Dietmar said. 'To try
a little bit, to enjoy, yes? But dibble is right too, by
accident. I'm sorry, my English is still not yet fully
proficient. Even after so many years. You must correct
me when I make mistakes.'

'It's a lot better than my German,' Charlie said,
thinking that anyone who knew words like
thrives
and
proficient
must surely be entitled to consider himself
fluent.

'You're more than just a dabbler,' Kathy said, 'if you
did this planting. Have some more coffee?' She
proffered the jug. 'So the name
Flightsend
came from
you? We wondered what it meant, didn't we, Charlie?'

'Yes. Flightsend.' Dietmar's face became serious.
'The tragic end to my father's flight, and – I thought
then – a happy ending to my own flight, my search for
a home, a special place. I thought I would settle here.'

'Why didn't you?' Charlie asked. She sensed a
reproving look from her mother:
too blunt
.

Dietmar picked up his coffee mug, paused, put it
down again. 'I lived here for three years. It didn't turn
out quite as I planned. I was living alone for the first
time—'

Caspar's ears twitched, he scrambled to his feet and
barked, and Charlie saw two people walking into the
yard. 'I'll go,' she told her mother.

They were customers, wanting herbs. They took
some time deciding. Charlie sold them two varieties of
fennel and a French lavender, then went back to the
garden, disappointed to see Dietmar on his feet and
making signs of leaving.

'Oh, you're going?'

'I'm beginning to feel anxious about the Cessna,'
he explained. 'I must go, I think, and remove myself
before an angry farmer comes along. But' – he turned
to Kathy – 'I'd very much like to have a closer look at
your plant nursery some other time. You are open for
customers?'

'Yes, every day. Do come again,' Kathy said.

Dietmar shook hands with both of them. 'It was
delightful to meet you. Thank you for your hospitality.'

'It's been such a surprise,' Kathy said. 'And we've
never had a visitor arrive by plane before.'

They went with him to the gate and watched him
wave and turn the corner. Then Kathy said, 'What a
nice man. Interesting.'

'Yes,' Charlie said, half-relieved that her mother
hadn't turned on her with recriminations. 'I wonder
why he left here? Did he say?'

'No, not really. Just that it didn't work out.'

'I heard that bit. What else did he say?' They turned
back to the cottage.

'Nothing much. Only that he works at Leicester
University, as a senior technician. Apart from that we
were talking about the village fête. And delphiniums.'

'He left six years ago, anyway, he told me that,'
Charlie said. 'And I suppose he must have sold it to
those mad people?'

'
What
mad people?'

'The people who lived here before us. They used to
sunbathe in the garden with no clothes on and knit
their own sweaters from hand-spun Jacob's sheep wool
that absolutely stank. And they used to play Gregorian
chants on their stereo all the time, with the volume
turned right up.'

Kathy looked incredulous. 'How do you know all
that?'

'From Henrietta in the shop. I forgot to tell you.'

'Well, even if they did do those things, it doesn't
make them
mad
. I'd expect Henrietta –
and
you – to
have a little more tolerance,' Kathy said in what
Charlie called her schoolmarm voice. 'There's
nothing wrong with eccentricity.'

'Oh! Sean said that!' Charlie exclaimed. 'The same
thing exactly. About Henrietta.'

'Did he?' her mother said flatly.

Charlie expected her to say more about Dietmar,
but she went straight back to the polytunnel.
Wondering if there was anything for lunch, Charlie
went indoors to look; but before long, hearing the
aircraft engine, she came outside again. She saw
the plane – frail and white against the sky – as it swept
round in a wide, ascending arc. In case Dietmar was
looking down, she stood waving until the churchyard
yew trees blocked the plane from sight.

Charlie looked after Rosie on Tuesday afternoon, and
again on Thursday. It was fairly undemanding,
and less fraught with tension than working in the
kitchen. Rosie was a good-natured child, easily amused;
Charlie read her stories, took her for a walk in the
gardens, played a game with building blocks. With Rosie
as an excuse, she made a thorough exploration of the
grounds, finding areas she hadn't known about. At the
farthest end, hidden by the strip of orchard, there was a
pond or small lake, fringed with trees.

'Look, Rosie, ducks. Next time, we'll bring some
stale bread from the kitchen. And there's a coot,'
Charlie said, pointing.

'Toot,' Rosie said obligingly. She was at the stage of
labelling everything she saw:
tat
for cat,
Tarlie
for
Charlie.

Fay, pleased with Kathy's designs, told Charlie that
she was planning to spend more on the gardens. 'We
could reclaim that whole pond area. Open it up, have
another seating area down there.'

She and Dan had just heard that their National
Lottery bid had been successful; they were getting a
grant for the improvements. Nightingales was doing
well. Dan placed more advertisements in magazines
and started planning a smarter brochure for next year,
with ink drawings and colour photographs. He
commissioned a photographer, and Oliver Locke
agreed to do the artwork.

'He'll get on with them once the school term
finishes,' Dan told Charlie.

She was annoyed with herself for feeling a definite
rush of pleasure at this news; she wasn't sure that she
hadn't blushed. If Oliver was doing the brochure
drawings, he'd be around at Nightingales without
tutoring responsibilities. She had no intention of
getting a stupid crush on him, just because he praised
her work, but nevertheless she felt that something was
missing this week, without him. And, if asked, she'd
have known exactly how many days it was to his next
weekend course.

She did a few sketches, including one of the rose
arch he'd drawn; she went up to the airfield and drew
the ash tree and the cross. At home, when her mother
was occupied with the nursery, she worked on several
drawings of Caspar. It was Kathy's birthday on
Saturday, and Charlie had the idea of getting one of
the drawings framed and mounted for a present.
Progress was difficult, as when Caspar wasn't asleep he
was full of twitchy movement. The only drawing she'd
completed was of Caspar stretched flat out, asleep, but
she knew there was something wrong with it. He was
floating in mid-air, rather than lying firmly on the
floor. Oliver would know how to put it right, but she
wouldn't be seeing him in time, before Saturday.

On Thursday evening she enticed Caspar up to her
room, gave him one of his rubber toys to gnaw, and
worked hard on a crayon drawing. She was pleased
with the result. It was a head-and-front-paws portrait,
catching Caspar's endearing way of lying with his front
legs crossed as he held the toy against his chest. She
perfected his eyebrows, the worried expression in his
eyes, and spent some time working on the texture of
his fur. When she'd finished, she rolled the picture,
with a spare sheet for protection, into a cardboard
tube and put it into her rucksack for tomorrow. The
leavers' business would be over by lunchtime, and
there'd be plenty of time to go into town.

With her school routine broken by study leave, it
felt strange to be standing by the village hall with the
few other students from the village who travelled in by
bus. No more school uniform, either – the sixth form
didn't wear it. Rowan had phoned last night to ask
Charlie what she'd be wearing.

'Haven't thought about it,' Charlie told her.

'Well, when
are
you going to think about it?'

'In the morning, probably.'

Rowan, disbelieving, gave a long explanation of
what she was thinking of wearing and why, then asked
Charlie to come shopping after finishing at school. 'I
need some things for Tenerife.' Charlie, who hadn't
seen Rowan since the party, agreed. She wanted to
repair the friendship before the summer holidays
began properly.

When the bus arrived, Angus David was sitting by
himself in the back seat, deep in his copy of
A
Midsummer Night's Dream
.

'
Tarry, rash wanton! Am I not thy lord?
' he said sternly,
as she approached.

'Come on then. Let's hear it.'

'Thanks.' He thrust the book at her. 'This is awful. I
can't get these words to stick in my head and it's the
dress rehearsal on Sunday. The day after
tomorrow
. I'll
stand there stammering. I'll be the first Oberon ever
with a speech impediment.'

He looked particularly tough today, with hair newly
stubbled, an American football shirt with a huge
number 2 on it, and heavy boots. 'I thought it was own
clothes today,' Charlie teased, 'not fancy dress. Why
have you come as Arnold Schwarzenegger?'

Angus tilted his head and looked at her sternly. 'If
you were due to appear before the entire school in
green tights and a hip-length split tunic, you might
want to establish your masculinity first.' He took the
book back and turned quickly through the pages to a
place marked in yellow highlighter. 'The beginning's
all right – here's the part I get stuck on. Ready? You're
Puck, by the way.
This is thy negligence: still thou mistak'st,
Or else commit'st thy knaveries wilfully
– Bad for the false
teeth, that bit.'

In spite of his mock panic, he was almost
word-perfect. 'You must have been out first ball, in the
cricket,' Charlie said, 'if you've had time to learn all
this.'

'I was not! I got a creditable eighteen runs, since
you ask.'

There was a holiday atmosphere at school, and a
certain smugness in standing outside talking to friends
while rows of younger pupils could be seen, through
the windows of the Maths block, having lessons as
usual. The official leaving business was an anti-climax.
They returned their textbooks, heard a dull and
worthy address from the head of year eleven and the
head teacher, had coffee and biscuits in the main hall,
talked about holiday plans and what they'd do on
results day. Some of the teachers came in to chat and
to say goodbye. Charlie scanned the room for
glimpses of either Oliver or Sean; seeing neither, she
was half-disappointed, half-relieved.

Afterwards, in town, she made Rowan come to the
art shop before being let loose in Monsoon and Oasis.
The framing would normally take two or three days,
the assistant told Charlie, but when she explained that
the picture was for a present tomorrow he agreed to
do it this afternoon. With no need to hurry, Charlie
went into Rowan's shop of choice, and watched her
trying on a succession of skimpy tops, trousers and
dresses.

'What d'you think? Does this colour suit me? Russ
would like this. Why don't you get something, Charlie?
I mean, you must
need
clothes, even for Nightingales.'

'Clothes don't suit me,' Charlie said. The clingy
vests and skirts Rowan liked might have been made for
a different species. 'I'd look like a weight-lifter in that
dress.'

'There are larger sizes,' Rowan said helpfully. 'What
about this?' She pulled out something from the
rack of discarded garments at the changing room
exit.

'Ro, that's a maternity dress. For an elephant. Either
that or something made from a barrage balloon. I
don't need anything, thanks.'

Charlie was hungry again. It was no good looking at
size 10 clothes; her body would always demand food
and let her down. She'd resigned herself to that, but
when Rowan made her wait about in changing rooms
she developed an inferiority complex, seeing herself
as a Great White Whale. She caught a glimpse in one
of the many-angled mirrors, and shook out her hair:
her fantastic pre-Raphaelite hair, as Mum described it,
that people paid vast sums to imitate.

Rowan, posing with hands on hips, looked past her
reflection at Charlie. 'I've got an appointment at
Shapers
in half an hour,' she said. 'Why don't you see if
they can fit you in too?'

'Oh, so there's something wrong with my hair now?'
Charlie retorted. 'And you didn't tell me you were
getting yours cut. What am I supposed to do, sit and
watch?'

'You could read the magazines.'

'No thanks. I've got more shopping to do. I want to
get some earrings for Mum, an extra birthday
present.'

'You didn't say. I'd have helped you choose. Come
and meet me outside
Shapers
afterwards.'

Rowan, laden by this time with three carrier-bags,
went off to the hairdresser's, and Charlie went to the
market stall that sold the kind of ethnic jewellery her
mother liked. She chose a pair of delicate silver
earrings, browsed in the market for a while and was
wondering whether to buy a sandwich when she saw
Sean coming out of the outdoor shop.

'Sean!' she called.

He stopped, saw her, came over. 'Charlie! Saw you
in school this morning. How was it?'

'Boring. What are you doing?'

'Just bought myself a new compass for Snowdonia.'
He showed her. 'And wasted time looking at all the
outdoor gear I can't afford. Actually, I'm here for
the same reason as you, most likely.'

'Waiting for Rowan to get her hair cut?'

'Kathy's birthday,' he explained. 'What are you getting
her?'

Charlie told him about the drawing of Caspar and
showed him the earrings. She felt anxious at the implication
that he'd be bringing Mum a present, although
he wasn't carrying anything other than the compass.
Maybe he'd bought jewellery, something small, that
was in his pocket. 'Are you coming over tomorrow?'
she asked, not wanting him rebuffed again. 'I
mean, she – well, it's the village fête. She'll be busy.'

She saw from the twist of his mouth that he understood.
'No, it's all right,' he said. 'I'm sending
something. Don't tell her, will you?'

'Course not.'

Sean looked at his watch. 'I've got half an hour,
then double year nine this afternoon. Fancy a quick
drink and a sandwich? I'm starving.'

'Great!'

They went to
The White Horse
in the market square.
It was noisy, packed with office-workers for someone's
leaving do.

'Let's sit outside,' said Sean. 'Can't hear ourselves
think in here.'

He bought drinks – Coke for Charlie, beer for himself
– and led the way through to a garden set out with
picnic tables. A barman brought the sandwiches
they'd ordered. While they ate, Charlie told Sean
about her drawings and her switch to Art, the surprise
visit from Dietmar and the story of the wartime plane
crash.

'Is Kathy doing anything special for her birthday?
Apart from the village fete?' Sean asked.

'She's going out for dinner with Anne. She said I
could go too, but I'll be working.'

'You said she was doing some work for Nightingales.
How's that going?'

'Really well. They liked what she did, and now
they're asking for more plans. She enjoys it, too. Fay
said she might even ask Mum to tutor some weekend
courses on gardening.'

After a while Charlie noticed that she was doing
nearly all the talking, with Sean saying little. He
finished his beer but left part of his sandwich uneaten.
She wondered if she'd said too much; made it sound
as though her mother was having a marvellous time
without him. Then she realized: it was almost exactly a
year since Sean had moved out, a few days after
Kathy's thirty-seventh birthday. He must be thinking of
that. The anniversary.

'Have another drink?' she asked. She could give
him the money even if she couldn't go to the bar and
order it.

'No, thanks, Charlie.' He looked at his watch. 'I
ought to get going.'

They went outside. Sean said, 'You know, it's
ridiculous. I hardly ever go out of school at lunchtime,
and when I do I'm all on edge, watching the clock.
Sorry. I wasn't very good company.'

'I'm glad I saw you, anyway,' Charlie said.

'Where are you going now?'

'Back to the art shop.'

'I'd love to see that picture some time,' Sean said. 'It
sounds great. Well – have a good day tomorrow.'

They would part here: Charlie going to the art shop
in the High Street, Sean back to school. He looked so
wistful that when he moved towards the customary
embrace, she gave him a big bear hug in return.
He laughed. 'Whoa, steady. What's that for?'

'You looked sad.'

'Oh, not really. I'm OK. See you, Charleston.'

He set off at a jog. Charlie watched him go, then
wandered along the High Street. She still had two
hours to find a use for, as there was no way back to
Lower Radbourne apart from the school bus.

It was only when she got home with the framed
drawing wrapped in a parcel that she remembered
Rowan, and their arrangement to meet outside the
hairdresser's.

Mum's birthday last year, for all Sean's and Charlie's
efforts, had been dismal.

It had been on a Friday. After school, Sean and
Charlie cooked a surprise special meal; for Saturday
they were planning a visit to Hidcote Manor, a
National Trust garden Kathy particularly wanted to
see.

None of it had gone right. Sean and Charlie didn't
have much cooking expertise between them and their
choices were too ambitious. The chilli sauce was too
hot, the rice turned out gluey and the soufflé didn't
rise properly. None of that would have mattered if
there hadn't been an item on the radio, just before
the meal, about cot deaths. Had she heard it in time,
Charlie would have switched to something lighthearted
or put a CD on instead. As it was, she came
out of the kitchen with a bundle of knives and forks
and found her mother huddled in a corner, listening
intently.