Natural Flights of the Human Mind (20 page)

Straker nods in agreement. Sell it all. Forget it. He examines Jonathan thoughtfully. Has Doody described him too harshly? He’s more sensible than he appears.

‘Maybe I don’t want to sell it. Why shouldn’t I keep the plane and use it myself?’

Jonathan looks appalled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know anything about it.’

‘I could work it out.’

‘Imogen, I have known you all my life. You are not a mechanical person.’

‘Maybe not, but Straker is.’

Jonathan finally turns to him. His eyes are pale green and lacking in any real curiosity. ‘Who exactly are you?’

Straker doesn’t know where to begin.

‘He’s a friend of mine,’ says Doody. ‘He knows all about aeroplanes. He’s a pilot.’

Straker wants to deny this. It’s none of their business. But he can’t open his mouth properly.

Jonathan shows some interest. ‘Commercial, RAF or private?’

‘Private,’ says Straker after a pause.

Jonathan looks at him as if he’s spoken in a foreign
language. Then he turns back to Doody. ‘I must be off,’ he says.

‘Have you tried making fruit cake yet? I have a good recipe. Delia Smith.’

‘I’ll have a chat with some of my friends about the plane. I’ll let you know.’

‘It takes a long time to cook, but it has a lovely sticky centre.’

He walks away from them, back to his car, starts it up and drives away.

The field is very peaceful in the afternoon sunshine. Everything is still, even Doody, for a while.

‘Housing estate,’ says Doody, with contempt.

‘It’s not a bad idea,’ says Straker.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, and turns back to the barn.

Straker doesn’t follow her. He sets off down the road.

‘Straker!’ she yells. ‘Where are you going now?’

Doody has tried to visualise seventy-eight people. In the three weeks since Straker told her about the crash, she’s watched the children from the upstairs window of her caretaker’s house, counting them, working out what a group of seventy-eight people looks like. She thinks about the relatives, how their husbands, children, parents never came home. At least they had an explanation. Surely it’s better to know what has happened, even if the news is not what you want to hear. Would they have preferred to have uncertainty, so they could find comfort in hope? But hope is hollow. The missing person still doesn’t come back.

Tony, Jonathan’s associate—that’s how Jonathan describes him, because he never admits to having friends, despite his dinner parties—comes to see the plane two weeks later. He’s tall and gangly, like a teenager. He moves as if he’s expecting to encounter awkward angles everywhere, sharp corners to catch on, holes to fall down.

‘Hi,’ he says, as they meet by the gate. He has long red-blond hair that flops across his forehead when he leans forward. Doody was expecting an expert to look older, somehow complementing the age of the aeroplane. She was expecting Biggles and she gets Ginger.

‘Come on, Imogen,’ says Jonathan. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

Rubbish, she thinks. You’ve got all the time in the world if it involves money. And you must have all day, since you’ve just driven down from London.

‘After you,’ she says. ‘You’ve got to climb over the gate.’

Tony looks at her nervously. ‘OK,’ he says, and climbs on to the first bar. He hesitates, as if unwilling to go too high, then rises to the next bar. He has some difficulty in deciding which leg to put over first. He eventually settles on the left, turning himself sideways to do it, and nearly loses his balance. He saves himself just in time, swings one leg over, then the next, and misses his footing on the other side. He nearly falls, but just manages to keep himself upright. ‘Oops,’ he says.

Doody goes next, resenting the fact that she likes Tony. They don’t wait for Jonathan as they walk up the path between the crushed weeds.

‘This could be a very important find,’ says Tony. He’s walking slowly, but obviously itching to get there, only just managing to control his excitement. Jonathan treads delicately behind them, worrying about the mud.

‘You could be wasting your time,’ she says to Tony.

‘I don’t mind. Great to get out into the country. Makes it easier to go back to the office on Monday morning.’

What office? she wonders. An office full of people who know about First World War aircraft, an office in an antiques shop, or an office in a museum? ‘How do you know Jonathan?’

‘We’re work colleagues,’ he says, with surprise. ‘Didn’t he tell you? Money men.’

Doody is both disappointed and amazed. He bears no resemblance to Jonathan. He doesn’t behave as if he inhabits the same world.

She unlocks the door of the barn, and they stand for a moment, admiring the front of the aeroplane. It seems smaller than before, only a few feet taller than Jonathan. The wings are black on top, red underneath, stretching out into the darkness of the barn, held in a twenty-five-year pose, ready for take-off.

‘A Tiger Moth,’ says Tony, in a delighted tone.

So it’s not even a First World War plane. Doody feels cheated. ‘When would it have been built?’

‘First produced 1931. They used them for training pilots all through the Second World War. Instructor in the back, pupil in the front, so he felt as if he was on his own.’

Tony starts to walk round it, stopping every now and then to examine something, a wheel, a wire hanging loose. He runs his fingers along the fuselage and the wings, feeling for tears in the fabric. He pulls himself up to the cockpit and fiddles with switches, muttering to himself. After a while, he starts humming. ‘Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines.’

He climbs back to the floor, pulls down the engine cover and pokes around inside. ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Amazingly good condition. I’d have expected far more deterioration than this. It’s moisture that destroys them. The atmosphere must have been unusually dry.’

‘There are good tiles on the roof.’

They look up and see the sails covering the holes, recently put up by Straker. ‘That’s only just happened,’ says Doody. ‘It was perfect up until a couple of weeks ago.’

‘I suspect the aeroplane was renovated just before it was shut away. That would give some explanation for its good state of preservation.’

‘We couldn’t make it work,’ says Doody.

‘I wouldn’t expect it to,’ he says, his voice muffled as he bends over. ‘The fuel would have evaporated years ago.’ He reaches in and rattles something.

Jonathan says nothing. He probably resents experts. They make him feel inadequate.

Tony climbs down, catching his hair in one of the struts. ‘Ouch,’ he says, and disentangles himself. There’s a pink flush on his cheeks. ‘I think you may have something here,’ he says. ‘Of course, it’ll be very expensive to restore, but well worth it.’

‘So it’s valuable?’ says Jonathan.

‘Oh, yes, worth quite a lot, I’d say. There are probably only
about fifty left in the world. They chopped most of them up after the war and sold the rest off for twenty-five pounds each. Not a bad bargain.’

It’s still special, even if it’s not a Camel.

‘I’d like to bring a couple of friends to see it,’ says Tony.

‘Why not?’ says Doody. ‘Invite the world. Might as well. What have we got to lose?’

Tony looks at her, and then at Jonathan, slightly perplexed. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Jonathan. ‘It’s in good condition, then?’

‘Remarkably intact, as far as I can see.’

‘But the rubber on the tyres has perished,’ says Doody. ‘Everything falls apart when you touch it.’

‘Small things,’ says Tony. ‘You’d expect that. It’ll need a lot of work, of course.’

‘Could you do it?’ asks Jonathan.

Tony grins and shakes his head. ‘No way. It would take years, even with other people helping. Regulations are very tight. If you want a certificate of airworthiness, you need the experts. Your best bet would be a restoration company.’

‘But how much would that cost?’ asks Doody.

‘A huge amount, I’m afraid. Thousands.’

She feels stupid and defeated as her dreams of restoring and flying it drain away. ‘So what should I do with it?’

‘Sell it. It’s still worth a small fortune as it is.’

‘I don’t want to sell it.’

‘Let’s consult your experts,’ says Jonathan. ‘See what they say.’

They stand for some time, looking at the aeroplane. It peers out of the shed comfortably, weak and vulnerable in its present condition, and somehow innocent. When it was built, nobody knew about nuclear bombs. Hiroshima was just a city in Japan, the journey to Australia took weeks in a boat, there was no such thing as a Boeing 747, the word ‘hijack’ was non-existent.

Eventually, they close the barn doors, replace the padlock and walk back down the pathway. Doody is next to Jonathan this time.

‘You know Oliver d’Arby?’ she says.

‘No,’ he says. ‘I never met him.’

‘You know what I mean.’

He frowns. ‘Yes.’

‘He disappeared, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who made the decision that he was dead, so that I could inherit the cottage?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know how these things work.’

‘I don’t believe you. Mother said you sorted it out.’

‘Did she?’

She waits for more, but he’s silent. She wants to shout at him, but she’s aware of Tony just behind. They climb over the gate, and this time Tony rips his trousers on a splinter.

‘Ouch,’ he says.

Doody prises the fabric away from the wood with her fingers. ‘It doesn’t look too bad. I’m sure it could be mended.’

He smiles at her. A good, easy smile. ‘My wife is used to it. All my clothes are covered in little patches, masterfully disguised by her needle and thread.’ Doody smiles back. He’s a likeable man.

‘Come back any time,’ she says to him, as they hover by his car. ‘Bring your friends.’ Did she really say that? She’s not interested in other people’s friends.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says out of his window, as he drives off.

Jonathan hovers by his car. ‘Do you want a lift?’

‘No, thanks, I prefer to walk. It keeps me fit.’

‘Let’s find out how much it costs to restore it.’

‘I won’t be able to afford it.’

‘No, but I might.’

‘You?’

‘Why not? I’ve got nothing else to spend my money on. Maybe I could learn to fly.’

‘What about the ex-wives?’

He looks almost cheerful. ‘No problem. We’ve made arrangements.’

‘Well, that’s news to me.’

‘We all move on, Imogen. We’re grown-up people.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’

He pauses. ‘Anyway, I think I could afford it.’

Doody feels irrationally resentful. ‘Then it wouldn’t be my aeroplane.’

‘We’d be equal partners.’

Why is he interested? This is Jonathan standing here, her brother, the man with no feelings. Is it possible that some previously unknown part of him has woken up, seen the romance of the Tiger Moth, stirred him into making a genuine commitment?

‘Maybe even you couldn’t afford it.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ he says.

He doesn’t seem to want to go. ‘When do you have to be back at school?’

‘Tonight,’ she says. ‘I have to be there for Monday morning.’

‘Do you have a spare key to the barn?’

She nods, unwillingly.

‘Could you lend it to me? In case I have to be here to show the experts?’

Reluctantly, she hands him the key. ‘What if I want to be here?’

‘Would you be able to come during the week?’

‘Some of us have to work.’

‘By the way,’ he says, ‘I asked the solicitors about the rent.’

‘And?’

‘There isn’t any. They think those people must have been squatters.’

Doody sighs. Can she trust the combination of Jonathan and someone who works for Sackville, Sackville and Waterman? ‘Funny kind of squatters,’ she says. ‘Aren’t they meant to be young and revolutionary? I don’t think we could quite put the Macklethorpes into that category.’

‘Who?’ he says, and looks past her. She can see he’s not listening. ‘I only wanted you to have what was rightfully yours,’ he says. ‘That’s all I did, try to help you.’

So he had interfered. ‘It’s none of your business.’

He shifts uncomfortably on the muddy grass. Despite his best efforts, his shoes are not maintaining their normal immaculate state. ‘I was sorting out papers for Mother,’ he says, ‘and I came across a letter from Oliver d’Arby about the will. I just thought it would be worth enquiring. I only wanted to help.’

‘Why? I’m all right, aren’t I? I can help myself.’

‘I know that. I just thought any money or property would be useful to you. So you don’t have to be tied to a dead-end job if you don’t want to be.’

‘A dead-end job? Is that what you think?’

He sighs. ‘Look, Imogen. You’re my sister, and I’d like you to be happy. All right? I thought that if some property was rightfully yours, you should have it. What you do with it is entirely your decision. All I did was make it possible for you.’

She stares at him, not knowing what to say. ‘So what if I am your sister? I can manage my own affairs.’

‘Fine,’ he says, and gets into the car. ‘See you,’ he says, as he turns on the engine. He waves out of the open window as he drives off.

Doody doesn’t understand. Why would he try to help her? He must have a motive, but she can’t work out what it is.

As soon as the term ends, Doody drives down to the cottage and races up to the barn without even stopping to see if Straker
has done more work on the cottage windows. The hedges lining the pathway to the field have been cut back, presumably to allow access for a lorry. The gate opens properly now, so there’s no longer any need to climb over it.

The barn doors are closed, but not padlocked. She doesn’t have to pull the door open very far. The Tiger Moth has gone.

Doody stands in the field, her arms crossed, angry and disappointed. Jonathan making all the decisions again. It’s her field, her gate, her aeroplane, and someone takes it away without telling her. She wants to phone Jonathan immediately and tell him to put everything back as it was. But she knows he won’t listen. He’s probably already having flying lessons. He won’t be any good. He’s not a practical man. He only pretends to build his own kitchen.

As she walks back down the narrow road to her cottage, she passes two women who look vaguely familiar.

‘Good morning,’ says one, and Doody recognises Mrs Whittaker. She half smiles at her and tries to pass without stopping, but Mrs Whittaker wants to talk. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job on the cottage,’ she says, laying a hand on Doody’s arm.

Doody wants to push it away, but makes herself smile, stretching her lips outwards, just refraining from baring her teeth. A car drives past too fast, and they all step back together.

Mrs Whittaker brings her face closer and looks into Doody’s eyes. ‘Nice to see you’re getting on with Mr Straker,’ she says.

Doody removes Mrs Whittaker’s hand and glares at her. ‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘He’s just useful. I pay him.’ She turns away. ‘By the way,’ she says, over her shoulder, ‘he talks to me all the time.’

Straker appears later in the day, and they start to paint adjacent window-frames. She’s quicker than him, but he’s neater.

‘They’ve taken the plane.’

‘Good,’ he says.

‘Am I right in assuming you don’t want it to be restored?’

He doesn’t answer, but she notices that he is speeding up, making mistakes and breathing more heavily.

‘You missed a bit,’ she says, pointing. ‘It’ll take a few weeks before they bring it back.’

He stops. ‘They’re bringing it back?’

She grins, knowing he’s annoyed. ‘Jonathan’s paying.’

He goes back to the painting, slow again, controlled.

‘How can you be so sure the crash was your fault?’ she says, after a while.

‘I just know.’

‘Very convincing. You just know.’

‘Yes,’ he says. His manner is odd—even odder than usual. He’s hiding something. He’s not telling her the whole story.