Read Online Flightsend by Linda Newbery - Free Book Online

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