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.
Her feet took the way to the airfield again. There
wasn't time for the complete circuit today, but she felt
drawn to the place, in spite of the fear that had tugged
at her yesterday. She passed the grazing cattle, the
entrance to Lordships Farm; a man in overalls waved
at her from the yard. On the airfield, she let Caspar off
his lead and watched him leap away in great joyful
bounds. Like a clumsy gazelle, she thought. From time
to time he turned to wait for her, forelegs splayed,
grinning. She could feel the corrugations of the
runway through the soles of her shoes. It was a still,
calm day with hardly a breath of wind. Already, the sun
was hot on her neck and arms; she should have put on
sunscreen, or worn a long-sleeved shirt. The buildings
at the end of the runway shimmered in a blur of heat-haze.
She turned and gazed into the sky. No light
aircraft to disturb the silence today.
She felt almost
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.
Her feet took the way to the airfield again. There
wasn't time for the complete circuit today, but she felt
drawn to the place, in spite of the fear that had tugged
at her yesterday. She passed the grazing cattle, the
entrance to Lordships Farm; a man in overalls waved
at her from the yard. On the airfield, she let Caspar off
his lead and watched him leap away in great joyful
bounds. Like a clumsy gazelle, she thought. From time
to time he turned to wait for her, forelegs splayed,
grinning. She could feel the corrugations of the
runway through the soles of her shoes. It was a still,
calm day with hardly a breath of wind. Already, the sun
was hot on her neck and arms; she should have put on
sunscreen, or worn a long-sleeved shirt. The buildings
at the end of the runway shimmered in a blur of heat-haze.
She turned and gazed into the sky. No light
aircraft to disturb the silence today.
She felt almost
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