Flightsend (7 page)

'And whose fault was that? Who told him to come
round? If you'd only asked me, or told him to phone
back – you must
know
I don't want him here! Anyway,
I'm not having a row about it. You've got your exam
tomorrow.'

'Oh yes, that's the only thing that matters!' Charlie
flared. 'Typical teacher! Never mind Sean, never mind
me
! Just as long as I do well in my exam. How likely is
that, now?'

They hadn't shouted at each other like this for
months. All the careful adjusting Charlie had done,
their frail new start, their attempts to balance on the
seesaw of hope versus realism – swept away in a gush
of anger. Tears of frustration prickled her eyes.

'I'm sorry,' her mother said quietly. 'I know you
meant well. Let's not quarrel. If you want to see Sean,
it's all right. Of course you do, and there's no reason
why you shouldn't, but not
here
, OK? Now I'm going to
make us something to eat. Are you hungry?'

'Yes,' said Charlie, who always was.

Later, in bed, she heard from the other room the
muffled but unmistakable sound of her mother
crying.

In spite of everything, Charlie got through her
Geography exam without disaster. The second History
paper was on Wednesday, German on Friday, and it
was all over.

Friday afternoon, after the exam, was an anticlimax.
The group taking German was fairly small;
most of Charlie's friends, including Rowan, had
finished on Wednesday or earlier. The German candidates
lingered outside for a while, adjusting to the
idea of no more revision, no more sitting in silent
rows, no more hand-cramp. Next Friday there would
be an official leavers' day, for saying goodbye and
returning books, but not everyone was coming to that.
Next week, there'd be Sixth Form Induction. The
word Induction, to Charlie, summoned memories of
the hospital and the maternity ward. She wished they
could call it something else.

It might be the last day of exams, but the bus was
still leaving on time.

'Bye, then. See you at Lisa's,' Charlie called out
to two friends who'd be at the party tomorrow;
then she made her way as usual to her coach.

No more exams. She slumped in her seat, trying to
believe it. She felt like someone coming round from
an anaesthetic.

Angus David flumped down in the seat next to
hers.

'What are you doing?' she asked him.

'Balancing a beer-bottle on my nose. What's it look
like?'

'You don't usually get on this bus,' Charlie
explained patiently.

'Neither did you, till you moved out to the edges of
the known universe. Things change.'

'Have you moved, as well?'

'No. Staying with my dad, this weekend and the next
fortnight. He's the one who's moved, to Long
Wykham. Sunny Long Wykham, Gateway to the Shires,
famed throughout the East Midlands for its Morris
dancers and sheepdog trials. Tomorrow I make my
cricketing debut for the Long Wykham team, famous
for its demon bowler, Andy Ferris the dairyman. Never
underestimate a dairying spin-bowler.'

'I'll try not to.'

'So I'll be joining you, Charlotte of the flowing
tresses.' Angus bowed, making an extravagant gesture
with a twirling hand. 'I congratulate you on your unexpected
luck. Feel free to bask in the glow of my sunny
personality and radiant charm.'

'Well, I would if I were
coming
on the bus. I won't be,
apart from next Friday and the sixth form days,'
Charlie pointed out.

Angus made a clownish sad face. 'I know. Terrible
timing. Tragic. What a missed opportunity. I shall sit
here alone, dreaming of what might have been.'

'On the bus – why? Are you doing an extra exam, or
something?'

'Since you ask, my melodramatic talents are about
to be given full rein.'

'You're in the play?
A Midsummer Night's Dream?
'
'Got it in one. I'm Oberon, King of the Fairies.' He
made a camp gesture.

'Pretty solid fairy,' Charlie said, laughing. Stocky,
muscular, with hair shaved to stubble, Angus looked
like the kind of teenager people crossed the road to
avoid. Charlie knew him quite well, and that he wasn't
in the least aggressive. But King of the Fairies – well, it
would need someone with his confidence to take that
on, in front of half the school.

'Wait till you see me in my green tights.' He raised
his eyebrows suggestively. 'You won't want to miss the
theatrical event of the year, will you?'

'When is it?'

'Week after next, the same week as sixth form induction.
For three nights. Just wait till you see my
Titania in all her glory.' Angus made his eyes go gooey.
'How am I supposed to keep my mind on the job?'

'Who is she?'

'Pippa Woodford. Goddess of the sixth-form.
Dream-fodder for the entire male population of the
school. Pippa of the name on the walls in all the boys'
bogs.'

'So that's why you wanted the part?' Charlie asked
him as the bus pulled out of the gates.

'You'd think so – but no. It was just the most colossal
slice of luck. I'm doing Theatre Studies next year
and Ms Bishop talked me into it. That's why I'll be
the only
dummkopf
from our year who's in school
every day from now on. Apart from Neil Radetsky –
he's Theseus.'

'D'you know your lines yet?'

'Only all the ones I say to Titania. My brain's full of
obscure German vocabulary. It's an obsession, all this
revision. I won't be able to stop. I won't feel happy
without the periodic table in my pocket, or a list of
First World War battles. At least I'll have something to
read if I'm bowled out first ball.'

'You won't be,' Charlie said. 'You're one of those
sickening people who's good at everything.'

'No, I'm not,' Angus said promptly. 'I'm rubbish at
embroidery, for a start. And you should see me trying
to do a double-axel toe-loop. Everything else, yes,
OK.'

'Idiot,' Charlie said, pretending to hit him. 'Why
are you always so
energetic
? Most people are wiped out
after weeks of exams, but here you are – bounding
about like those dogs in adverts. Do you take Bob
Martin's or something?'

'Every day, with my Pedigree Chum,' Angus said.
'I'll roll over for you to tickle my tummy, if you like.
Fancy coming to the cricket tomorrow? We need a few
tame females to brew up the tea and do the
washing-up.'

'
Tame females
– well, look elsewhere. What century
do you think this is? Are male cricketers incapable of
making tea?' Charlie retorted. 'So you're not going to
Lisa's party, then? Cricket takes up the entire evening
when you include the ball-by-ball dissection in the pub
afterwards.' She knew because Sean had sometimes
played.

'That's right. Can't miss the post-mortem. Lisa's
party will have to manage without me.'

Soon after Charlie got home, Rowan phoned.

'You're still OK for tomorrow night? We'll come
round and pick you up, about half-eight.'

'We?'

'Russell, me and Fraser. I
told
you.'

'Fraser can give me a lift home, you said. You didn't
say he was
taking
me there. I've asked Mum.'

'Save her the trouble, can't you? What's the
problem?'

Charlie was having misgivings about the party, and
going with Fraser. She'd forgotten to ask Fay for the
evening off, but now realized that she needn't; if the
others weren't coming till half-past eight, she could do
her waitressing first, and leave a bit early.

'Pick me up at Nightingales, could you?' she asked
Rowan. 'Not here. It's the big house round the bend,
with the high stone wall.'

'You're going there first? But when will you get
ready
?' For Rowan, getting ready for a party took up
most of the afternoon.

'Five minutes in the staff loo, that's all I need.'

'Charlie, are you kidding?'

Rowan sounded as if she thought Fraser would be
getting a poor deal.

Charlie reported for Friday-night duty. 'What have we
got this weekend, then?' she asked Suzanne, as they
set the table.

'Your art chap again,' Suzanne said, 'and Yoga
meditation. Spot the Yogi.'

'They're going to spend the whole weekend
meditating?'

'I might join them,' Suzanne said. 'Jason was ill
during the night and I was up three times. I could
pretend to meditate but really be fast asleep.'

Charlie saw Oliver Locke in the entrance hall when
she went to clear wine glasses. The hall was full of the
usual polite chit-chat,
Have you just arrived?
and
What
a beautiful spot
. Oliver, in the middle of it, caught
Charlie's eye with what looked like relief, and raised
his glass.

'Exams all over! Feeling de-mob happy?' He came
over to her.

'No, more like numb,' Charlie said. 'It'll take a
while to get used to it. What's your course this time?'

'Portraiture. I told you. Do you want to join us
tomorrow?'

'I might,' Charlie said. She had enjoyed painting
the self-portrait for her coursework. 'If you're sure I
won't be in the way—'

'Fay!' Oliver signalled across the room, and Fay
broke off her conversation and came over. 'It's all
right if Charlie joins my group, isn't it? There's space
for one more, no problem.'

'Of course. Oh, you two know each other from
school?' Fay was wearing one of her elegant dresses;
when there were no visitors around, she wore jeans
and a shirt, like Charlie's mother.

Charlie took advantage of the meeting by saying,
'Would it be OK if I left a bit early tomorrow night,
after we've served the coffee? Suzanne and Jon don't
mind. I can make up the time on Sunday.'

'Saturday night gadding?' Oliver asked, with a lift of
his eyebrows.

'Lisa Skillet's having a party to celebrate the end of
the exams.'

'Yes, that's fine,' Fay said. 'I was meaning to ask if
you could do some child-minding for me, now you've
got more time. I thought you might like the extra
money. It'd be the odd couple of hours here and
there, maybe twice a week. Rosie's not really much
trouble.'

'Yes, OK.'

'Could you do Tuesday afternoon, two till four? I've
got a meeting with one of our sponsors.'

Why, Charlie asked herself afterwards, why did I say
yes? How am I going to tell Mum?

She thought of spending time with Rosie, who was
only a little older than their own Rose would have
been. Rosie always made Charlie think of her lost
sister, and yet she was surprised to find that she
did
want to do it. Wanted to see if she could. Was it like
licking a sore tooth? she wondered. Or a more positive
step forward – stop pretending that two-year-old
children didn't exist?

She told her mother later that evening: first about
the portraiture class, and then, casually, about the
child-minding. All Kathy said was, 'Well, Charlie, we
needn't have worried about you being bored, living
here. With the waitressing, and walking Caspar, and
the art class and now this –' Charlie noted the
phrasing, the avoidance of words like
Rosie
or
babysitting
– 'there's not much time for sitting about
twiddling your thumbs.'

Charlie was irritated by the phrase
twiddling your
thumbs
. It wasn't the sort of thing her mother would
usually say; and Charlie was annoyed by the implication
that she was dull enough to sit about with
nothing to do. There was a coolness between them,
since the weekend.

In the morning she took her drawing things to
Nightingales with her, as well as jeans and a shirt
to change into after her breakfast stint. Oliver Locke's
class was held in the Long Barn, an outhouse converted
into a studio. It was a large, airy building with windows
set into the roof, its agricultural origins shown by the
hayloft doors above the entrance and the pitchforks,
scythes and other tools mounted on the walls.

Charlie arrived late after clearing up in the kitchen.
The other course members – some fifteen of them –
were already seated at their easels, around a female
model who sat in an upright chair, reading
a book. Oliver Locke came over to Charlie, and
showed her to an easel.

'This is Charlie, everyone,' he announced. 'You've
seen her in waitressing garb. She'll be joining
us.'

The others looked at her and smiled, and one or
two said Hello. As usual, most were middle-aged or
over; Charlie was by far the youngest person in the
room. The model was a woman of about forty, wearing
glasses, which Charlie thought would be difficult to
draw.

She settled at the easel, then set up her sketchpad,
took out her 2B pencils and her putty rubber. The
atmosphere was silent and serious, everyone concentrating
hard. Oliver moved around looking at the
drawings, sometimes making a low-voiced comment,
sometimes just watching. After a while he sat down
and worked on a drawing of his own.

Charlie sketched, rubbed out, frowned, turned a
page and started again. She was looking at the model
from rather a difficult angle, from the front and
slightly to one side, and the woman's face was foreshortened,
tilted down at her book. She drew in the
eyebrows and forehead and then went hopelessly
wrong with the angle of the glasses. No one else
seemed to be having problems; she could see the
drawing of the person nearest her, already well into
the sheen on the model's hair and the moulding of
her lips. And yet, last week, Oliver had told Charlie
that she had more talent than anyone on the course.
They must have been a particularly hopeless lot, she
thought now.

Discouraged, she looked across to where he sat at
his easel. He was sitting to the left of the model, drawing
quickly. I'd rather draw him, she thought. His pose
was attractive: sitting forward in his seat, his face in
profile, concentrated. There was a gracefulness about
his movements and she knew she could draw the folds
in his shirt and the way the light defined his shoulders.
She felt it in her fingers, the urge to work, to commit
what she saw to paper. She turned a page and began
sketching rapidly: not a portrait but the whole figure.
This was easier, much more satisfying. The proportions
came out just right, as she knew they would;
she had caught the pose.

Then Oliver stood up and went to the person
nearest him, making a comment. Charlie went back to
her inadequate portrait and tried to sketch in the
glasses, her obstacle. Doubt was making her pencil
strokes hesitant. She was muffling, and she knew that
was no way to draw.

'You're having trouble getting started, aren't you?'
Oliver spoke close behind her. 'It's an awkward angle
you've got. I haven't helped you much by sitting you
here.'

'It's the glasses,' Charlie explained.

She was disappointed that he'd seen how useless she
was.

'Here, let me show you.' For a second his hand
curved over hers. He took the pencil, and before she
realized it he'd turned the page and was looking at the
drawing of himself.