Flight (15 page)

‘Phoebe,’ Laura had replied as she flopped against the futon mattress, slurring the ‘e’s so the name became long and childlike. ‘Or Ava,’ she said. ‘They’re bird names – like Wren,’ and with that she’d slid off the sofa and passed out on the floor. She hadn’t remembered a thing about it in the morning, but Wren had, and she’d stored her bobble wedding ring, and the memory, in her special box of treasures.

‘So, why don’t you drink any more?’ Laura asks as she opens the second bottle. Unused to the lack of central heating, she’s wearing fingerless mittens, with a heavy scarf wrapped around her neck.

The remains of supper lie strewn across the table, a strange sight to Wren, who normally uses no more than the one setting of plate and cutlery necessary for her mealtimes. The frittata sits on a dinner plate, half-eaten; crumbled pieces are scattered carelessly between the dish and the salad bowl, alongside hunks of French bread and a board of cheeses. There’s a ring of red wine where Laura missed the glass on the third refill, and a small pile of orange peel and pith on the edge of her plate. It’s a warm scene, a comforting scene.

‘It’s not as if you ever had a drink problem or anything,’ Laura continues. ‘I mean, that’s the usual reason people stop drinking.’ Her chin is propped up on her hands; she pushes a tendril of red hair behind her ear.

‘You haven’t changed a bit, Laura. You look exactly the same as I remember you.’

Laura laughs. ‘I look ancient! See this – ’ she lifts up her hair to reveal a small smattering of white ‘ – and these!’ She gives Wren a lopsided wink, to demonstrate the crow’s feet at the outer edges of her eyes. ‘But thank you – you always did know how to make a girl feel good about herself.’

Wren lifts the glass to her mouth. She’s already giddy, but the spirit is in her and she wants to carry on drinking all night and into the morning. ‘I think of it as a sociable thing, drinking,’ she says. ‘And I don’t socialise, so I don’t drink.’

‘But you must know plenty of people around here, after all this time? You must meet people, get invited to things?’

Wren shakes her head. ‘Arthur’s the only person I have any contact with, and that hardly counts. I buy a coffee from him each morning. He sells me eggs. We say hello, make small talk about the weather and the tourists, but that’s it.’

Laura frowns, trying to make sense of her.

‘I don’t need anything – or anyone – except for Badger and Willow. I like it like that.’

‘We
all
need someone, Wren, even you. And you’re not being honest with yourself if you say you don’t.’

Wren knocks back the last of her wine and stands, unsteadily crossing the kitchen to fetch her coat from the hook. Laura’s eyes follow her, watching intently as she pulls on her jacket and starts to fumble with her walking boots, tying her laces with disobedient fingers. ‘Off somewhere?’ she asks, as Wren’s laces fall away in an unsuccessful bow.

‘Yup. I’m taking you to the beach. It’s a full moon tonight. I want you to see my cave.’

She was a good teacher – ‘a very fine teacher’, the headmaster Mr Vernon told her at her first annual review. The kids loved
her, and her results were impressive. But she never shared Robert’s ambitions to rise through the ranks, to take on a department or a headship, or to lead others in education. And so, their lines were clear from the outset: Wren would teach; Robert would excel. Within the first year at Kingly High Robert was selected as a fast-track teacher, rising quickly to head of humanities, and within three years he was applying for a PhD in the study of social mobility and education. Mr Vernon held him up as a shining example, and Wren couldn’t have been more proud of her clever, kind husband. His working hours grew longer, and, while they enjoyed a social life with colleagues and their spouses, Wren’s independent world had shrunk, and she spent many an evening alone, cooking supper and waiting for Robert to come home and join her. ‘It won’t be forever,’ he reassured her. ‘Just while I get myself established.’ And she was happy to support him in this, proud to phone home and tell her mother just what a successful marriage she’d made.

It was soon after their third wedding anniversary that Laura moved back into their lives for a brief spell, when she turned up unexpectedly, having briefly left her erratic boyfriend and their home in Hackney. It was a warm late evening in July, and Robert was still at school typing reports, catching up on paperwork for his forthcoming assessment. Laura arrived pale and clearly shaken, her startled eyes roaming the room restlessly while Wren took her coat and sat her down at the kitchen table. She served up the spaghetti bolognese she’d saved for Robert, pouring two glasses of red wine and taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, listening while Laura talked.

Laura ran trembling fingers through her wild mane, twirling it into her habitual coil, casting it over her shoulder.
‘The thing is, Wren,
it’s a squat
. No matter how nice we’ve made it look, how many coats of paint I’ve given it, how many throws and rugs we hurl at it – it’s still a squat.’ She glanced at Wren meaningfully, her eyes wide and waiting. ‘I’m working all the hours just to pay for our food and whatnot, and Doug – well, you know, he’s Doug. Still waiting for the big break. Forever “on the brink” of something exciting. He’s never up before midday – and the speed! Do you know how much of that stuff he puts up his nose each week? It’s
terrifying
.’

Wren reached across the table to still her hand. ‘You want security – I can understand that, Laur. We’re not students any more, are we?’ Laura returns a blank stare, and Wren wonders if she’s said the wrong thing. ‘What does Doug say about it all?’

She drained her glass, and pushed it back towards Wren, indicating for more. ‘He couldn’t care less, Wren. Honestly. About me. About the house. About
it
.’

‘About
it
?’ Wren refilled the glasses, passing one back to Laura, who was now pushing her uneaten supper about the plate.

‘About the baby,’ Laura replied, still staring into her plate, her fork poised in one hand. She raised her head, and for the first time that evening looked steadily into Wren’s eyes. ‘I’ve just come from the clinic,’ she said, the tears now spilling from her eyes.

‘
You’re having a baby
?’ Wren whispered, a strange blend of hope and envy rising up in her chest.

‘Was, Wrenny. I
was
having a baby – I was nearly three months gone – and this time, this time I really thought – ’ She pressed her fingertips hard against her cheekbones as if to stem her tears.

‘This time?’ Wren asked, the news of being excluded from this part of Laura’s life hitting her like a blow. ‘Were there others?’

‘Two others,’ Laura replied, casting her eyes to the table, betraying her guilt at having kept it from Wren all this time. ‘I wanted to tell you, Wrenny – but I was so uncertain about things, so unsure about Doug, and then – then, they never worked out anyway. This time, though, I thought, if I had
this
baby, I wouldn’t need Doug any more. It would be just the push I needed to leave him, to make my own way, just me and – ’

‘But Lolly, tell me what happened? What did the clinic say?’

‘I went along because I’ve been losing a little blood – it’s not uncommon, my midwife said.’ Laura looked suddenly aghast, as if the reality of her loss was only just dawning on her. ‘So she checked my urine, just to be sure. But there was nothing there – no signs of pregnancy. And then she went off to get a second opinion from one of the GPs – I could hear them whispering in the hallway – and before I knew it I was rushing off to the hospital for an emergency scan. All the time I was just lying there, staring at the screen and willing them to find something, praying that it was just a horrible mistake!’ Wretched, she looked up at Wren across the table, and finally broke down. ‘But the screen was lifeless, Wren. There was no heartbeat.’

When Robert arrived home, they took Laura to the sofa and wrapped her in a blanket, where she rested her head on Wren’s lap, her feet on Robert’s, and fell asleep in the warmth of their friendship. ‘Stay as long as you need to,’ Robert said as they settled her in the spare bed, tucking the covers tight, kissing her forehead. Wren and Robert linked fingers as they
left the room. In the room next door they made love, and for Wren life seemed full again – vibrant, hopeful, complete.

The tide is on its way out when they reach the shore, halfway down the beach, with the moon a perfect white globe high in the black sky. It’s clear, but for a few wisps of cloud cover, and the wet sand appears slick as silver across the bay.

Wren slides her torch into her pocket and stoops to pick up a stick to throw ahead for the dogs. They race after it, their velvet ears alert and flowing, little silhouettes darting over the vast watery plain like mice across a ballroom floor. Laura doesn’t speak, but Wren sees the awe in her expression – in her eyes as they scan the
moon-bathed
horizon, in her lips, parted in wonder. Out to sea, a smattering of lights blink and ripple as fishing boats toil and pass in the night. Wren breaks into a jog, beckoning Laura to join her, to run along the water’s edge towards the rocky outcrop where water pools gather and caves pierce holes into the ancient coastline. A solitary woodcock takes to the sky, startled by these nocturnal humans chasing along its beach; it disappears inland, its long, tapering bill pointing homewards as it seeks the dense cover of the meadow beside Wren’s cottage.

They pause at the entrance to the cave, gathering their breath as the dogs pick up Wren’s whistle and sprint away from the lapping tide. The moonlight casts a teasing arc inside the grotto, lighting up the outer edges of the first raised rock pool, its glimmering surface a stark contrast against the endless black of the unlit cave. The dogs sit on the sand in the circle of light as Wren takes Laura by the coat-sleeve and leads the way by torch, venturing gradually
further into the cave until they reach the furthest pool, a mussel-cloaked pond, still wet with the seaweed of high tide and sunk into a knee-height ledge of rock.

Wren pushes back her sleeve and lowers an arm into the icy water. ‘Hold out your hand,’ she tells Laura, and she gently lays a small cushion star in the centre of her palm.

Laura’s eyes grow wide as she brings it closer to inspect the softly cushioned dome of its back, the tiny nubs of its five legs. ‘Is it a baby?’ she asks. ‘It looks like a baby – it’s so tiny and round.’

‘No, it’s fully grown. Put it back now – there, by the other one.’

Wren shows Laura everything she knows about the rock pool, lifting stones and separating weeds to reveal pipefish and velvet crabs and tompot blennies. Gobies and prawns dart between their fingers, dodging capture and sending cloudy billows to the surface as they disturb the sandy floor of the pool. Laura watches, rapt as a child. Wren dries her hands on the sleeves of her coat and sits on the ledge beside Laura, switching off the torch, plunging them into darkness.

‘Have you ever experienced real darkness like this, Laura?’ she asks. Her soft voice echoes out into the cave. ‘In the real world, there’s always something to keep the night away – street lights and cars, houses, people – the moon. But, inside a cave, there’s nothing to distract from the night-time. Just silence and darkness.’

Laura bumps her knee against Wren’s, and reaches out to take her hand. ‘Do you often come here at night?’

‘Only when there’s good light from the moon. It’s the contrast, you see. The beauty of the moonlit beach against the – the nothing of the cave.’

‘Why would you want “nothing”? Don’t you ever get
frightened, sitting here in the darkness, all alone?’

They sit in silence, until Wren eventually answers. ‘It’s not what’s in the caves you have to be scared of. It’s what’s outside.’

‘Outside? Wren, what have you got to be scared of outside?’

Wren sighs into the emptiness. ‘I don’t know. Nothing.
Everything
.’ She pauses, trying to grasp the right words. ‘I’m sorry, Laura. I’m not so good at talking these days.’

Laura doesn’t answer immediately, and Wren can sense her resentment growing, flexing its fingers out into the blackness of the cave. Wren considers fleeing, taking flight, to rush home across the empty plane of sand and moonlight, to raise the drawbridge and block Laura out.

Laura speaks. ‘Wren – I’ve been going easy on you these past couple of days – but you know, you can’t avoid talking to me forever. At some point you have to face up to the world – talk a bit – answer questions. Ask questions. We’ve been together for more than twenty-four hours now, and you haven’t asked me
a single thing
.’

Wren clamps her eyes shut; removes her hand from Laura’s. She hears the impatient passage of breath beside her, feels the heat of Laura’s disapproval.

‘
For Christ’s sake
, Wren. Aren’t you even a little bit curious?’

‘About what?’ she whispers, her voice that of chastised child. Her mother springs to mind again – the way she could make her feel foolish and impotent.

‘About what?’ Laura releases a little cough of disbelief. ‘About Rob. About me. About
your daughter
. Are you seriously telling me you’re not interested? That you don’t want to know how we all are – to hear what happened to
us after you went?’ Roughly, she snatches Wren’s hand back, clenches it to her lap.

Wren flinches, trapped, her mouth trying to form words, failing.

‘Do you want me to tell you about Phoebe? Because I can, Wren. There’s so much to tell you – twenty years’ worth. I could start telling you about her right now and carry on right through to morning if that’s what you want? But where to start?’

In the darkness, every movement, every breath, every pause is felt. Wren’s pain is palpable, like a third body in the cave beside them.

‘I know this is hard for you, Wrenny. If it’s any comfort, I never stopped being the best godmother in the world to her – remember how I promised I’d be there for her if anything ever happened to you? I know Phoebe and love her as well as if she were my own daughter. She’s never been short of love.’ She waits for Wren’s response, but none comes. ‘Wren? Do you want to hear this?
Wren!
’ Laura’s voice shouts out into the cave, its anger thrusting into the deepest corners in a violent wave of feeling.