Flight (28 page)

The back seat went up like a bonfire, its efforts accelerated by the high coastal wind that whipped through the open windows of the small family car. Wren stepped back and watched for long enough to be sure that the fire had taken, then she turned on her heel and ran without looking back,
down and round the winding country paths until she reached the sand in time to see the sun coming up over the deserted holiday cottages and headland of North Cornwall.

After they’ve eaten, they take mugs of tea into the garden, and Wren leads Phoebe around the vegetable patch in the fast-fading light, pointing out her neat lines of digging, showing her where the courgettes will go, the curly kale, the carrots and beans. The potatoes have a large plot all of their own, beside rhubarb plants and a small blackcurrant bush, and this year she plans to grow butternut squash as they keep so well for soups and stews. There’s nothing much to show now – November is a month of preparation and thought – but there will be: come spring and summer there will be more vegetables and salad than Wren will have use for.

She watches in wonder as her daughter picks up a hard clod of earth and crumbles it in her smooth white hands. A
baby
. Wren tries to suppress the rushes of adrenaline she’s been feeling since Phoebe sat across from her and talked about the baby that grows and turns within her. To hear her anticipation, to feel the joy and endless love that pours from her as she speaks of the child and the life ahead of her – it feels like a gift. It feels like hope.

‘I’m going to college to study landscape gardening in April,’ Phoebe says, and the expression she turns on Wren seems to seek her approval. ‘I dropped out of uni in May, and I’ve been trying to work out what to do with myself ever since. I think gardening might suit me.’

Wren gestures towards the bench, where they sit looking out to sea, much as she and Laura had done early this morning, just those few hours ago. Who would have thought
life could shift so completely within such a short space of time? That Wren’s world could become so crowded, so full of questions and sensations in a matter of days.

‘There’s something soothing about it,’ Wren says, ‘about working the land.’

She feels Phoebe’s eyes on her, can make out the slight nod of her head from the edges of her vision. ‘I worked in a greenhouse picking tomatoes this summer. It was exhausting – so hot! And backbreaking too, but you know, I felt happier in those few weeks than I had for that whole year at university. Where I was meant to be
fulfilling my potential
.’

‘Why weren’t you happy?’

Phoebe turns her palms over, appearing to study them where they rest on her knees. Wren is aware of how close their bodies are, how easy it would be to wrap her arms around Phoebe and draw her close, to smell her skin and smooth her soft forehead; to close her eyes and imagine her an infant again.

‘I guess I just couldn’t hack it. I don’t know if it’s something about me – if I’m just not degree material – but I couldn’t do it. It was the most horrible experience of my life, and if Laura hadn’t come and got me like she did, I don’t know what I would have done.’

When Wren doesn’t respond, Phoebe continues talking, filling the empty spaces just as Laura had done before her.

‘I was in student halls, so it’s not as if I was completely alone. But the rooms are singles, and every night I could hear the other students coming and going – laughing, calling out to each other up and down the corridors, having a good time – and I just didn’t fit in. University was like this enormous place where everyone else was in on the secret, and I was on the outside without the VIP pass.’ She fixes her gaze on the
horizon beyond the meadow, her brow crinkled against the dusk. ‘I tried to get on with it, to “cope” like everyone else, but in the end – I honestly thought I was losing my mind or something. Have you ever had that – where you
actually
think you’re going mad? I stopped going to lectures and I just lay in bed and cried and slept for days on end – and
nobody
noticed me missing, no one came looking for me. One day I got up and looked in the mirror and I knew I had to phone Laura.’ She glances at Wren, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know why I’m – I mean, I’ve never told anyone this before. Except Laura. Even Dad doesn’t know the whole story.’

Wren experiences a sudden tug of protectiveness towards the girl, and she covers her mouth to prevent her words flying out into the world, to stop herself from saying all the things a mother should say, when she has no place doing so. She has no right.

‘Is that why
you
left, I wondered?’ Phoebe asks, leaning on to her knees, turning her face towards Wren’s. ‘Because you felt alone?’

Wren steels herself, desperate to compose her thoughts, to pull her emotions into check, and she wonders how this girl has the power to cut through it all in one short hour, to peer into Wren’s hidden well and draw deep of the water. Glancing up at Phoebe, she can detect the healthy smoulder of her pregnancy in the fullness of her lips, in the gleam of her eyes. So, this was what they talked about when they said ‘blooming’; it was more than just a physical reaction to the condition, it was from within – from the heart, the mind, the soul. Wren struggles to recall a clear sense of her own experience, and the deepest sadness resurfaces in her. The word
confinement
springs from somewhere as she pictures her state of airlessness, of drowning even, and with relief she
understands that this is
not
something passed on through the generations, like some long-unacknowledged family flaw. Phoebe wants this baby – wants to be a mother – and she will be wonderful and giving and capable and warm. Just like the woman who raised her; just like Laura.

Without answering, Wren gathers up their cups and starts back towards the house, indicating for Phoebe to follow as she steps in through the kitchen door and pauses beside the sink. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers as they face each other in the fading daylight of the kitchen window, each searching the other for some comfort.

Phoebe turns to look out over the garden, where the shapes of shrubs and wooden trellises are outlined against the darkening sky. ‘I know,’ she replies, and she steps into her mother’s arms and weeps.

The first signs showed themselves in the early hours of a sweat-soaked night in late July, waking Wren from a fitful sleep in slow, rolling waves that stretched out through the daylight hours and into the evening. These early contractions were mild enough that Wren was able to convince herself she had eaten something bad, that the low, clawing cramps were nothing more than the symptoms of food poisoning; that they would pass in time, given some bed-rest and plenty of water. By the time evening came around, the griping had settled to a low, imperceptible throb, and, despite the glaring heat of the day just past, she lit a fire in the living room and set to work on her rag rug, a project she had begun some months earlier and meant to complete. Through high fever and chills, she hooked and tugged strips of fabric into the early hours, pausing only to douse her face and neck in cold
water, or to slip into a restless slumber on the sofa. There, she drifted through nightmarish dreams, underwater scenes in which the faces of her past rose up through cloudy pools of salt water, their features streaming like tangleweed on the sucking current. She was late, running across the beach, racing to catch Laura as she pushed a wooden dinghy on to the water. Wren watched her getting further and further away, following the swell of the tide, until she was waist-deep and the water lapped at the lower coils of her auburn hair, pulling her head back with its weight. Laura hoisted herself up and over the boat’s edge, to be with her child, and Wren called to her, waving both arms above her head, trying to prevent her from sailing out into the black sea that churned and broiled like the very surface of hell. But Laura didn’t turn her head, didn’t look back, and Wren could only stand and watch, as the scorching heat of the summer sun burnt the vision from her mind and she woke, drenched in perspiration, uncertain, for those brief heart-thumping moments, what she was doing alone in this strange place. What time was it? Gone midday, judging by the position of the sun that poured through the windows; as late as mid-afternoon, even. As she rose, she fought the fainting sensation that pressed down on her clammy skin, and slumped back against the cushions, breathing long and slow, trying to establish whether the cramps had subsided altogether, whether the sickness had passed its worst.

A knock at the door corresponded with a dazzling wave of pain, more powerful than any before, rising up like a sleeping beast from the lowest reaches of her belly, causing her to gasp, her fingers clawing at the fabric of the sofa. Now louder –
bang, bang
– and a man’s voice; Arthur’s voice. ‘Wren? It’s Arthur here. Just checking you’re alright, love?’

The panic that rushed through Wren’s veins was
paralysing
. Why was he here? What did he want? She had to get rid of him, send him away and shut out the light. It took every last breath of effort for Wren to push herself up out of the sofa, to shuffle slowly towards the front door, where she paused to compose herself, straightening out her shoulders as she unlatched the lock.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ she said, desperately conscious of the heat of her body radiating towards him, furnace-like.

His eyes did a rapid scan of her face and form, concern etching his features. ‘Wren, love – haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Thought I’d better check, what with – well, you know.’ He jerked his chin towards her stomach. ‘Everything alright?’

A film of sweat beaded up in her hairline, across her temples, and Wren resisted the temptation to swipe it away, fearful of drawing attention to her distress. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. The sensation of passing out was threatening to overcome her again, to envelop her in its welcome embrace.

‘Listen, love – I know you don’t like me prying, but you must be just about fit to burst. How long have you got to go? You don’t look all that good, Wren.’

Drawing a breath, she dug her fingernails into the soft pad of her hand, willing herself to stay in the present, to draw enough strength to send him away, to leave her in peace. ‘I said I’m fine, Arthur.’ She felt her body swaying slightly, and she began to close the door on him, so she could return to the safety of the sofa, to sleep and block out the tremors that were now rising up through her core.

Arthur’s face was uncertain, streaked with concern, his voice hesitant. ‘Alright, love. I’m heading back home now, but I’ll look in on you in the morning. Just to be sure?’

Closing the door, Wren sat on the windowsill, unable to move in the grip of a forceful seizure. If Arthur was on his way home it was past six o’clock, and the morning was a full half-day away. She was safe for the time being, she thought. As she hobbled slowly across the living room floor, fluid rushed from her in a torrent, bringing with it a current of pain so profound she fell to her knees, clasping the unfinished rag rug to her cheek. The truth was, this baby was more than two weeks overdue, and, one way or another, it would find its way into the world; it would be born.

Wren leads them along the overgrown footpath, walking in silence down through the rocks and gorse that line the
little-used
route. There’s an aged bench at the path’s edge, and Wren leans against its wooden back as Phoebe pauses to take in the landscape. As she looks across the sun-dappled horizon, Wren’s thoughts are on Ava, out there somewhere in the world beyond the bay. But where? Over the years Wren’s conscious mind has barricaded itself against thoughts of her life before, of what she has done and not done. But in her dreams… she cannot control her dreams, and at times they have been the source of great trauma, chasing her through the night and holding her face towards her fears. In her dreams, Ava, more than Phoebe, has returned to haunt Wren, bringing visions of the infant disappearing into the abyss of darkness, vanishing like mist. In nightmarish clarity Wren has seen herself sliding the swaddled baby into the well of a fishing boat as she wades deep and pushes her out to sea. Through a window she has spied her lying in a crib behind a clinical curtain, undiscovered and fading away; she has unearthed her,
face-down
in the vegetable garden on a late summer afternoon,

rotting like a marrow. Rarely has she dreamt of the child safe in the embrace of Robert and Laura, the one place her deepest hopes would have had her be. Wren’s sleeping mind knows that there was every chance that Ava did not make it home; her waking mind has never trespassed on the idea.

‘The views are beautiful,’ Phoebe says. The last rays of daylight fall on her skin, illuminating the youth of her, the future of her, and for a moment Wren must remind herself which one this is, which spectre from her past. The girl shows no signs of animosity towards her, despite Wren’s silence, her lack of voice. ‘It must be a calming place to live,’ Phoebe continues. ‘You seem like a calm person – not like me.’

Wren thinks of the times she has heard this; her reputation for serenity lives on. Throughout childhood, college, work, everyone described her in those terms. Capable, unflappable, composed. If you wanted a job done, you could rely on Wren. She was the kind of friend you wanted around in a crisis,
clear-thinking
and self-possessed – broad-shouldered and mature. They had no idea of the turmoil beneath the surface, her crippling fear of death – not of her own, but of those she held dear, those who might slip through her fingers like the
powder-blonde
sand of a Cornish beach. They couldn’t imagine the restless anxiety that chased her waking moments and those of her sleep, couldn’t see into her thoughts and dreams, claustrophobic nightmares that tightened around her and crushed her soul. How could she have told them any of this? They would never have believed her. They didn’t believe her.

‘
I feel like I’m fading
,’ she had whispered into the phone, speaking to Laura several months after Phoebe was born. ‘Sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m barely there.’