Natural Flights of the Human Mind (11 page)

Doody pushes a chunk of crusty bread and a slice of cheese that she’s hacked off with Oliver d’Arby’s blunt breadknife in Straker’s direction. ‘You can have some if you want it,’ she says, hoping he’ll say no, but he takes it without saying thank you and starts eating.

‘That’s all right,’ she says, taking a swig of lemonade. She wipes the top of the bottle with her shirt and hands it to Straker. He looks at it, looks at her, then gives it back. Fine, she thinks. Be thirsty, then.

She’s brought out the two cushions she slept on last night and they’re sitting on them with their backs to the wall. Bits of ancient white paint flake off and stick to their clothes. She’s trying to stay annoyed with him, but it’s proving difficult. She’s fighting a growing sensation of relaxation, feeling the occasional shaft of sunshine on her face, and the proximity of Straker. She tries to imagine him robbing a bank, or mugging a vulnerable old man, but he doesn’t have the right kind of menace in his face. You can’t tell, she says to herself. That’s the point. People are not what they seem.

A wood-pigeon hoots nearby and it reminds her of their old house—before they moved to the tiny three-bedroomed council house with no central heating. She used to go out early in the morning, when everyone else was asleep, and creep through the dewy grass to her yew-tree hideout. The wood-pigeon called from a distance, and she would doze off, secure in her aloneness. The garden was still and half lit, secret, only seen by her. She liked the distance that separated her from everyone else.

Judging by his breathing, Straker has gone to sleep. He’s sitting with his eyes shut and his mouth open, peaceful except for occasional shudders that bring him almost awake, but not quite. She studies his face, now that he can’t see her. The scar stands out clearly as it zigzags through his beard, old and shrivelled, pulling his skin inwards and distorting the left side of his face. He does look sinister—he’d make a good gangster, frightening people like Mrs Whittaker and Sharon in the supermarket.

Doody’s mobile phone rings. Straker jerks upright and stares around in bewilderment. She pulls it out of her bag, irritated by its intrusion into the calm. ‘Hello? Jonathan?’

‘No, it’s Mr Hollyhead here.’

‘Hello, Philip,’ she says. This name business still infuriates her. Doesn’t she merit a small intimacy?

‘Doody—’

‘Mrs Doody,’ she says.

‘Yes…’ He pauses. ‘Have you managed to mow the playing-field? Only you did say…’

He knows she hasn’t done it. He must be looking at it through his lounge window as he talks to her on the phone.

‘If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it.’

‘Yes.’

Actually, she’d forgotten. ‘I’ll do it tonight. I’m out today.’

‘Yes.’

‘’Bye, then.’

‘How’s the foot—the leg?’

‘Terrible, but I don’t suppose you want to know that if you’re expecting me to mow the playing-field.’

‘Are you up to it?’ He sounds anxious.

She longs to say no, but he’ll just get hysterical. ‘Yes. ’Bye.’

She puts the mobile back into her bag. ‘Headmaster,’ she says to Straker. ‘Pain in the neck.’

He doesn’t respond. He looks as if he hasn’t understood a word she’s said.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘since you’ve made yourself at home on my roof, I deserve an invitation to your lighthouse.’

He’s a waste of time. He doesn’t even pretend to look welcoming. She tries another approach. ‘What is the extent of your knowledge about roofs?’

He still doesn’t speak. Another man who doesn’t know anything. A silent equivalent of Mr Hollyhead. So, general questions are a waste of time. He requires precisely worded questions, which can be answered with a yes or a no. It’s such an effort. She’d prefer to throw words at him, and catch him out when he’s not expecting it.

‘I need some help,’ she says. The words feel uncomfortable in her mouth.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, but there’s something different about him. An awareness. He’s listening.

‘I’m not talking about rubbish polythene. I want to do it properly. The tiles are too old—you can’t buy them any more. Jonathan says I have to pay someone to retile the whole roof.’

He might be interested. Nothing obvious has changed, but his face doesn’t seem to sag so much. Without moving, he looks as if he is sitting up straighter.

‘I don’t suppose…’

He nods.

‘Can you help me?’

He nods vigorously.

‘I can’t afford to pay you.’

He shakes his head and jumps up, then walks up and down, stopping to look up at the roof, his lips moving silently. Doody can’t make any sense of it, so she sits and watches him. He gives the impression that he knows what he’s doing.

‘Don’t tell me what’s going on, will you?’ she says.

He moves his hand as if he wants her to be quiet, a
calming down, shushing movement that you might make to a child.

A spark of resentment shoots through her. ‘Don’t patronise me,’ she says. ‘If you want me to shut up, say so.’ But he doesn’t react to this.

It’s starting to go chilly. The patches of blue sky are becoming less frequent, and without the occasional sun, the air is damp and unfriendly. Banks of clouds are building up in the distance, over the sea, and a cold wind is coming in ahead of them. Doody’s not dressed for this. It’s June. It’s supposed to be warm.

He stops abruptly, as if he’s walked into a brick wall. ‘Thirty-seven,’ he says.

She waits for more, but that’s it. ‘Yes?’

He looks extremely pleased with himself, as if he’s been wrestling with a problem for days.

‘You might think you’re profound,’ she says, ‘but I think you’re talking nonsense.’

He stands a few feet away, and acts as if he’s chewing an unpleasant-tasting sweet. ‘Just spit it out,’ she says. ‘You’ll feel better then.’

‘You need thirty-seven tiles,’ he says, over-articulating like a foreigner who is just learning how to pronounce certain words.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s more than that.’

He pulls her arm until she gets up, then points at the roof, counting. ‘One, two…fifteen, sixteen…twenty-nine…thirty-three, thirty-four…’ He seems to think she can count every individual tile with him, but it’s impossible. He could be counting the same hole thirty-seven times. When he’s finished, he turns to her with an odd expression on his face.

‘Thirty-seven tiles,’ she says.

He nods eagerly, up and down, and it occurs to her that he might think he’s smiling. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Thirty-seven tiles.’

He’s almost trembling with excitement.

‘But that’s thirty-seven tiles too many. Where am I going to get them? They don’t make them any more.’

He stops hopping and nodding and twitching and puts a hand on her arm. ‘Come,’ he says.

She studies him. Is he safe? Does he know something about thirty-seven antique tiles that she doesn’t?

‘All right,’ she says, pushing his hand away. ‘You don’t have to maul me. Where do you want me to go?’

Of course he doesn’t answer, but he heads towards the gate, turning towards her every few steps to make sure she’s following. They go out of the gate in this strange, bobbing manner, Straker leading, stopping, turning, waving his hands vaguely while he waits for Doody to catch up.

‘If you remember,’ she says, ‘I hurt my ankle not long ago. It is not completely better.’ He slows down for a bit, but then speeds up again.

‘Where are we going?’ she says. ‘You can tell me, you know, and there’s a fairly good chance I’ll understand.’

She rather hopes he might lead her down to the village so that all the local people can see she’s got him tamed. It would be satisfying to prove that she’s achieved something they couldn’t do. But he turns away from the village and they climb a hill that leads towards open fields edged by lines of trees. She starts to feel hot and tired. The occasional car passes them without slowing down, and they have to jump into the ditch, which is almost dry, but not quite, so a cake of mud builds up on her sandals. Once a car has passed, Straker steps straight back into the road, the rigid set of his shoulders signalling his defiance. It’s obvious that he doesn’t think much of cars.

‘You may not think much of them,’ Doody says, ‘but you should show a little more respect. As a safety precaution.’

She’s reminded of the Pied Piper. Is it wise, following him like this? She still has to mow the playing-field. What if he never stops?

Doody stops. He continues, but when he turns round to check she’s behind him, and finds that she isn’t, he comes back, his face almost upset. He puts a firm hand under her elbow, and tries to ease her up the road.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouts, pulling away from him. She hates people touching her—it’s as if they are trying to get inside her skin, invade her thoughts.

Straker steps away, bewildered, but then has to jump back beside her as a Volvo roars past.

She glares at him, resisting the thought that she has overreacted. He has, after all, touched her before, and she allowed it then. ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I want to know where we’re going. I’m tired. My leg hurts. Is there any purpose to this expedition?’

He stops pulling and stands with his long arms hanging loosely at his sides. He looks wrong, out of proportion. His blue eyes study her face, making her uncomfortable. He opens his mouth and it moves, but nothing comes out. He shuts it, then tries again. ‘We only need thirty-seven tiles.’ This time, his voice is deep and hollow.

‘Well,’ says Doody, ‘I’m glad you told me that. I had no idea.’
We
is incorrect. ‘Anyway, I need thirty-seven tiles, but you don’t. It would be useful to have your help, but it’s still my roof.’

He hesitates, pauses, then tries again. ‘I know where there are some tiles like yours.’

She stares at him. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

He doesn’t answer, but starts walking again, not as fast as before. She wants to stand her ground, but she also wants the tiles, so she follows him. ‘Are we nearly there?’ she says, and he nods.

They stop by a wooden gate on the edge of the road. It stands across a path overgrown with enormous weeds. Doody regards the gate. ‘Is this it?’

He almost smiles and looks pleased with himself. Then he climbs over the gate in one swift, easy movement.

‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘Are you expecting me to do that? Why can’t we open the gate first?’ He doesn’t react. She goes to the catch, but it seems to be rusted shut, and fiddling with it has no effect. Sighing, she places a foot on the bottom rung and puts her weight on it. It creaks. ‘I’m heavier than you,’ she says. ‘I don’t spend half my life in a gym, or jogging round the village at six o’clock in the morning. I’m not that sort of person.’

He waits and watches, but doesn’t help.

She puts both feet on, holds her breath, and it supports her. Managing to sit on the top of the gate she swings her legs over inelegantly to the other side. Exhilarated by her success, she jumps down on to the grass on the other side.

‘Ow!’ She’s forgotten her sprained ankle.

Straker bends down to help, but he irritates her. ‘Get off,’ she says, pushing him aside. He stands a few feet away and watches, making no further attempt to assist. The pain soon eases off, but she’s not going to tell him that.

‘All right,’ she says, after rubbing the ankle for a while, and they walk more slowly.

The path fades out in front of an old brick building, ivy-covered, very large, with tiles on the roof that match the cottage tiles exactly. It’s the kind of barn that would be big enough to store bales of hay. Straker stands still and waits. She knows he’s feeling pleased with himself, so she tries to appear nonchalant.

‘Well,’ she says, walking up to it. ‘What is it? A barn?’

He shrugs. They are on the edge of a neglected field, long and narrow, waist high with grasses and thistles. The barn, although weathered, looks more recently built than Doody’s cottage, and in better condition, with no missing tiles. Straker might be working on a smile again, but it’s difficult to be certain.

‘Who does it belong to?’

He shrugs again. She can’t decide if he knows and isn’t going to tell her, or if he really hasn’t a clue.

‘But we can’t just take the tiles, can we? They must belong to someone.’

He ignores her and starts to climb the horse-chestnut tree that is growing against a corner, its thickening trunk pushing against one side of the barn. She leaves him to it and walks round the building, easing her way through the bushes that are growing right up to the walls, trying to avoid the thistles and nettles. There are no windows. Three walls are brick, but the fourth, which faces the neglected field, consists of two huge wooden doors, padlocked together. She fingers the padlock curiously, wondering if it will just break with age and enable them to go inside, but it’s completely secure. At the top of one of the doors, there’s a number painted on, once white, now faded to a dirty grey: 21/7.

Doody puts her eye to a crack and tries to peer in, but the interior is completely black.

He’s already coming down the tree with some tiles in his hands. He gives her one and she examines it. He’s right. It’s identical to the ones on the cottage roof. ‘Are we allowed to take them?’ she asks.

He doesn’t seem at all worried, and climbs back up the tree to fetch some more. This time, she takes them from him before he comes all the way down, piling them at her feet. ‘Thirty-seven,’ she calls, after about ten minutes, but he doesn’t stop. He collects a further ten. Then he climbs down and stands by the bottom of the tree. Is she supposed to pat him on the head and tell him he’s a good boy?

‘Is this your place?’ she asks.

He shakes his head.

‘But—aren’t we stealing?’

He nods and looks pleased. She wonders if he has a secret grudge against the owner of the place. But it’s obvious that nobody has been here for a very long time. She examines the roof. He hasn’t taken all of the tiles from the same place so there’s no obvious hole. Just small gaps that might have been
caused by time and weather—like the cottage roof. Either he was trying to be discreet, or he was fussy and only took the best tiles.

‘I want to go up,’ says Doody.