(The winner of our 2011 Short Story Competition)
For Fiona
“I know what we need,” Max said, striding on to the patio one Friday evening in late July.
Lorna hadn’t heard him come through the house. She had been listening for a different sound.
She peered out from under the parasol, flinching at the heat. Max’s tie was undone, his greying hair flat with sweat, face flushed from the commuter train. Sun caught the beer glass in his hand. He smiled, and raised the glass at her, and Lorna saw an actor in a silent film, tightrope sliding under his polished shoes, the street falling away below.
Before he could explain what they needed, Max went back inside.
On the old wooden table the tub of ice cream Lorna and Toby had been sharing had turned to soup. All afternoon, until he’d gone in to watch TV, they’d been playing Snap. At times it had been as much as Lorna could do to lift a card and lay it on the wobbling pile. Stealing under the parasol the heat had butted up against her, nosing and insistent, like a badly-trained old dog, sniffing at the secret of her, hidden under her clothes.
She heard Max open the kitchen cupboard, and the chink of pudding bowls. But he must have thought better of it because he returned with only a packet of wet wipes, which he put next to her. Then he dragged over a fold-up chair.
“Sea air!” he said, as if he’d just invented it.
Lorna thought of consumptive Victorians trailing up and down promenades. She lifted her thin cotton dress away from her sweaty stomach.
“A change of scene would do you good,” Max added.
She tried not to hear the criticism in his words. Her mother had told her she needed to pull herself together. They shouldn’t have left it so late – seven years was too big a gap. She was lucky to have the summer holidays off; she’d be fine by the start of term.
“Where would we go?” she asked. The cramped, airless house was suddenly a haven.
“Rich said we could have his place in Devon.” Max touched her elbow. “Do you remember? We went there once, before Toby was born.”
Lorna felt her throat constrict. “Great,” she said.
On the journey, drifting in and out of sleep, Lorna tried and failed to picture the cottage. Max had said nothing more about their previous visit, and she couldn’t remember a time when their days had been as free and weightless, the space between them full of promise.
Max drove into a narrow lane. The car brushed the overgrown hedgerow, shaking butterflies from the dog roses and wild clematis. At the end of the lane was the cottage, its windows gold in the evening sun. Lorna didn’t recognise it.
“We’re here!” Toby was scrambling out of his seat before Max had pulled up the handbrake.
Lorna pushed open the car door and hot air slid in. Barefoot, she stepped onto the scorched grass.
“It’s wonderful here if you get the weather,” Max kept saying.
His skin turned red-brown. Toby’s face bloomed with freckles. Lorna dozed in the shade. Her limbs were soft, liquid. The books she had brought to read lay untouched in a stack by the bed, in the room under the eaves.
Exhausted by the sea air, calmed by the cool evenings, Toby went to bed each night without protest. Max and Lorna sat in the small sitting room, under the dull yellow glow of the standard lamp, watching TV.
In the wide, cold bed Lorna let Max hold her, and tried to feel comforted.
At the supermarket on the other side of the estuary Max bought a hammock, which he strung between the apple trees in the small garden. Lorna understood it was to contain her. Wordlessly, they had settled into a routine. In the mornings they played with Toby: cards, or board games whose rules eluded her. In the afternoons Max and Toby went out.
“We’ll leave you to rest,” Max said, backing out of the gate.
She wanted to tell him the garden was far from restful: the heavy air was never still. Bees and wasps harassed her; swallows lined up on the telephone wire opposite, mocking her by their sheer numbers; butterflies batted the windowpanes, blundering their way inside. Above the trees, on the hill behind the cottage, a pair of buzzards circled and hung, pulled together and apart like magnets.
Lorna watched the buzzards until her eyes could barely make them out, until she saw them behind her eyelids. In the drift and swoop of their bodies she sensed a shared tenderness, something hidden, protected. She imagined the stretch of feathers as they took off, the lift of air under their wings.
One afternoon she woke, lurching from sleep, her dream clinging. The sense of the child had been vivid: skin against skin; a smell of milk. And a caress: delicate and light as air.
Slowly she remembered where she was. She felt the hammock under her, the warm air, heavy on her skin. But something had changed. A pulse beat in her throat.
She got up and wandered into the cool of the kitchen. The clock said three. Max and Toby would be out until five. She trailed up the twisting stairs, the dark wooden beams low over her head. The back of her neck, her underarms, even the backs of her knees were sticky with sweat. She peeled off her clothes. Heart pounding she twisted in front of the old, spotted mirror, straining to see her shoulder blades. She stretched her fingers up her back as far as she could, fingertips probing. There was no doubt.
When Max and Toby returned Lorna was back in her hammock, in the shade, a sundress covering her secret. Toby went indoors to watch TV and Max brought her a glass of wine and a small pottery bowl of olives.
“It’s so peaceful here.” He sat down next to her, slopping his beer on the ground. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the hill. “I hope – are you glad we came?”
The buzzards were back, circling over the trees. Lorna pressed her shoulders into the hammock.
“Sure.” Soft, cool air flowed under her arms.
“It was a good idea to come, wasn’t it?”
She heard the plea in his voice. “Yes. I love the – space.”
“Toby – I think – he was worried about you. Well – we both were.” Max reached across and patted her wrist.
“I know.” She kicked the tree with her bare foot to make the hammock swing. She didn’t look at him.
“Lorna.”
“Mmm?” The buzzards approached each other then veered away.
“We can try again, you know. I mean, if – when you’re up to it.”
She needed him to go back inside the house.
“Lorna?” Max stretched out of his seat to peer under her sunhat. She almost expected him to lift her sunglasses.
“I’ve changed, Max.” She kept her gaze on the hill.
“Of course you have. We all have.”
That night Lorna flew, high up. The jet stream was a solid rush of air under her feet. On her honey-gold wings she cruised through clouds, brushing their soft edges; swooped through red-streaked sunsets. Lazily she glided above tiny hills and rivers, houses scattered below her like children’s bricks. Beside her the buzzard flew. In the curve of its wing was the small body. Lorna glimpsed dark hair.She touched the curled fist, and felt the fingers grip. In her chest her heart expanded, pushing at her ribs, bones fusing with the dream of flight.
When she grew tired she climbed onto the buzzard’s back, pressing her legs into its silky feathers. Hooking her feet under its claws she felt blood, thick and warm, against her flesh.
She woke before dawn to feel the familiar stickiness on her thighs. She had forgotten that, under her treacherous skin, the process would be starting again.
The heat began to ease. Max said the wind had changed. One afternoon they went out together in the car, along the coast and over a new bridge. Toby, fidgeting with excitement in the back, kept pointing things out: a field of jostling sheep, or an oddly-shaped cloud. Lorna sat in the front next to Max, a cushion behind her shoulders.
On the way back, three paragliders were drifting in the early evening sky.
“It must be great, to fly by yourself,” Toby said.
Lorna’s heart snagged on his words.: Instantly she saw the neat fields, far below; felt the rush of air under her arms.
“They don’t do it by themselves, son.” Max raised his voice above the engine noise. “They’re towed up to high ground by a big car, like a Land Rover, then they let go.”
“Oh.”
Lorna heard Toby’s disappointment. “But they still fly, Max!”
Back at the cottage Lorna hesitated in the garden. Excitement fluttered in her chest. She whispered to Toby.
“Yes!” he shouted.
Max, fiddling with the door key, turned round. “What is it?”
“We’re going to do a project. Before supper.” Lorna indicated the garden. “It’ll be light for ages yet. It’s a shame to go in.”
Toby ran round the lawn whooping, “Hurray, hurray, hurray!”
Max walked towards her, relief on his face. This was the old Lorna: in the school holidays she and Toby were always making things. Max had often come home from work to find the kitchen table covered in cardboard, newspaper and paint. He used to complain it felt like sitting in her classroom – all they needed were the small chairs.
He grinned. “What’s your project?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” Lorna looked at him, daring him to meet her gaze.
He looked away. “Great! I’ll get on with supper then.”
Lorna and Toby worked in the garden. When she sent Toby back inside for scissors and sticky tape, Lorna saw Max’s shadow jerk away from the kitchen window.
The light was fading by the time she went to tell him they were ready. He was flapping a wet cloth across the stove, mopping up water from the saucepan of pasta boiling over on the ring.
She led him round the side of the house. “Toby, we’re coming!”
They emerged onto the empty lawn and stood awkwardly, side by side. The edges of the garden were in darkness now; moths came at them haphazardly, seeking the lit windows.
After a few seconds Max muttered, “Where the hell is he?” Then, “Toby!” he yelled, “Toby! Where are you?”
Out of the bushes a figure ran straight at them. Dark, ragged shapes jostled and floated round it. Max gasped. Lorna screamed delightedly. Toby was naked, his pale skin smeared with dirt. Feathers sprouted from his back and shoulders. More feathers were stuck in his hair.
He circled the lawn twice, flapping his arms. “Crrrrrk! Crrrrrk!”
“Yes! Yes!” Lorna laughed and clapped.
Max stood still. “What – what is this?”
Toby stopped in front of them, panting.
Lorna noticed that all her efforts had not managed to make the feathers – her whole collection – match: Toby had been too fidgety. She hoped Max wouldn’t point that out. “What do you think? Do you like it?”
“Like it? What have you done? How – Toby, turn round.”
Max steered the child into the light from the porch. Under the layered sticky tape holding the feathers in place, Toby’s skin was streaked with blood. Max pulled up a length of tape and the boy cried out. Max examined his son’s flesh.
“These are puncture marks.” He whipped round. “Lorna! Surely – surely you didn’t ––”
“It’s all right, Dad!” Toby hopped between them, shivering. “It didn’t really hurt.” His eyes glistened.
Lorna turned on Max. “It was our project! Why do you have to spoil everything?”
“These things are filthy! They’re covered in fleas! Stand still, Toby. I’ll try not to hurt you.” Max ripped off the tape.
Toby winced and squealed, crying now. Feathers fluttered to the ground. Lorna scrabbled to catch them but Max was faster. Crushing the sticky bundles he gathered them up, strode to the back door and stuffed them in the bin.
“Toby, come in and get in the bath. I’ll find some antiseptic.” Max ushered the boy indoors.
Lorna lifted the lid on the bin. She tried pulling the feathers from the sticky tape but they were ruined.
Lorna slipped out of bed and padded to the window. She pulled back the thin curtains and climbed onto the window sill, the old stone cool beneath her feet. Naked she crouched, knees against her chest, watching the dark slope of the hill. In a few hours the sky would lighten and the buzzards would be back. Through the open window the night air was silky as feathers. She yearned for the feeling of flight. She knew that in another life, an older life, she had been able to soar.
“Lorna!” Max’s voice startled her. He draped his dressing gown round her shoulders. “What are you doing? Come back to bed.”
“Only two more days!” Max sounded relieved. He was making breakfast for them all in the kitchen. He had insisted Lorna get up to eat with them. Since the incident with the feathers he had kept a close eye on her. He and Toby had stopped going out in the afternoons, too. “It’ll be good to get home again, won’t it, Tobes?” He slopped scrambled egg onto three plates.
“Yes, Dad.”
Lorna knew Toby was only saying what Max wanted to hear. And the thought of going back to the house in the sweltering suburbs, surrounded by bricks and tarmac, made her want to cry.
Max also had other plans. He had told her that she obviously couldn’t manage Toby on her own, even if she gave up her job. “We can get some help for you, when we get back,” he said. “If it’s too much for you,” he continued, hitting his stride, “we could look into boarding Toby. Just for one term, see how it goes.”
Lorna checked on Toby every night before she went to sleep. Sometimes, waking in the dark, she crept through the silent house to sit on the end of his bed and watch him: his smooth cheek against the pillow, eyelids fluttering in unknowable dreams. The distance between them crushed her heart.
That night it didn’t take much to wake him. He smiled sleepily at her. “What is it?”
“Shall we go for a secret walk?” Lorna put her finger to her lips.
She had pulled on jeans and a fleece. Now she helped him do the same. She slid his Spiderman socks onto his warm feet and stuck the Velcro across his new trainers.
She led him down the stairs. The front door key turned easily and they stepped out into the shadowy garden.
The full moon watched them through fingers of cloud.
“Look,” she showed him. She wanted him to see everything in her world, all the things Max never saw. They set off up the lane, snails crunching under their feet.
“Where are we going?” Toby whispered.
“On an adventure,” Lorna said.
“Yes!” He jumped up and down.
“Sssh,” she reminded him.
He slipped his hand through hers, and she gripped it like a charm.
There was a stile at the end of the lane. Lorna went over first then helped Toby. Beyond the stile the path rose steeply through bracken, pale and flat-looking in the moonlight. She walked in front. When Toby stumbled on a root, or was surprised by springing leaves, she turned round to him. Each time she looked at him her heart leapt. They climbed in silence. The slope made them breathless.
Near the top, the path led into the windblown trees. Toby asked, “Are we going into the woods?”
“It’s not really a wood.” Lorna stopped. “We might see an owl. But we have to be quiet.”
Her voice sounded far away. Above here the buzzards flew, their streamlined bodies gliding through air.
The thicket was dense, the trees bent almost double by the wind off the sea. The path narrowed and they had to feel their way, ducking under branches that came at them out of the gloom.
Toby cried out: his fleece was caught. Lorna turned back to him and yanked it free. They heard the fabric tear.
“That’s my new fleece!” He sounded puzzled.
“We don’t have to worry about that!” She went to move on, but he stopped and crouched in the undergrowth.
“I can hear badgers!”
“Badgers don’t live up here.” Lorna pressed on and Toby followed.
When they came out of the trees the wind was cold and strong. The path ran ahead then turned inland, over another stile. To their left, bracken and gorse sloped away to the cliff edge. Beyond lay the grey sea, waves breaking on black rocks. They stood watching the line of moonlight shiver on the water.
“What are we looking for?” Toby whispered.
Lorna felt the wind’s caress, stroking her limbs and tugging at her arms. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs. Her heart pushed at her ribs. Her shoulders throbbed; she glimpsed her daughter’s face.
And then, at last, above the wind she heard the child’s cry.
“I’m coming.” She grasped Toby’s hand and stepped off the path.
Toby said something but she couldn’t hear. He hung back, pulling on her.
Lorna clamped her hand over his thin fingers, squeezing them. Hot, sweaty fingers, stuck to her skin. She remembered cool skin, pressed against her own; the cold hollow of her empty arms.
“Ow!” Toby leaned away, feet dragging, his hand pushing at hers. “Stop it! No!”
But Lorna was stronger. Gripping his wrist, she started to run.
About the auhtor
Sarah Hegarty was born in Bristol, and has an MA in Creative Writing from Chichester University. Her short fiction has been published in Mslexia, the Momaya Annual Review and placed in competitions. Two of her short stories will be published this year in Spring and Autumn anthologies from Cinnamon Press. Her first novel, The Ash Zone, won the 2011 Yeovil Literary Prize. She is one of the mentees on the 2013 Jerwood/ Arvon mentoring scheme, and is working on her second novel. She lives in Guildford with her family.
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