Flights of Angels (2 page)

So they’d settled in Whitby; a strange and unlikely place to end up when you were used to the Southern France climate, but compensated by being relatively cheap, and punctuated by regular flights back to France where her mother could top up her tan and her hat collection.

Claudie didn’t care too much about having such a disjointed life because it was at that time that she’d met Kristen. Big-haired, big-mouthed and loveable, she’d instantly taken over the role of mother and, when they both left school and secured bedsits and jobs at a local solicitors, Claudie’s mother had sold-up and left England forever. But Claudie had no wish to return to her birthplace. She loved Yorkshire: weather-warts and all.

Crossing the road from York station, Claudie followed the city walls. There was something about the place that always sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. Perhaps it was the thought of Romans, Vikings, Highwaymen and modern-day tourists all drawn to the same city.

And now her. She’d found her own little corner of York at number fifteen Elizabeth Street, a three-storey town house, in pale blonde stone with a bright yellow door and a brass plaque on the wall. Claudie had laughed the first time she’d seen it because, following Dr Lynton’s name, there was a list of letters long enough to form a short story. She had no idea what any of them stood for but trusted Kristen’s friend of a friend’s recommendation.

What he was a doctor in she had no idea. She was well aware that you could get a doctorate in Disney nowadays, and that titles before your name and letters after it could count for very little, but Dr Lynton had proved wonderful. Warm and welcoming, he’d quickly put her at ease and was the perfect blend of silence and advice that she had so desperately been looking for in order to help her through the quagmire of her mind.

At first, she’d had to remind herself that he was a professional, and not a friend. It was so easy to forget that she was paying him for his time rather than him offering it as a friend, and so they had maintained the kind of distance shared between teachers and pupils.

She didn’t even know what the ‘P’ in Dr P Lynton stood for, but had often speculated on what it might be. For weeks she’d had a strong suspicion that it was Peregrine: aristocratic and well-educated, but she’d since gone off that idea. No, it had to be Percival. Percy Lynton. Dignified yet approachable. Yes, she liked that.

She hadn’t been at all sure what to expect from her sessions in York, and whether Dr Lynton was orthodox or not, and she’d always been a little sceptical about therapy; she just couldn’t quite see the point of being able to say: ‘Hi, my name’s Claudie, and I’m a widow.’ Would that sort of personal acknowledgement make her feel any better, and what would Luke think of her seeing a counsellor? He’d always been so self-reliant, so very independent, and would probably be horrified that she was seeking outside help. But she wasn’t as strong as he had been.

At their first meeting, he’d explained how every person was an individual, and that it was almost impossible to timetable progress, so that didn’t exactly help. So how could she tell if she was making any progress? Did she get up one morning and feel better? Was surviving grief like coming round from anaesthetic, or shaking off a bad dose of flu? Could she ever expect to be the person she once was?

One thing was for sure, her visits to York were certainly better than a long afternoon’s typing at Bartholomew and Simpson. Claudie loved these old houses with their lofty ceilings and picture rails, and it was almost worth coming just to spend an hour in the sumptuous surroundings.

She pressed the doorbell, which always reminded her of a great Liquorice Allsort, and didn’t have to wait long for Dr Lynton to appear. Big as the door frame but with a smile as soft as butter, he ushered Claudie in. His study occupied a room at the back of the house which overlooked a tiny courtyard stuffed with overflowing troughs and chimney pots. Claudie often felt her eyes drifting towards it when she was meant to be soul-searching. She didn’t know much about plants but she liked to have a go at identifying them. She recognised the rosemary with its green spikes, and the lavender, but she didn’t know what the others were. Perhaps they were all medicinal? Perhaps he’d administer her some if she asked? But maybe it wasn’t possible to grow opium in York.

The room itself was painted a warm yolky-yellow, and had two alcoves stuffed with the sort of books you can only buy second-hand. Selected watercolours of local scenes hung on the walls in old gilt frames, and a large Swiss Cheese plant grew happily by the patio door. There was an air of faded grandeur about the place which perhaps contributed to the sense of calm Claudie felt whilst there.

‘How are you, Claudie?’ Dr Lynton began with his usual opening question.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, as she always did, acknowledging the fact that if she
was
fine, she would be at work on a Friday afternoon and not sat opening her mind to a bereavement counsellor. She couldn’t help remembering her very first visit, and how the simple act of allowing herself to be helped had crippled her with tears for the first half-hour.

‘Did you find time to read the book I gave you?’ Dr Lynton asked, walking over to the little table in the corner of the room where a kettle and tea tray were laid out.

‘Yes.’ Claudie’s hand dived into her handbag. ‘It’s here somewhere.’

‘And what did you think of it?’

Claudie passed it back to him and he immediately returned it to its home on one of the shelves.

‘I thought,’ she began, scanning her brain for her opinion. ‘I thought it was interesting that there are actually different stages of grief.’ She took off her jacket and sat down in the smaller of the chairs in the room.

‘You don’t take sugar, do you, Claudie?’

‘Well, I like just a little,’ she said, not daring to say that she actually liked one very large sugar. But it was the same every week. He could never get it right.

‘Black?’

‘Just a little milk, please.’

‘And did you agree with the stages of grief suggested?’ he asked, handing her a cup of tea which looked far too strong and not milky enough by half.

‘Yes,’ she said, taking the cup and sipping nevertheless.

‘And do you think you can identify any which you’ve experienced?’ He sat down heavily in the large chair next to the Swiss Cheese plant.

Claudie took another sip of tea. It tasted worse than the stuff at work. She didn’t want to talk about stages of grief, but how could she get away with it and move on to what she really wanted his opinion on?

‘Dr Lynton?’ she began. ‘I’ve been thinking about what the book said about hallucinations.’

‘You’ve been hallucinating?’

‘No!’ she said quickly. ‘Not about Luke. Although, sometimes, when I’m shopping, or walking to work, I’ll see somebody who looks like him. I know it’s not him, of course, but it’s terrible.’ She paused. ‘I sometimes find myself staring at strangers, almost as if they were to blame for not actually being him. Sometimes, they don’t even look like him at all, but there’ll have a similar way of walking, or a similar tilt of the chin. Do you know what I mean?’

Dr Lynton nodded.

‘Hallucinations can take any form, can’t they?’

He nodded again, obviously not wanting to interrupt her train of thought.

‘Well, I’ve not only been seeing people who remind me of Luke. I’ve also been seeing
other
people.’

‘What? Other people who have died?’

‘No.’ She put her tea cup down and bit her lower lip, anxiously twisting the little band of gold on her left hand. ‘Little people.
I think
.’

Dr Lynton removed his tiny glasses and squinted across the room at her. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

Claudie puffed out her cheeks and shrugged. ‘I think I saw a little person hiding in my pen pot at work.’

Dr Lynton’s head jerked forward like an inquisitive bird’s. She gave him a moment to comprehend exactly what she’d said.

‘You
think
you saw?’

‘Yes. I can’t be sure. I mean - it was so quick - like a little bolt of lightning - only in the shape of a human.’ She watched as he turned his pen over and over in his hand. He didn’t say anything, but that was quite usual. He was probably thinking, which always gave Claudie the opportunity to stare at him. She looked at his mass of white hair. It was extraordinarily thick, and his eyebrows alone could have stuffed a cushion quite comfortably. And then she stared at his nostrils: great, dark, flaring affairs, like twin caves. He really was quite striking.

‘And you’ve been sleeping all right?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Eating properly? Not drinking too much?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Because there are all sorts of explanations for hallucinations. You might have just got something in your eye.’

‘Dr Lynton, I assure you, it was nothing like that. This was real - physically, it was very real.’

‘Did you have physical contact with it?’

Claudie shook her head. ‘I didn’t dare. I thought about it, briefly, but I was too scared that it might break the spell.’

‘How do you mean?’

Claudie sucked in her cheeks. She probably sounded completely mad. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last, ‘I guess I thought that if I’d tried to reach out and touch it, it would be like pressing the stop button on the video in the middle of a wonderful film.’

His forehead wrinkled, as if he was perplexed by her terminology. She had a habit of comparing everything to films, and Dr Lynton obviously wasn’t on the same wavelength.

‘And it wasn’t Luke you saw?’ he asked.

‘Oh, no. I’m almost sure this was a girl.’

‘Because it’s not unusual to look for your loved one - in any form. People find comfort in the most unlikely things.’

‘You must think I’m mad.’

‘You’re not mad, Claudie, and you must stop thinking that you are.’

‘But is any of this normal?’

He gave the tiniest of smiles. ‘Who can truly define what normal is?’

There was a few moments’ silence. Finally, Dr Lynton got up from his chair. Immediately, Claudie knew what was coming.

‘I can highly recommend this-’ he stretched up to reach the third shelf in one of the alcoves, his red jumper riding up his broad back.

‘Oh, no - please! No more books, Dr Lynton.’

He turned round, looking slightly disappointed.

‘But may I ask for a cutting of your lavender?’

For a moment, he looked puzzled. ‘You’re into aromatherapy, are you?’

‘No. Not really. But it’s worth a try.’

Cabin Cottage stood at the far end of Lantern Yard, its sky-blue stable door and tiny windows crammed with herbs always a welcoming sight after a hard day at the office.

Kristen adored it, but would often curse the precipitous steps that led to her and Jimmy’s home as they didn’t do her high heels any good. That was the problem with living in Whitby. It was all very pretty to the visitor, but they didn’t have to negotiate the neck-break steps and tiny alleyways that became impossible during the tourist season.

‘We live here!’ Kristen often wanted to shout as she’d try to sneak home in her lunch break, elbowing her way through coachloads of jet jewellery-seeking, ice cream-licking holidaymakers.

But oh! When they went home at the end of summer - what bliss! It was true that the weather would close in for almost six months, but there was nothing cosier than to snuggle down in Cabin Cottage; the sound of the wind whipping up the harbour, and the seagulls reeling in the lead grey sky.

‘I’m home!’ Kristen shouted, closing the door behind her with her foot, and walking straight into the kitchen. She didn’t need to shout as the place was so small, but she could never guess what Jimmy was up to. He might have his saw on the go, or be lost in a world of six-inch masts and never actually hear her.

‘Jimmy?’

‘Through here,’ he shouted back.

‘I hope you’re not making sawdust in the living room again,’ Kristen warned, immediately tripping over a cardboard box. She picked it up. She didn’t recognise what it had once housed but it was certainly some kind of woodwork tool.

She sighed, her mouth forming a firm, narrow line. ‘What are you up to in there?’ She threw the box behind her and walked into the living room. And there he was. He’d pushed all the furniture back against the wall and was sat in the middle of the carpet. Newspaper was spread out everywhere and he was hovering over a pile of timber.

‘You’re home early, love,’ he said, his eyes remaining fixed on his new project.

‘No, I’m not.’

Jimmy looked up, his pale eyes looking bloodshot from intense concentration, and his sleeves rolled up to real his thick, tattooed arms which Kristen loved. ‘Blimey. Is it teatime already?’

‘I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat, is there?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Jimmy! Didn’t you go out at all today?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘You only made it as far as the DIY store?’

He looked up and grinned at her. She knew him too well.

‘I’ll go and get some chips,’ she sighed. ‘You tidy up in here. Simon’s coming round later.’ Kristen took a fiver out of her purse and dumped her handbag on the old flower-festooned sofa. ‘I won’t be long, so make sure the table’s set.’

‘Aye-aye, Captain!’ he laughed. It was his little nickname for her when she became too authoritative.

Kristen walked back through to the kitchen, tripping over the cardboard box again. She picked it up and took it out into the yard. God, the place was tiny, she sighed. She often wished she could add a square metre of space for every time she thought how small the cottage was. If they could, they’d own half of Whitby by now.

She leant across to the windowsill and deadheaded a plant that had seen better days, its flowers dry and brittle, crumbling into nothing between her fingers. The windowsill could do with tidying up too. In fact, the whole place would benefit from a lick of paint.

The cottage had belonged to Jimmy’s mother and, when she’d died, she’d left it to him. Newly divorced, Jimmy had been only to pleased to move in and, when he’d met Kristen, he’d staunchly refused to give it up.