Flight | Tony Lovell
The woman can never relax. People try to follow her but go along roads and paths, and she does not use roads and paths and moves quickly, like she is pulled by some strange current.
“I hope it isn’t the sea I’m going to,” she thinks, her voice in her head her only company. But then in a moment the idea of water stretching as far as she can see appeals to her, and suddenly her body is steering in the air, and not for the first time does she think that she is being drawn by some and any whim that comes to her.
“I have to be careful,” she thinks, and rolls over onto her back just for the change.
But she does not like the sky. It is dull one minute, looks too deep the next.
So odd that not many call to her. They seem too aghast, frozen by disbelief, like those children. Some laugh, presuming, she presumes, that there must be some hidden crane responsible, some clever television trick making what she is doing possible.
She wonders what they think of her, every one she sees.
Curiosity diminishes the panic. She likes the country, the sights. Less people to ogle and confuse her.
Another tree. An oak, a steeple within sight. Crows knowing this is not right.
She clasps a branch and for once it works. A man is watching on the ground, frozen like so many of the others.
She is impressed that he just stands watching, knowing it futile to shout or wave. But it annoys her that she should judge him unattractive because he seems stable and level-headed, sensibly dressed, only taking her by the wrist when he can, when he is holding another branch to secure himself first, lest she take him with her.
“Oh,” he says as she momentarily lifts him before falling to the earth almost on top of him.
She feels a mess. Her clothes have been soaked so many times, caught and torn on branches and television aerials and telegraph poles.
He does not know what to ask her. Maybe he knows everything. “You mustn’t let go of me,” she says, “not for a second.”
“Where can I take you?”
“Where I can eat and drink and wash,” she says.
The people they pass on the way to his house do not recognise her. Perhaps, she thinks, because she is on the ground. She looks at them - they seem puzzled by her disarray, the state of her hair and clothes.
How strange to feel the ground again. How not-quite-right.
She holds onto the bench while he warms up some food, makes a hot drink. She watches him and is surprised by how little people interest her now - even the people she once new and were her family feel remote, personally, now possibility has been so fractured.
He asks all the questions she expects. She has asked them of herself. There are no real answers to any of them.
She wonders, does he keep me at arm’s length because he is in awe? Does he feel distant because - and she hates this thought - because he has just discovered he is dull?
He brings more food. She eats anything he has to offer. She describes her adventure, makes it trivial with every word. He seems to respond to her sense that to talk of it will diminish it and seems to withdraw inside himself like an anemone in the sun.
“I have to go out for a minute,” he says. “Make yourself at home.” He tells her where there is a sofa she can sleep on.
There are no pictures of family. The house is big and cold, even though a fire burns.
She takes a breath, strokes a sideboard, the arm of the sofa, holding on less and less to each surface and ledge with every step, until, pausing in the doorway at the back of the house, looking out across a cobbled yard onto a barn and a double garage, she steps back outside with a little jump that takes her back above the trees, throws the land back down beneath her.
“I hope it isn’t the sea I’m going to,” she thinks, her voice in her head her only company. But then in a moment the idea of water stretching as far as she can see appeals to her, and suddenly her body is steering in the air, and not for the first time does she think that she is being drawn by some and any whim that comes to her.
“I have to be careful,” she thinks, and rolls over onto her back just for the change.
But she does not like the sky. It is dull one minute, looks too deep the next.
So odd that not many call to her. They seem too aghast, frozen by disbelief, like those children. Some laugh, presuming, she presumes, that there must be some hidden crane responsible, some clever television trick making what she is doing possible.
She wonders what they think of her, every one she sees.
Curiosity diminishes the panic. She likes the country, the sights. Less people to ogle and confuse her.
Another tree. An oak, a steeple within sight. Crows knowing this is not right.
She clasps a branch and for once it works. A man is watching on the ground, frozen like so many of the others.
She is impressed that he just stands watching, knowing it futile to shout or wave. But it annoys her that she should judge him unattractive because he seems stable and level-headed, sensibly dressed, only taking her by the wrist when he can, when he is holding another branch to secure himself first, lest she take him with her.
“Oh,” he says as she momentarily lifts him before falling to the earth almost on top of him.
She feels a mess. Her clothes have been soaked so many times, caught and torn on branches and television aerials and telegraph poles.
He does not know what to ask her. Maybe he knows everything. “You mustn’t let go of me,” she says, “not for a second.”
“Where can I take you?”
“Where I can eat and drink and wash,” she says.
The people they pass on the way to his house do not recognise her. Perhaps, she thinks, because she is on the ground. She looks at them - they seem puzzled by her disarray, the state of her hair and clothes.
How strange to feel the ground again. How not-quite-right.
She holds onto the bench while he warms up some food, makes a hot drink. She watches him and is surprised by how little people interest her now - even the people she once new and were her family feel remote, personally, now possibility has been so fractured.
He asks all the questions she expects. She has asked them of herself. There are no real answers to any of them.
She wonders, does he keep me at arm’s length because he is in awe? Does he feel distant because - and she hates this thought - because he has just discovered he is dull?
He brings more food. She eats anything he has to offer. She describes her adventure, makes it trivial with every word. He seems to respond to her sense that to talk of it will diminish it and seems to withdraw inside himself like an anemone in the sun.
“I have to go out for a minute,” he says. “Make yourself at home.” He tells her where there is a sofa she can sleep on.
There are no pictures of family. The house is big and cold, even though a fire burns.
She takes a breath, strokes a sideboard, the arm of the sofa, holding on less and less to each surface and ledge with every step, until, pausing in the doorway at the back of the house, looking out across a cobbled yard onto a barn and a double garage, she steps back outside with a little jump that takes her back above the trees, throws the land back down beneath her.