Fourteen
The Long Mynd
We had come to
the end of our training and when Dad picked me up I had the same feeling that
I’d had when I had driven through the gates of Keele University for the last
time, having spent three glorious years enjoying myself, discovering English
Literature and listening to Molière’s
plays on a long-playing record, in a small room, presided over by my somnolent
French tutor.
With my
exquisitely educated brain I had two thoughts: I wish I’d done a degree in
astro-physics and now the shit is really going to hit the fan! I had delayed the inevitable moment when I
would actually have to earn a living, but now the time had come when I would be
put to the test.
Dad took me up
to the Long Mynd for the weekend. I didn’t resist. Carol went off to spend some time with Dave and wander round some
fields talking to pigs and cows. It
would be a moment of calm, a chance to reflect and to look forward to putting
what I had learned into practice. It would be a time to go for long walks and
evoke fond memories of Rick and I hiding in the forest while glider pilots
circled over us taking notes. Dad
didn’t want to talk much, so we listened to the Mike Sam Singers. The least bad tune, as I remember, was
‘Trains and Boats and Planes’. I
watched my dad as he drove round the winding country roads lightly drumming the
steering wheel with his fingers and smiling to himself. He looked happy and kind of slow, as though
he were contemplating something of very little importance or of great
philosophical enlightenment. Then he
told me again to take care when I drove round narrow lanes that there were not
walkers on a blind bend. My father was
a mystery to me all my life and now, when I say some of the same things to my
own children, I wish he could hear me.
Gladys and Vera
were in the kitchen, cackling away at some private joke. They made sure I was welcome and dosed me
with tea and homemade fruit cake, asking me whether I was still ‘chasing after
that poor young boy’.
‘It was nothing
serious. Just a bit of fun,’ I
said. ‘Anyway, I already have a
boyfriend.’
This, apparently,
was a hilarious thing to say.
Next morning the
weather on the mountain was good, with a clear sky and a favourable wind
direction, so that launches would be possible.
Everyone looked forward to a good day’s flying. After lunch I went over to the airfield and
Dad took me up in his two-seater. The
sound when you are inside a glider is eerie.
The wind makes a soft, whistling noise that seems to wrap around you, as
though you are giving the air a shape and a voice. I felt safe up in the sky in an aeroplane made of fibreglass,
with no engine and only a few thermals to hold it up. I felt safe because I was
with my dad and he was doing the thing he loved most in the world. He told me that there had been an accident
at one of the other clubs and that it had said in the newspaper that the plane
had crashed and burst into flames.
Luckily I realised that this was impossible and could join in with the
irony of it all.
I liked being in
the sky with my dad. He was quiet most
of the time, and when he spoke he did nothing to disturb the peace. He taught me some of the things that I
treasure most: about being consumed by an interest and, on dark nights out on
the mountain, about the stars. He knew their names and showed me the
constellations, just as I do now, when I can get my children to take any
notice.
That night there
was a phone call for me on the clubhouse payphone, which was in the draughty
and very public entrance hall. Dad said
that it was Rick. He assumed, as I did, that it was Rick, and not Rick.
‘Hello,’ said a
voice I didn’t recognise.
‘Hello,’ I
answered.
‘It’s Rick,’ the
voice continued.
And, just as I
was about to say, ‘No, it’s not!’ I realised that it was in fact Rick.
‘Hello
Rick.’ I had one of those moments where
my brain lags slightly behind my mouth and I couldn’t think of what to say
next.
‘How are
you?’ he asked. He was very young and very well educated.
‘Freezing,
actually. What are you up to?’ I was not curious, but I thought I should
ask.
‘Thinking about
you,’ he said.
‘How sweet,’ I
replied.
I liked the boy,
but there was no future in it. Bugger
and damnation I was cold. Anyway, it
turned out that Rick wanted to play something on the piano to me. It was ‘A song for Guy’ or something like
that. Elton John, I think. He was rather good, but the heartfelt notes
resonated relentlessly and generally went on a bit. By this time my extremities were turning blue and I was
sniffing.
‘That was
lovely,’ I said.
‘Would you like
me to play another?’ He offered,
sweetly, obviously mistaking my snuffling for heart-broken emotion.
My mind raced.
‘I have to do some reading.’ It was a poor excuse.
‘Oh, okay. Can I call again?’
‘Sure. I mean, yes.’
He didn’t and I
was disappointed. Everyone likes to be
adored, after all.
The rest of the
weekend was pleasant, apart from when I found an enormous spider in the shower
and had to listen to spider stories for the rest of the evening, sitting round
the clubhouse bar. I played billiards
and lost some money to the one-armed bandit before walking out to my caravan in
the dark, windswept night. I looked up
at the sky and suddenly felt that I belonged on the mountain and not behind a
blackjack table on Edgware Road. My bed
was ever so slightly damp, which was normal, and I snuggled into my duvet and
thought about the next day. Carol would
be there and she would have the keys to our new flat in Willesden Green. It would be fun and, after all, it would not
be forever. As I closed my eyes and
smiled to myself at the thought of the night sky above me and all around, and
pictured the glowing lights of the scattered houses in the valley below, I
thought of Rick playing his piano.
Find out about Bev and Carol at Playboy - click on the link above and download 'Bunny on a Bike' for a fun read.
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