Little Wing Read online

  For Jonathan Lloyd, my agent and friend, who has had my back for

  25 years – thank you.

  Tell me, what is it you plan to do

  with your one wild and precious life?

  Mary Oliver, ‘The Summer Day’, 1990

  We have time, there’s no big rush.

  Jimi Hendrix, 1970

  Contents

  Prologue

  Colchester, February 2005

  Colchester, December 1968

  Camden, February 2005

  Colchester, December 1968

  Nell

  Dougie

  February 1969

  Nell

  Dougie

  Nell

  Dougie

  Nell

  Nell

  Gordon

  Nell

  Gordon

  Nell

  Glasgow

  To Stornoway, to Tarbert

  Wednesday, Thursday

  Nell

  Dougie

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  The Studio

  Wednesday

  Mainland

  Slàinte

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  A Letter From Freya

  A Letter From Freya

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Colchester, February 1969

  Nothing will ever be the same again.

  This I’ve known these past long weeks as the waves sweep through me in rushes and ripples, pulling me under, lifting me up.

  Wave after wave after wave on a tide that only ever comes in; ribboning through me with pitching fear but wonder too; excitement cresting on the surges of dread. Elation roiling with loneliness and curiosity undulating with panic.

  But there is the swell of love. There is the flow of contentment.

  How is that? That I love you?

  You. Little tiny nonsensical you.

  The flutter of you. The beat and the rhythm of you and me.

  We’re inextricable now – the making of each other.

  A wave of nausea.

  I’ve heard that this should stop after twelve weeks.

  I count almost eleven.

  The trouble and the joy that you will bring.

  Colchester, February 2005

  With a heave and a hoick while berating himself for being a stiff old bastard, Frank struggled from his chair and Zimmer-framed his way over to the window. He tapped on it. And again. If they couldn’t hear him, surely they could see him – he was a colour-blind eighty-year-old man with untameable hair; he was quite dazzling to all. He waved in their direction, grinned and gave a big thumbs-up. Not long, fellas – she’s on her way.

  Three times a week, Nell climbed the stairs to Frank’s flat on the third floor. She’d done so for more years than either of them could remember. She never took the lift, reasoning that by not using it she was extending its life for those who needed it most. She was tired today; the café had been manic and she’d only heard the strange noise coming from the fridge as she’d been closing up.

  ‘It’s me, Frank – just Nell,’ she called through the door as she unlocked it and prepared for the wall of heat to hit her. She liked his home, though – the rooms weren’t big but they felt spacious on account of him having few belongings. What he had plenty of, however, were paintings of seafaring adventure, which transformed the walls into oceans. Some he had painted himself. Not from memory, he once qualified in case she thought he was as old as Captain Cook. But despite the drama on the high seas, there was a calm that permeated Frank’s flat and it always smelt of toast. He was all about toast and Walnut Whips – and Nell did worry that, on the days she didn’t visit, that was all he ate. Not the walnuts, though. These he’d prise off and leave on a plate, waiting for her.

  ‘I’m in here!’

  She smiled to herself – when was Frank ever anywhere other than in here?

  ‘I’ll just pop into the kitchen and prepare the banquet,’ she called back. She opened the fridge, checked the milk and placed the cheesecake inside, then she set the oven to preheat, put a plate and cutlery on a tray, took a square of kitchen roll and plumed it into the glass. She noted a little washing-up that she’d do before she left; she’d put a clean tea towel out too. Frank had a small mirror just next to the door and she glanced at her reflection, thinking she looked a bloody mess, retying her ponytail before going through to the sitting room.

  ‘Hello, love.’

  ‘Good evening, mister – wow!’ Nell took in his bright red shirt and equally vivid clashing cardigan, his hair appearing to have had the shock of its life. He looked like someone who worked at Woolworths with a sideline in clowning and his dentures appeared to be dancing.

  ‘Wow yourself,’ Frank said.

  ‘I’m wearing supermarket jeans and a crap sweatshirt.’

  ‘They won’t mind,’ said Frank, still by the window, supported by his Zimmer. ‘I’ve told them you’re coming.’

  ‘I think I heard them when I arrived.’ She hadn’t but she believed white lies to be an essential kindness for people like Frank who could go from visit to visit without human interaction.

  ‘Would you be so kind—’

  ‘—of course!’

  And Nell fetched the saucer of walnuts, making a note to change the antimacassar on her way out. Empty the bin and put the newspapers in the recycling.

  ‘You know it’s not a Walnut Whip if you don’t eat the walnuts, Frank.’

  Today, the window latch was stiff even for Nell and it took a shove to swing it open.

  ‘Break them in two, even three, Nell. They’re big’uns. Put them right there – and there – and there. Perfect.’

  The nuts were lined up on the outside sill. Nell and Frank watched as the birds, at first warily, descended to feast. Frank always looked triumphant. Job done, he’d say, job done.

  ‘Here.’ Nell handed him today’s newspapers that had been left at the café.

  ‘The Telegraph and the Mirror,’ Frank mused. ‘Right and Left, you see. This way and that. Back and Front. Both ends of the spectrum, Nell – and that’s what one must always set out to consider.’

  ‘You never know, next time it might be The Sun and The Star,’ said Nell.

  Frank’s teeth clackered at the thought of it.

  ‘Did you bring me my scraps and leftovers?’

  Nell laughed. ‘Cheeky! You know I always dish out your portions before we even write them up on the blackboard.’

  ‘One day,’ said Frank, ‘I’ll come to your café and eat my tea there.’

  ‘You’d be very welcome. I could pick you up, if you like.’

  ‘One day.’

  They’d had the same conversation for years.

  Home. No mail. Nell walked up the communal stairs, subliminally noticing new scuffs on the paintwork, new stains on the carpet tiles. The corridor on the fourth floor had that vague silence she’d grown accustomed to. Only as she passed other doors could she detect the faint sounds of other people’s lives: a TV tuned to a kids’ channel, a vacuum cleaner, random banging, an argument. It was just gone half five when she shut her front door behind her and felt she could quite easily don her pyjamas, watch crap telly, maybe drink crap wine and fall asleep without actually going to bed.

  Nell slumped down on her sofa. Or her settee. She wasn’t sure of the difference. Actually it was an oversized armchair erroneously called a love seat because only Nell had ever sat on it. She looked at her walls and imagined how just one of Frank’s paintings would affect the emptiness and numb white. She’d feel seasick, she decided. She didn’t like clutter and she never bought anything that had no use; however, she didn’t think of her flat as bare; she thought of it as a clean, conte
mplative space which in itself had supreme purpose in her life. But she saw herself just then, sitting in silence with her new phone, flipping the lid and snapping it shut over and again. And she realized she could quite easily sit there, doing just that, for hours on end.

  There was a time when she’d have phoned Philippa while Corrie was on, or Silent Witness or Friends or Cold Feet, and it was as if they were together, magically inside the stories, known to all the characters, part of the action playing out. But these days Philippa had two small children and lived in New York and she and Nell were on different episodes of Desperate Housewives and it never felt like they were watching it together at all. There was also a time when she’d have called her mum so she could listen to her theatrical discourse of the day. She could prepare an entire meal and eat while her mother veered off on her fanciful tangents. But there was no point Nell phoning her any more because it was just a grim episode on repeat.

  Hello, Mum?

  Hello?

  Hello – Mum.

  Who is this?

  It’s Nell, Mum.

  Who?

  Mum – it’s Nell. How are you?

  Who is this?

  It’s Nell – Mum. It’s just Nell. I was just calling to see how you are.

  Nell?

  Yes! Yes, it’s Nell! Mum!

  Nell—

  Your daughter? Nell.

  Who are you? I don’t know you! I don’t have children. Leave me alone.

  So Nell wouldn’t be phoning the mum who’d forgotten all about being a mum. And she wouldn’t call Philippa in another time zone. And she’d break her phone if she fiddled with its flip-top much longer and there was sod all on the telly anyway and bugger all to eat in the fridge.

  Debbie, Nell’s friend and co-manager at the café, had said why don’t you sign up for a ceramics evening class or something? Zumba? Or something. Or go for a run.

  Run?

  Where to?

  Away?

  Nell only had Converse trainers – you couldn’t do running of any merit in those anyway.

  * * *

  The Chaffinch Café was known by everyone as the Chiffchaff Caff, which was erroneous because chiffchaff is not a diminutive for chaffinch. They are an entirely separate species. Though rarer than the chaffinch, the chiffchaff is just a small warbler, unspectacular in its olive-brown plumage and its repetitive song. And that’s what always bugged Nell – who only ever referred to her place of work as the Chaffinch. To her, there was nothing dull, ordinaire or monotonous about the café or the people who made it what it was. It was a place as colourful, spritely and joyous as the bird after which it took its name. She’d worked for the Chaffinch Foundation for six years, initially in the residential home, now as manager at the café in Colchester, open to all, run by Chaffinch staff and residents and featuring produce from their thriving allotment and the local farm shop.

  Nell never thought of her crew as remotely challenged. In fact, she often felt it was the customers who had special needs which her staff fulfilled and surpassed all the time. Tea and sympathy. Coffee and a breather. Cake and a chat. The Chaffinch operated at a different pace to other establishments – and that pace changed from day to day. Some days the staff brought a rambunctious energy, with loud singing, random interpretation of customer orders and a certain amount of spillage; other days the pace was meditatively slow, albeit with the same liberal attitude to what had been asked for. Serendipitously, customers seemed to time their visits for when the café provided the ambiance they most needed. Only very occasionally were visitors to the town unable to hide impatience or irritation with the pace and the gentle cack-handedness for which the café was held in such affection by the locals.

  At 8.30 in the morning, behind the vibrant blue shopfront, in a denim skirt, trainers and a robust top the colour of oatmeal which could obscure a multitude of splatters, Nell gathered her workforce around her. She’d known this gang since their teens. Daniel who proudly introduced himself to everyone as Danny Downsie, Rachel who found speech onerous but was fastidious about how food looked on the plate, Alex and Sanjay who were slow on the uptake but an entertaining double act when it came to making sandwiches, Libby whose jolly disposition cancelled out her clumsiness, and AJ whose barista skills were worth the lengthy wait. Today, Nell also had Siobhán volunteering although, with her boyfriend troubles and money worries, she gave the lot of them a headache.

  ‘Listen up, team. Soup today is sweet potato, leek and watercress.’

  ‘Sweetato and waterleaks,’ Danny repeated.

  ‘There is quiche,’ said Nell, ‘which is veggie, obviously. And there’s a mixed Mediterranean salad with freekeh.’

  Everyone looked appalled.

  ‘Just say superfood salad,’ said Nell. ‘Also, chocolate mousse cake, Rice Krispie chews and banana bread.’

  ‘It’s not bread.’

  ‘I know, Sanjay – but it looks like a loaf, so.’

  ‘It’s not bread. It’s cake.’

  ‘It’s sweet,’ said Alex.

  ‘It’s cake,’ said Sanjay.

  Nell thought about it. ‘You’re quite right. Let’s call it banana cake.’

  ‘Queue,’ said Rachel in her rasping voice.

  Nell looked out the window. Toddlers straining to get out of their buggies and strained mothers in need of caffeine. Two builders who were long-term members of the Danny Downsie fan club. The clerks from the bank which opened in half an hour.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Nell looked at them all. Siobhán was sending texts. AJ was polishing the coffee machine. Libby was in her own world. Sanjay and Alex were still talking about bananas. Danny was by the door with his arms crossed like a bouncer.

  ‘Are we ready?’ Danny sang out as he opened the door. ‘Welcome to the Chiffchaff Caff!’

  Nell experienced that peculiar energy surge. Apprehension and joy. It was always the same. Even when things went wrong on the surface which was, inevitably, a daily occurrence, beneath it all Nell knew this was the best job in the world.

  The builders said awright mate to Danny and ruffled his hair while calling out their order to Libby who told AJ a latte with two sugars and tea with three, while Rachel very carefully put brownies in two separate paper bags. The mums were ordering cappuccinos and babyccinos, which AJ loved making most of all. Sanjay sneezed into the chopped iceberg but told Nell immediately which was a great improvement on last week with the hummus. Danny told Rachel she was an old slowcoach but a raised eyebrow from Nell saw him apologize straight away. Siobhán said her life was a fucking nightmare and everyone behind the counter told her off for swearing. Two tables were undercharged but then overpaid. All the red crayons had gone so a toddler had an enormous tantrum. Danny dispensed cuddles. Rachel cried a little. Sanjay needed a sit-down. Libby was singing Madonna’s back catalogue. Nell’s jumper gamely hid splashes of food and drink and Alex announced to everyone who came in that there was banana and it was a cake and by lunchtime, it had all gone.

  Debbie took over from Siobhán for the afternoon shift so Nell and Alex prepared chocolate cornflake cakes and dolloped the mixture into paper cases in time for after-school mayhem. Alex was obsessed with telling her it’s organic, don’t panic and she hadn’t the heart to tell him that, actually, it wasn’t. Nobody wanted Alex to panic. It was supremely upsetting.

  It had been a good day. The takings were good and the fridge sounded fine. Debbie organized the crew into a crocodile of sorts and Nell waved them off, watching them dawdle and dance their way down the high street. She turned the sign from Open to Closed and went through to the kitchen to sit down for the first time that day. Need to put the glasses into the dishwasher. Change the tea towels for tomorrow. Check milk. Butter. Loo roll. Buy red crayons.

  She ladled herself the last of the soup. Sweetato. Brilliant, Danny – brilliant. Libby’s left her bobble hat – drop it in later. She thought, I’ll bring Frank here one day. I’ll just put him at the corner table and he can stay my entire s
hift. And then she thought how these days, she could never do that with her mum.

  * * *

  White gloss paint. Awful. In this room, it was everywhere. The door, the skirting boards, the radiator. None of the surfaces had been rubbed down first, giving the impression the paint had been daubed over everything in a rush. It all looked a little pockmarked. And why pale blue for the walls? Just so cold. And that insipid framed print of an unconvincing bowl of fruit.

  Today, though, none of that mattered because Nell’s mother was chirpy, patting the space on the bed for Nell to sit.

  ‘It’s Eggheads!’ she cried. ‘I love Eggheads! Oh Florence, I love that man!’ Her mother waved the remote control about. ‘Oh, whatshisname.’

  ‘It’s Nell, Mum,’ said Nell. ‘Dermot Someone.’

  ‘Oh, what’s his name, Florence?’

  ‘Dermot Someone – shall I make you another cup of tea? Nell, Mum, Nell.’

  Nell’s mother cradled the cup as if it was her last. It was indeed her last – a 1953 souvenir cup and saucer produced by Clarice Cliff for the Coronation. When Nell had moved her here two years ago, she’d condensed her mother’s life into two suitcases and a box and the cup had come too.

  Today, however, it wasn’t her daughter sitting by her side, watching TV, but someone called Florence. Some days she knew, some days she didn’t.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Nell kept watch. She observed how frequently her mother’s inner gaze wandered although her eyes remained fixed ahead, how her mouth would twitch in silent conversation, how she’d suddenly scratch viciously at her arm or tug at her hair. Sometimes, Nell’s task was to calm her mother from childlike distress, other times it was to ignore the insults hurled at her. Often it was simply to remind her that she did definitely have a daughter because here she was and her name was Nell. Mostly, though, Nell just needed to let her know she was safe, that life was good, that everyone around her cared and was kind. Sometimes Nell tried to distract her, to guide her backwards to times she might remember and access the comfort that could bring. Nell, Mum – it’s Nell.