Holding Pattern

Each day I make a sojourn. The library, the post office, the corner shop supermarket. People think they know me. There goes that old lady with the hat pulled over her glasses. The stooped one, the grim one, the frail one. They see me fumble with my change on the silver slipway at the post office counter.

“A small book of stamps, please. I usually have a large one but I want a small one today,” I say.

The assistant gives me a small book. The stamps have pictures. A union jack, fireworks, a sunflower.
“I don’t usually have these,” I say, curmudgeonly.
“They’re first class. It’s a book of six first class,” he says gently and with patience.
“I haven’t had these before.” I count out the money and let it rattle onto the metal tray. Turning away I mumble, “It’s a terrible terrible life.” This usually throws them off the scent.

[private]Back home, front door locked, I hang up my coat, put my glasses back in their case, and slip into my bootleg jeans. They’re more aerodynamic than a flapping woollen coat. Some days I pack sandwiches, some days I simply drink in the rare air, the striations on hillsides, the sudden edge of wind-blown water on a glistening lake. Either way I always hitch on my daysack with its sunblock supply, bottle of still water and a packet of post-it notes.
Flying used to be just part of the job. Had to be done. Now I take the utmost pleasure. The rush of air, divine topography, the jewel lights of a car tracing the bends of a lane at midnight. It’s a privilege. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a fool.
Take yesterday. I took off from Walthamstowe. By ten I was over the meanders of Cuckmere Haven. They’re even better in reality than the Paul Nash watercolour, which I love. The elegant curves snake the valley to the slate grey sea. There’s harmony there, a transcendence – even I can see that.
But it’s not all high-speed travel and captivating views. I have a caseload, as we all do. On Fridays I go to see Amber. She lives in a row of plain white council houses in a village surrounded by pines. I’m not permitted to give the exact location. Her seven brothers and sisters sleep in bunk beds in the two bedrooms. Her parents sleep on the sofa downstairs. Amber is four and she doesn’t speak. She can speak. Her parents feed and clothe her well enough. But they don’t talk to her. So Friday is our day. While her brothers and sisters are at school she plays in her room. I’m her friend. We build castles from red and blue plastic blocks. She is Queen, I am King. She cooks egg and chips and wears a tiara.
“The yolk is very yellow,” I say.
“Yewow,” she says.
“Your tiara is sparkling in the sunlight,” I say.
“Parkle,” she says.
She smiles a lot. We make sounds for her panda and polar bear.
My biggest challenge to date is Will. He’s sixty-two and thinks he’s done with living. Bad things happen. You have to learn to live with them. I put on make-up for him. Anything to get a response. He leaves the back door open on a Wednesday. I walk straight in. It’s Wednesday today.
All I can tell you about the route is that I cross the M25. When it’s a mass of crawling cars I’m thankful I don’t drive. It’s clear today; which can’t be said for the airways. I avoid three Boeings in a holding pattern over Stansted.
Will’s waiting for me at the window. There’s a pink clematis in flower on the wall bedside him. He waves.
“Good trip?” he asks. This is progress. He doesn’t usually ask. He puts the kettle on.
“I’ve decided what to do.” He sounds triumphant.
“What’s that?”
We sit in the bright living room surrounded by substantial furniture and photographs of three generations of his family.
“She doesn’t know me now. She’s not the same person. Like you’ve been saying, I’ve still got a life left to live. I’ve booked a holiday in New Zealand. It’s where we were going to go when we retired. To be with Paul.” He points at the photograph nearest to him. A man and woman are holding twins. “I’ll go anyway. For both of us.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my teacup.
He shows me maps, his itinerary, and his new passport.
“I’ll write to her. They’ll read her my letters at the home. She might not understand but …”
“She’ll know you’re thinking of her.”
My heart is lighter in the homeward skies.

There’s a day’s grace where I pull weeds and defrag my computer; then, ping, my next case arrives on screen. Felix. Fifteen. Urgency level – 7. There’s never much information. The thing is to get there and find out. I grab my daysack and write ‘Felix’ on the topmost lime green post-it note. He’s not far away. I can be with him in fifteen minutes.
When I arrive he’s slumped on a park bench surrounded by squashed cans and fag ends. His hands are thrust deep in his pockets and he’s squinting at the sun.
“Mind if I ….?” I say, pointing at the empty half of the bench. Felix shakes his head and leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. I don’t say anything for a while. A jogger runs by. A woman drags a golden retriever away from sniffing the end of the bench.
“Do I know you?” Felix asks. “You look familiar, but I can’t … ”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before,” I reply.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m not at school?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Been suspended.” He turns round to see my reaction. His face is incredulous.
“What happened?”
“I threw a chair at my science teacher.”
“Ahh.”
“I actually like my science teacher. He makes an effort. Has a laugh.”
“Do you know why you did it?”
“Something snapped. I hadn’t done my homework. He was disappointed. It just all welled up inside me.”
Again I wait. A woman with a buggy stops in front of us and replaces the blanket which has slipped from her baby. She smiles at us both.
“I’ve made my girlfriend pregnant.” His statement hangs in the air like a melting icicle waiting to drop.
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m sorry this has happened to you. You’re very young.”
“I don’t expect sympathy. I’m not thick,” he says sharply.
“I can see that.”
The wind flips up the leaves of a copper beech beside us.
“Her parents are going ballistic. They won’t let me see her.” He kicked the nearest can to his right foot into the flower bed opposite.
“It must be a shock for them. What were your plans?”
“Me?”
“Both of you. Together, or separately.”
“A levels. University… college … whatever.”
“You can still do that. Whether you have a child or not.”
The sun goes behind a fast moving cloud. Felix looks at me again, his eyes searching mine.
“I do wonder what she might look like. Or he,” he says, wistfully.

We never spend more than six months on a case. Some people we see a couple of times and that’s enough. We need to appreciate how someone feels, but keep a careful distance. This isn’t always easy. We’re allowed to fall in love just once. Then we carry it with us and use it as a tool – to recognize in others. It doesn’t have to be a man or a woman. It can be a child, or a whole family. I’m in love with Amber. She’s at the beginning. Everything fascinates her. I give her the language she needs to describe her world. Then she can knit the words together and thread them through her life.
This week we saw a red squirrel from her bedroom window. We scampered round the room pointing at each other and shouting, ‘Tail up! Tail up! Tail up!’. Soon she’ll speak a sentence.

Wednesday comes around again. I have one last visit to Will. I decide to bake a cake for him. I grump around the corner shop supermarket looking for raisins and sultanas.
“Where’s your candied peel?” I blurt at the young shop assistant.
“What’s that?” he says.
“Candied peel? You’ve never heard of candied peel?”
“No. Sounds like a good name for a rock band though.”
“It’s preserved fruit skin. For putting in cakes.”
He looks towards the ceiling then says, “Try the hypermarket. They might have it.”
“You won’t catch me in there,” I say.
I scuttle home, my string bag weighted with flour and butter and sugar. I find a sieve in my kitchen cupboard, and an old roll of greaseproof paper. I relish the assembling of the ingredients, the weighing and stirring, and the spooning of the clarty mess into a deep round tin. The oven warms the cinnamon and nutmeg so I can smell it all over the house, even with the bathroom door closed. When it cools I pack it carefully into a cake tin and slip it in my daysack. I feel an unfamiliar flutter when I think of seeing Will.
He isn’t at the window today. The pink clematis has doubled its flowers. He’s standing in the kitchen looking dapper in a blue and white striped shirt. I present him with the tin.
“How thoughtful,” he says, beaming. I take pleasure in his pleasure.
“I hope you enjoy it.”
“Shall we have some now?”
I notice his hands as he prises the lid from the tin and lifts the cake onto his breadboard. They’re gentle hands; hands which have stroked babies, planed wood, smoothed a woman’s cheek. I want to touch his hands. I want his fingers to lodge between mine, the tips resting on my knuckles.
We take tea and plates of cake to the living room. He eats a mouthful and lets out an appreciative murmur. “This tastes really good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I know I must ask him how his plans are going, how his wife is, but I can’t. I don’t want him to go. I can’t bear the thought of him leaving. For a while he talks without me prompting.
“I have my tickets and insurance. I’ve bought three books to read on the flight. Paul’s going to meet me at the airport and he’s taken two weeks off work so we can take some trips together.” He darts a look at me.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
“Please. Carry on telling me about your trip.”
“Well, if you’re sure.” I smile to reassure him. He goes into detail about Paul’s home. He’s been sent photographs over the internet. I try to concentrate on his words but his voice cuts a river through my breastbone and flows directly to my heart.
“This time next week I’ll be there.”
Tears begin to well in my eyes. I stand up. The plate of cake tips off my lap; sultanas and clumps of cake scatter over the stone-coloured carpet.
“What’s wrong?” asks Will, looking concerned.
“I’m sorry. I have to leave. I wish you very well for your trip.” My voice is cracking. “And in everything you do.”
I run out of the back door and rise to the altostratus. I cry my tears and wait for my heart to ease. My eyes follow the cloud shadows across a fertile emerald valley below.
At home I curl into the sofa and wrap myself in a blanket. The sound of tides of rain against the window soothes me. A ping from my computer wakes me from a dreamless sleep. There’s another instruction on the screen. So my credibility is still intact. This has been a narrow escape. I was on the brink of falling headlong in love with a man. I tasted what it might mean – it’s delicious mesh of sensations. I shall carry Will in my heart as an emblem, a gateway. Now I know of that possibility I can choose it, or not. Or will it choose me?
I go to the library. I must know more about love. I find books called Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, Wuthering Heights. The words on the page filter my mind, leaving vivid pictures behind. Heathcliff is Will. He leans against a craggy outcrop, the wind making waves in the rough grass, his hair dancing in front of his eyes.[/private]

Chrissie Gittins’ stories have appeared in The Guardian, Cadenza, Signals 3 (London Magazine Editions) and Horizon Review; they have won prizes and been broadcast on BBC Radio 4. Her short story collection Family Connections was published by Salt in 2007. Her second collection of poetry I’ll Dress One Night As You is forthcoming.