Free Natural Flights of the Human Mind by Clare Morrall

to his cooking, but it’s impossible to find a good time to talk to him.
    ‘You must know the right place to go.’
    ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t got much experience with these things.’
    If only he wouldn’t sound so pathetic. ‘Rubbish. You’ve got all the tools. You built your own kitchen, for goodness’ sake, and you were right about the book.’ He probably paid someone to do the kitchen and didn’t tell her.
    ‘It’s not the same as doing a roof.’
    ‘Come on, Jonathan, help me.’ She hates begging, but she needs his advice. He’s the only man she knows well enough to ask. She could ask Philip Hollyhead, the headmaster at her school, but she can already hear his response: ‘Fixing roofs, now, Doody? Is there no end to your talents?’
    Which means that he sees her as a little woman, a caretaker with no intellect, who wouldn’t even contemplate writing a book. People with powerful brains don’t do practical things. They pay someone else to do them while they make money. Philip likes to believe he knows her. He hasn’t even got to the front door.
    ‘You’re going to have to get someone to do it,’ says Jonathan.
    ‘No. I want to do it myself.’
    ‘It doesn’t sound as if you can. Where are you going to find antique tiles?’
    ‘They’re not antique. They’re just old.’ Maybe he’s right and they’re worth a fortune. How does she find out?
    ‘Whatever. Meanwhile, I imagine the only solution is to remove all the existing tiles and start again.’
    ‘There has to be a better way.’
    ‘Not that I can think of. I keep telling you, I’m not an expert. You need someone who knows about these things.’
    She imagines his friends round the kitchen table, chopping mushrooms and carrots together. They probably have whisky in front of them, their lap-tops open so that they can fiddle with finances between courses. Jonathan doesn’t like wasting time.
    ‘It would cost a fortune to buy new tiles.’
    ‘Yes. You should get some quotes, but don’t take the cheapest. Ask for qualifications, experience, references.’
    She’s heard this before. If a job’s worth doing, it should be done well, says Jonathan. Never mind the expense. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says. ‘I can’t afford to pay someone.’
    ‘Look,’ says Jonathan, and the tone of his voice indicatesthat his eyes are being drawn back to the garlic sauce on the hob, ‘if you really want to do this, I’ll help with the cost.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘I’ll sell it. I could do with the money.’
    ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’
    She puts the phone down hard and catches her nail under the receiver. She sucks it miserably. She knows Jonathan. He starts by offering her money. By next week he’ll have reduced it by half. By the following week it will be an offer to lend her a fraction of what she needs. He means to be generous, but his lifelong association with money makes it impossible for him to share.
     
    When Jonathan was six and Imogen was fourteen, he first revealed his fascination with finance. He sat next to her at their father’s funeral and whispered in her ear, ‘What happens to Daddy’s money?’
    ‘What money?’ Imogen was watching her mother sitting unmovingly in front of her, wondering why she didn’t cry. Surely everyone cried at funerals. Especially if they were married to the corpse. Why did she sit so still, her face so composed, so controlled in the heather tweed suit that she always wore on smart occasions?
    ‘He must have made a will.’
    Imogen looked down at his earnest little face. He was wearing the short grey trousers and maroon blazer of his school uniform and a tiny maroon and gold striped tie. Even when he was six, it was easy to see where he was going. He was very serious. He wasn’t interested in having fun.
    She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose he has.’
    She thought they should all be dressed in black. Her mother should have a black