Free Natural Flights of the Human Mind by Clare Morrall Page A

veil over her face and break into tears as she threw a clod of earth on to the coffin. They should stand around the grave on a bleak November day to remember theirfather. Rooks should be circling in the bare branches of the trees, cawing bleakly in the bitter wind.
    ‘He might have left everything to me. I’m the only son.’
    ‘Ssh.’ People were turning slightly towards them, sympathetic, but unwilling to tolerate much whispering.
    ‘He told me he wanted me to take over from him. The man of the family. I’ll need the money.’
    ‘Don’t be silly. Mummy will have the money.’
    He looked so sweet sitting there, his eyebrows crushed as he worried about money, his solemn eyes framed by his first pair of glasses. He had amused people then because he looked like a miniature man. They had always wanted to hug him. Nobody had wanted to hug Imogen.
    There wasn’t a grave. Daddy was cremated and Mummy never shed a tear. She even asked people not to send flowers. ‘Such a waste,’ she said. ‘Send the money to a charity.’
    It might have been better if someone had recognised that they were in need of charity.
    ‘I’ve already made my will,’ said Jonathan later, following Imogen with a plate of chocolate biscuits as she carried cups of tea to the people who came back to the house. He kept eating them himself when he thought nobody was looking. Everyone was out in the garden, talking cheerfully among the lavender, the yellow roses and the box hedges. It was June and a very hot day. Every now and again bursts of laughter broke out, and they all seemed to be having a good time. Imogen couldn’t understand it. She’d always thought that funerals were meant to be sad.
    ‘Go away,’ she said crossly.
    ‘I won’t put you in my will.’
    ‘You haven’t got anything to leave.’
    ‘That’s what you think.’
    A tall man with dark crinkly hair and hazel eyes bent towards them. ‘Best to make an early start on your financial affairs,’ he said. Hugh Mandleson, a colleague of her father. His voice was deep and solemn.
    Imogen could feel a deep flush creeping up her face and she stared intently at his feet—large, in laced tan-leather shoes. She had not been able to look at him directly since she had heard her parents discussing the fact that he used to be a pilot before he became a solicitor. A real live hero, a man who flew aeroplanes, who knew how it felt to fly.
    ‘That’s what I’ve been telling Imogen,’ said Jonathan, in his usual clear, confident tone.
    ‘Terrific,’ said Hugh Mandleson, and wandered off to talk to someone else. Imogen watched his long back and despised herself for not being able to talk to him.
    Celia came up to them. ‘Mummy wants you in the kitchen,’ she said to Imogen. Her clever green eyes looked out from under her fringe. She was wearing her ash-blonde hair down and it was long and completely straight. She disappeared every fifteen minutes to comb it. Imogen hated that hair. She wanted to creep through the house at night and cut it off while Celia was asleep. For a time, this was her favourite daydream.
    She was pleased to go and leave Jonathan and Celia together. They would enjoy plotting about money. They had a lot in common.
    The only recollection she has now of Jonathan being truly happy is when he was winning at Monopoly. He glowed. He made no concessions, no easy terms if you landed on Mayfair with a hotel, or if someone wanted to buy Bond Street from him. He asked outrageous prices, so no one except him ever had complete sets for houses. He was born to be a moneymaker.
     
    Doody knows that she can’t afford to keep the cottage.
    It doesn’t matter. Six months ago she didn’t have it, and in six months’ time she won’t have it again. She’ll just return to where she was. When her ankle’s better, she’ll go down and find an estate agent. The land must be worth something. Thecottage is too neglected anyway, and probably needs to be knocked down. Why would she want