Page 1 of Little Wing
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.
