Flights of Angels (5 page)

‘Well, you already seem to know who I am,’ Claudie said, forgetting about Mr Bartholomew’s letter, and sitting back in her chair to listen to the little apparition.

‘Of course! We’re all briefed, you know.’

‘Oh?’ Claudie was becoming very intrigued.

‘Yes. It’s all in the job description. We must read through the client’s file before contact is made.’

‘I have a file?’

The little lady suddenly clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! I’m not supposed to talk about it.’

Claudie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Talk about what exactly?’

‘Our job.’

‘Which is?’

‘You know - angels!’

‘You’re an
angel
?’ Claudie heard a little laugh escape from her but quickly bit her lip in case she appeared rude. ‘What? Like a guardian angel?’

‘If you like. But who coined that term, I don’t know.’

‘But,’ Claudie paused, observing the figure as if for the first time, ‘you haven’t got any wings?’

‘I know!’ she said, rolling her eyes in a practised manner. ‘And we don’t wear white feathers or haloes. And we don’t play harps either. We’re just normal.’

‘Then why are you so small?’ Claudie asked, peering down at the pen-high figure.

‘It’s simple if you think about it. Just imagine all the people who’ve died, and then all of those who are alive now. We wouldn’t all be able to move around if we were all the same size, would we?’

‘But I thought you were invisible?’

‘Doesn’t make any difference - we still take up space.’

Claudie pondered this for a moment. With everything else she’d heard, she might as well believe it. ‘Do you have a name then? Or do I just call you
angel
?

She laughed. ‘My name’s Jalisa,’ she said with a little curtsy.

Claudie smiled. ‘What a pretty name.’ She looked round the office to check if she was being watched. Luckily, although it was open-planned, the desks were far enough apart to allow a little privacy.

‘So what happens now? I mean,’ Claudie struggled, not quite knowing how to talk to an angel, ‘what are you going to do now that you’re here?’

‘There are a few boring preliminaries we have to go through, I’m afraid,’ Jalisa said, her pretty mouth twisting as if in apology.

‘Such as?’

‘Like where you want us? Here at work, or at home?’

‘You mean you’re going to follow me around?’

‘No! But we need to know where you need us most. We can’t be all over the place. We need to be contactable, you see.’

Claudie didn’t see at all, but she didn’t say anything.

‘We have to run reports and all sorts of dull things,’ Jalisa confessed. ‘When I was first given this job, I had no idea that being an angel would be anything other than fun, but it’s actually very hard work, and not at all glamorous.’ She let out a little sigh and turned a little pirouette.

Claudie watched in delight at the spectacle on her desk. It was rather like an MGM musical in miniature.

‘Were you a dancer, then? In life?’ Claudie asked.

‘No,’ Jalisa said. ‘I would like to have been, though. I was a teacher of dance. For kids.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘Not exactly. I was getting paid to teach rather than to dance.’

‘But you’re so good.’ Claudie watched as Jalisa executed a few effortless turns on top of her computer.

‘Thank you.’ And then she stopped. ‘So - where do you want us? At home or at work?’

Claudie sucked in her cheeks. ‘What would you advise?’

‘Well, where do you feel more stress? That’s usually a sign of where we’re needed.’

Claudie thought of her little home overlooking the harbour and of how she tucked herself away in it with her films. In the early days, she had hated it - everything had reminded her of Luke. In the kitchen, she remembered the careless way he’d wash up; in the bathroom, she remembered the way he’d stand in the door, watching her as she brushed her hair; and in the bedroom, well-

‘Where’s Luke?’ The question came out before she had time to check herself.

‘Now, Claudie. We’re not allowed to talk about things like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m here to help you.’

‘But
that
would help me, and I want to know.’

There was a pause. Jalisa sighed and leant forward slightly. ‘I’ll probably get fired if I’m found out, but,’ she looked around anxiously, as if somebody might be eavesdropping, ‘he’s safe.’

‘Can I see him?’

Jalisa shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

This was getting more and more illogical by the second. Surely, Claudie reasoned, if she did have her own angel, it would make sense if that angel was Luke.

‘Why-’ she began but Jalisa interrupted her.

‘Claudie - it’s not my decision, but I’m your angel, so you have to make do with me. If it’s any consolation, Luke’s probably looking after someone else. That’s the way it works.’

The sudden thought of Luke on a stranger’s desk made Claudie smile, but she couldn’t help feeling just a little bit upset, and a little bit jealous too.

‘Surely it would make more sense to have him protecting me?’ she said.

Jalisa looked up at her, her eyes soft and tender. ‘But you’ve got to move on, Claudie. It wouldn’t be right to give him back to you.’

‘Not right?’ Claudie’s voice almost vanished with emotion.

Jalisa shook her head. ‘It’s a tough rule, I know. I have no idea who came up with it, but it’s set in stone all the same. I’m sorry, Claudie.’

They were both silent for a moment. Claudie spoke first.

‘So when do I meet the others? You mentioned something about “us”?’

‘Oh - don’t be in a rush to meet them! I’m enjoying my time with you alone first.’

‘But there will be more than just you?’

Jalisa nodded. ‘We operate in flights of five.’

‘Flights? You mean like in
flights of angels
? That’s from
Hamlet
, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Is that where your collective noun comes from? Shakespeare?’

‘Oh,
Shakespeare
! Yes. You’re right. He was quite honoured when the term was employed.’

Claudie smiled. ‘You’ve met him, then?’

‘Of course! Everybody knows everybody on the other side. Anyway, a flight is a group - a company, if you like - of carefully selected angels who’ve been trained for the job.’ She nodded her head as if pleased with her summary. ‘So this idea of people only getting one angel is outrageous. Whoever thought that only one angel could do the job?’

‘It all sounds so fascinating.’

‘What sounds so fascinating?’ The voice wasn’t Jalisa’s but Mr Bartholomew’s. Claudie’s heart danced the quick-step. She did wish he wouldn’t creep up on her like that.

‘Er -’ she struggled. ‘Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.’

‘I found this on my desk. It should have gone out on Friday.’ He handed her a memo.

‘Oh,’ Claudie said, knowing full well that he hadn’t given it to her on Friday morning, and knowing that he knew perfectly well that she was out of the office on Friday afternoons. ‘I’ll deal with it straight away.’

Mr Bartholomew nodded absent-mindedly and left the office.

‘What a horrible man!’ Jalisa cried.

‘Shusshh!’

‘Don’t worry - he can’t hear me! Only you can, Claudie. How many times do I have to keep telling you that?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just this is all rather a lot to take in at once.’

‘I know. That’s why I was sent ahead of the others. It would be disastrous if the whole flight appeared on your desk at once. That’s how it used to happen in the old days, of course. Terrible system, apparently. Drove people insane. But there’s this new charter now,’ Jalisa said, stretching her arms out either side and spinning on one foot like a mini Leslie Caron. ‘But-’

‘I know!’ Claudie grinned. ‘You’re not meant to talk about it.’

‘So - back to where you want us. Here? Or at home?’

Claudie pursed her lips and watched Jalisa dancing round her desk. She’d never be able to see her desk in the same light again.

‘I think here would be fine. If that’s all right with you.’

‘Perfectly!’ she replied, swinging round Claudie’s Rolodex.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course! I may not be allowed to answer it, but I’ll do my best to be helpful.’

‘How were you chosen for me?’

Jalisa stopped spinning. ‘I don’t know. That’s not my department. But I suppose it’s rather like real life. Sometimes a job chooses you.’

Claudie nodded knowingly. ‘And why now? Why not before?’

‘It’s called a testing period,’ Jalisa explained. ‘Everybody has them, after something bad has happened, and everybody’s is different, and we’re not always needed.’

Claudie wanted to ask more. Like how did they know she needed help? Who made that decision? Had they all been watching her, and assessing her? And were there flights of angels everywhere, and you could only see your own flight? But Jalisa looked as if she’d said all she was prepared to say on the subject.

‘So,’ Claudie said, trying to inject a little colour in her voice, ‘what about the others? When do I get to meet them?’

‘Whenever you’re ready! Though I must warn you - they’re rather a motley bunch.’

There must surely be something in amongst all his junk that was worth money, Simon thought, head bowed as he looked at a lifetime’s accumulation in his attic. Okay, so he knew he wasn’t very likely to come across a Rembrandt or a Chippendale amongst his stuff, especially since Felicity had already ransacked the place first, but he at least hoped to find a few items that were taking up unnecessary space and, if sold, might tide him over until his next commission.

It was a poor do when you had to resort to selling possessions to make money in order to compensate the lack of ability to earn it, he thought remorsefully. Was this what three years at university had prepared him for?

He flicked the switch on and stood and surveyed his secret kingdom. He couldn’t believe that Felicity had even thought to rifle through this place because there really wasn’t much worth rifling through. A couple of old chairs: one with a dodgy leg, the other with a dodgy seat; an old-fashioned record player and a stack of records which would never see the light of day again if Simon wanted to keep his street-cred; an empty bird cage from a former pet canary, and a tower of old comics.

But that wasn’t all. Most of the space was taken up with something far more precious. Books. Piles of them from the literature component of his degree. IT and literature had been an odd but satisfying combination, even though he’d constantly had the mickey taken out of him by his mates.

He walked into the heart of the attic and crouched down, picking up the first book on top of a large pile. He should have stored them in boxes. He was lucky they hadn’t been rained on, or pooed on by bats.

What was he to do with them all? Though much loved, they weren’t any use to him now. It wasn’t very likely that he’d pick up George Eliot’s
Middlemarch
again, and as for
Sense and Sensibility
, well, he’d had trouble stomaching it the first time, and
Far From the Madding Crowd
wasn’t likely to help him as a website designer.

He scratched his head. There wasn’t much money in books, he knew that. Cracked spines, faded covers, and scribbles in the margins. He’d be lucky if he’d get anything at all for them at all. He’d probably be told to take them down to Oxfam, or the recycling bin, but it was worth a try, and it would definitely clear some space.

And then he spied his old favourite.
Great Expectations
. He could still remember the night he’d stayed up to finish it. He’d never experienced anything like it before. The characters were like old friends: Pip, Magwitch, Joe and Jaggers. Could he part with them now?

‘When needs must!’ he said, and placed it on to his growing sale pile. The books weren’t going to do him any good by collecting cobwebs up in his attic, festering away like Miss Havisham. He might as well put them to use.

‘What else?’ His eyes scoured the towers of paperbacks he’d collected over the years, grimacing at his teenage taste in science-fiction. They could go for a start. One, two, three. He blew a fine layer of dust off each one and placed them on top of Dickens.

‘Sorry, old chap!’ he said with a grin.

‘And Tolstoy. Never could see the magic there. Must be a woman thing,’ he said, stretching forward and removing the great tome from storage pile to selling pile.

After half an hour, and much deliberating, he had two carrier bags of books to sell. That was the easy part, he thought. The hard part would be drumming up the nerve to try and sell them to the old witch who ran the bookshop.

He trundled downstairs, nodding to Pumpkin as he collected his keys on the way out. ‘Got to keep us in food, mate,’ he explained, before walking out into the harsh midday light to catch the bus for the short ride into town.

God, it was so embarrassing. Even though there was only one young woman in the shop, Simon thought twice about emptying his life out onto the counter. But it had to be done.

‘They’re mostly classics,’ he announced unnecessarily.

‘You know, you can get most of the classics for a pound now,’ the witch-woman told him.

‘You couldn’t when I was a student.’

She pushed her thick lips out as she turned each of the books over in turn, her eyes squinting.

‘I can’t give you more than six pounds.’

‘Six pounds! But there’s fifteen books here!’

‘Take it or leave it,’ the woman said smugly. ‘I have to make my profit.’

‘Jeepers!’ Simon intoned. But what choice did he have? Six pounds! He must have paid over eighty pounds for the books in the first place. Blimey. He’d heard of depreciation but this was ridiculous.

‘I’ll take it,’ he said woefully and the woman opened the till and produced a manky-looking fiver and a black pound coin. It would just about buy one new paperback novel. Or, if he was careful, half a basket of shopping.

Whilst he was in the shop, he thought he might as well have a look around. Second-hand books always fascinated him. There was no telling what might turn up: first editions, signed copies, out of print gems. He inhaled the distinct aroma of old books and briefly wondered if he could patent an aftershave in it.