Moonlight Flight

Hiding a secret, Ursula flees to the East Anglian village of Hagger’s Hill in the dead of night, claiming the home and business left to her in the will of eccentric Aunt Hilda.

Sleeping and crying, that was all Ursula seemed to do lately. Simon told her she even cried in her sleep. He said it was like living with a ghost. Maybe he was right, ghosts didn’t feel pain, or love. They didn’t remember and they didn’t live, instead they simply existed. Ursula looked at the letter wondering if she’d said enough, if she’d explained herself. She folded it up and stood it on the toilet seat. He’d be sure to find it there and hopefully before he’d realised she’d gone. The only word she needed to use right now was sorry. Everything else was just filler.

Ursula picked up her small case and tiptoed to the door. She’d wanted to take more but she knew she couldn’t carry it. Leaving the door wide open behind her she walked into the orange lamp lit street. A man walked past, chatting on his mobile. The dog next door barked. There were too many people in London. Even at four o’clock in the morning she wasn’t alone. Never mind, she thought, Hagger’s Hill will be silent and the sky will be dark and full of stars.

The sun was just beginning to rise as she drove past the marshland surrounding Hagger’s Hill. Her memory played tricks with her, removing the M25 and the Dartford Bridge from her mind. She fought back the tears which sprang to her eyes, unwelcome and unhelpful. She could not, would not cry now. As a child she’d referred to East Anglia as flat and far away and now she couldn’t imagine a better description as she looked out of the car window at fields and fields of brown soil.

In the summer the bare earth would be replaced by crops of vegetables; cabbages sitting neatly in rows like aliens waiting to take over the world. In the winter the soil would be tipped with frost like a tray of chocolate brownies dusted with icing sugar. But today there was nothing but brown bare earth behind the mist of the early February morning. It steamed up the windscreen fighting against the wipers. Little patches of dew replicating Ursula’s own battle with her tears.

Dear Aunt Hilda. Ursula had seen her so infrequently in recent years. It must have been a handful of times at most at the customary weddings and funerals. Ursula drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she remembered she hadn’t even made it up to Hagger’s Hill for Aunt Hilda’s own funeral. Had she been busy, or ill? Maybe she’d come up with another excuse. But Aunt Hilda hadn’t forgotten her. Two months ago after many missed phone calls and ignored letters a visitor had arrived at her home brandishing legal papers. On that day she couldn’t even have contemplated making the journey to claim her legacy. Now things were very different.

The roads were empty and pinkness was developing in the sky. A yawn crept onto Ursula’s face. The events of the evening before slipped into her mind and she shuddered, turning her music up. Too tired to sing along out loud she concentrated on every word of the lyrics as though she were singing, the only thing missing was the sound of her voice.

I’m not running away, she told herself, I’m starting over. She was too old to live in London now, too jaded. Aunt Hilda had left her a home and a business; this was her chance to change her life for the better. But what counted as running away? Was it how fast you made the decision or how quickly you packed? Ursula knew neither of these made any difference because what really constituted running away was not saying goodbye as you tiptoed out.

Ursula smiled as she remembered the first time she’d met Aunt Hilda. She’d been sleeping but as the social worker’s car slowed down negotiating its way down the country roads she’d awoken. The fields hadn’t been bare and brown then; they’d been filled with corn swaying gently in the breeze like a hundred blond haired dolls dancing. Way before they entered the village, eight year old Ursula had spotted the clock tower of the church grey and imposing across the landscape.

 The social worker’s hand was clammy and hot as she held Ursula’s, walking her to the front door of the village stores. Ursula tried unsuccessfully to pull away; she hated holding hands with anyone let alone someone she didn’t know. Stranger danger, her mind told her, don’t forget stranger danger. She tried not to remember she was only amongst strangers now, no one familiar. That was the way it was going to be for a long time.

The door creaked as it opened and Ursula instinctively cowered back. Looking up she saw a smiling woman with crinkly eyes and dimples. Her wavy hair had been brushed to a frizz and spread out from its centre parting like a triangle. It was the same colour as the dancing doll corn. Aunt Hilda seemed so perfect it was as though she’d been created by Ursula’s own imagination. But she hadn’t, she was real. Maybe staying in Hagger’s Hill wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 “Can I have a hug?” asked Aunt Hilda.

Ursula’s mouth dropped into a circle. It was the first time in days anyone had asked her permission to touch her. “Yes please,” she said looking at the floor. She wanted a hug from this new aunt more than anything.

Aunt Hilda immediately scooped her into a warm and genuine embrace. She smelt of patchouli and cinnamon, but more than that she smelt of home, of family. She made Ursula feel safe. That summer had been the first she’d spent with Aunt Hilda, but it certainly hadn’t been the last.

The tyres squeaked on the tarmac as Ursula navigated the narrow East Anglian roads a little too fast. Not much of a village really, she thought, passing the church and the pub. Whoever named Hagger’s Hill really had got it right; it literally was two roads that crossed at the top of the only hill for miles around. A series of fields, marshlands and rivers surrounded three quarters of the village with the other side adjacent to a small but sprawling housing estate about twenty minutes walking distance from the centre.

Ursula pulled the car up outside the shop. Parking was difficult in Hagger’s Hill, in fact there wasn’t any. The few residents of Hagger’s Hill parked in the new estate and walked into the village. This time in the morning however, Ursula felt safe to park right up next to the shop. She was surprised to see very little had changed from the last time she’d visited; indeed little had changed since the last time she’d stayed there for the summer thirteen long years ago.  Ursula lifted the shutters wincing at the volume of the clanking and turned the key in the lock. She breathed in deeply, patchouli and cinnamon filling her lungs. The magazine rack next to the counter still held newspapers from the day Aunt Hilda had last opened more than six months ago. Ursula’s eyes filled with tears, no one had been looking after the shop in all that time.

Aunt Hilda. Ursula wished she was still alive, wished she were here to greet her. Aunt Hilda would know what to do, how to fix things. But in a way she had fixed things again, even from the grave. She’d given Ursula a bolt hole, somewhere to escape whilst she got her head together.

“Do something,” Simon had urged his head hanging in his hands and his dressing gown sliding from his shoulder. “Can’t you do something, I’m lost. I can’t get it right.”

But all Ursula heard was crying; constant angry crying. Her tears, his tears, everyone’s tears; there was nothing she could do. It had all been her fault and now she wasn’t welcome in her own home.