And there she was, flying. She felt strangely calm. Not panicked. Calm and stopped. Like a high diving bird nanoseconds before it drops into its dive. Stopped, and calm, while the rest of the world rushed by so fast it made a whooshing sound in her ears.
Because of course, Heather had dreamt of flying. As a small child. When all things seemed possible. When leaping in a single bound from one side of The Avon Gorge to the other was merely a hop, skip, and a jump away - if she'd had on ten-league giant boots. Back then it seemed eminently possible to hold out your hand, touch the wind, and trust those wings would be there. When needed: half-expecting that to be true, and not fanciful. It was just that she was too young – yet - to fly. 'Come away from the edge,' her mother had said.
When she was an older child, she'd lay on her back. Flat against the earth. She'd lay still on the grass, facing upwards and outwards as Planet Earth held on to her, tight, as it spun impossibly fast through space. Held there by centrifugal forces. She knew this as they'd done centrifugal forces in school, and at home she'd grabbed hold of a bucket full of water, then whizzed her arm round and round, faster and faster, as the water stayed put. Until, that is, her arm got tired and she'd had to stop, and the water had shot out and soaked her dress.
'What've you done to your dress?' her mother said.
And she would run out to the fields to get away from the shouting which always seemed to go on in the house; but especially on Saturdays. After her Dad had been to the pub for a lunchtime drink. She'd run and run, then throw herself down on the ground in the field, where she felt held, as they tumbled through the universe. Her and The Earth. She knew that if Planet Earth got tired she'd go shooting off into space, catapaulted to the stars. But at least, then, she'd be flying.
Later she'd lie in bed in her small room, in their small Bristol house. And she'd wait. For the dreams to come. Her other escape from the rows downstairs. Mum and Dad arguing. If she was lucky her dream would be a flying one. In her dreams she knew exactly how to fly. It was easy. Easy peasy. You just lifted off at a kind of angle, caught the updraughts, rode the wind, and went wherever you willed yourself to go. You just thought yourself flying. Out over the landscape, skimming that tree, hovering to enjoy the scenery, or to fly alongside an albatross setting out to far away oceans.
Then, when she awoke, in that place between sleeping and not, it seemed to her as if she'd be able to take right off again.
'C'mon, you'll be late for school,' her Mum would call up the stairs, and she'd go down to Cornflakes and accusations.
'Where were you last night?' her mother demanded of Heather's older brother Nick, who was blonde and tanned the colour of a lion from working on building sites.
'Mind your own,' he said, as he ate his toast.
'I'll give you mind your own,' her mother said, raising her arm. But he was too big now for her to hit.
'Fuck off' he shouted.
'You get out of my house,' said mother, pointing at the back door.
'With pleasure,' and he slammed his toast down on his plate, then slammed the door so hard behind him that the washing up in the sink rattled.
'What have I ever done to deserve a son like that?' her mother sobbed, as she wiped her eyes on her apron. And Heather had run out of the house. Collecting her swimming kit, and leaving early for swimming practice before school.
Heather loved to dive. It was the closest she could get to physically flying. She was the junior Gloucestershire diving champion. The star of the school swimming team. She loved going to the pool when it was too early for the office workers to be doing their laps. Ploughing up and down. Leaving furrows and ripples in their wake. When she was there for practice, it was just her and her coach. Mr. Simons.
She would stand on the highboard, toes curled over the edge; and wait. Tall and straight she'd look out over the pool's blue and perfect surface. She'd wait until she was balanced just right, on the balls of her feet. Until she heard the coach's whistle. Then she'd launch herself up and out. Arms straight out from her side like wings, she'd fly up, into the air, where she'd hover for a split second before doing a tuck and turn then straighten out to enter the water with as little a splash as a seabird that throws itself, dart-like, into the sea.
'And again,' Mr. Simons said. Never good. Only ever, do it again. She'd pull herself from the soft grip of the pool's surface. Dripping wet she'd climb back up the steps to the top. 'OK. You can finish now,' he'd say. 'Off you go to school, or you'll be late.'
Later she gave up diving competitions, because at fifteen she'd discovered boys. Boys and sex. All awash with raging hormones, she discovered sex was like flying too. She'd lay down on the earth with boys who left their grass smelling semen trickling down her legs.
In lots of ways she'd always flown. Her mother tried to ground her. 'You're grounded,' she said when she heard the rumours about her daughter and the local lads. She left an angry looking slap mark across Heather's face.
'What have I ever done to deserve a daughter like you?' she said.
And Heather stayed in her room where she looked at travel pictures of Acapulco where they held high-diving competitions off rugged cliffs, and wished she hadn't been so hasty in giving it all up. 'You're a fool,' her coach had said.
'You're a slut!' her mother said when she came down late for tea.
'You speak to her, Mike,' she said to her husband, who was watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire on the telly. He didn't move, just swigged from his can of beer.
'Do I have to do everything?' began her mother.
And Heather left her food to return to her room from where she could hear that the shouting had started. Followed by a slammed front door as her father left to go down the pub.
She left school and moved to Cornwall where she took various jobs waitressing or working in bars. Port Isaac suited her. There were plenty of boys on holiday for her to smuggle back to her room. But sex no longer gave her that feeling of flying. Instead she felt pinned to the ground. As if, with their inexpert fucking, they were tethering her; knocking their penises into her as if driving in tent pegs to stop her blowing away.
So she'd walk the cliff paths where on windy days the spray reached her and splashed her face clear of thoughts. Clear of memories. Up there, it was quiet, with no shouting. She knew to be near the sea and the cliffs.
She supposed she'd known that one day she'd be standing there. Barefoot. Her toes curled over the edge of the cliff as she looked out over the sea's blue and perfect surface. Balanced just right on the balls of her feet.

- ENDS -