Half the World Away

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Our flight is from Manchester to Chengdu with a change at Schiphol, Amsterdam. We leave at 17.40 and I’ve caved in to the boys’ pleas to be allowed to come and see me off. Of course they were less than happy when we told them I’d be going. They begged to come as well, and then Isaac, who had been kicking the chair leg harder and harder as we talked, finally kicked me on the shin and told me I was a horrible pig and added, ‘I hate you,’ as Nick jumped up to remonstrate.

Since then Isaac has stuck to me like a burr. Gazing up at me with a solemn sometimes sullen face while I sort the laundry, holding my hand too tightly when we take Benji out, hovering on the landing while I’m in the shower. I’ve tried to reassure him, tried to snatch extra time to sit with him while he draws, to watch the latest episode of Scooby Doo with him, to read an extra bedtime story, but it is never enough.

And there are endless questions – What if you can’t find Lori? What if the aeroplane goes wrong? The missing Malaysian plane has been all over the television. We rarely have the news on but they seem to imbibe it from somewhere. What if it rains? I’ll get wet. Where will you sleep? How long will you be? Three weeks, that’s all. What if you get lost? This is probably the heart of the matter, or a close second to How can you abandon me?

So by the time we get to the airport, I’m actually looking forward to five minutes’ peace. In comparison, Finn is a piece of cake. Initially sad, but once I’d promised I’d be back in a little while, we’d all have a holiday and go on an aeroplane (all the while ignoring the look of astonished outrage on Nick’s face that I hadn’t cleared it with him first), he was mollified.

But, of course, as we reach the drop-off zone my stomach churns with apprehension and I feel a visceral urge to stay close to the boys, not to walk away, not to leave them. What was I thinking of? I can’t go. Tom could manage on his own, couldn’t he?

Squashing my panic, I’m brisk and cheery and we all hug and I tell them in turn, ‘I love you and I’ll see you very soon.’

Nick says, ‘We could park up,’ and I say, ‘No, you go. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know when we land, yes. You both be good for Daddy,’ I add. Isaac’s eyes are watering. I pretend not to notice. A meltdown now would be horrendous. ‘In you get, go on. Bye-bye.’

They climb back into the car and I wait on the pavement with my suitcase. The boys crane their heads round and wave with both hands as Nick toots the horn, parp parp parp-parp parp, and drives away.

I make my way to the check-in desks. There is no sign of Tom but I didn’t expect him to be on time and promised myself I would not get wound up about it. What is irritating is that there is no place to sit while I wait. So I wander up and down dragging my case for the next twenty minutes, weaving in and out of travellers, until he appears.

He has a short-sleeved linen shirt on, a yellow colour that might not suit everyone but with Tom’s sallow complexion it’s perfect, and olive green cargos. Doc Martens too, brown boots. Like father like daughter.

The airport is stifling and I’m too hot with my long-sleeved cotton sweater and jeans. Maybe the plane will be cooler.

We check in our bags. I remember Lori’s being overweight but both ours are within the limit. We go through to security. The long queue snakes left and right up to the scanners but it moves quickly enough. We don’t make small talk as we shuffle up to the front. I am filmed in sweat. We remove belts and watches, jackets. Place laptops and phones on the tray.

They search me thoroughly. I have to take off my shoes and a woman pats me down, checks my waistband, hairline and around my bra.

Coupled with the heat and the crowds, the overpowering stench of perfume from the duty-free mall that we’re forced to walk through makes me want to heave. Imagine working in that every day – the glare of the lights, the lack of pure air, the chemical smells.

‘We’ve an hour,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll use the Wi-Fi.’ He points to the desks.

‘I’ll meet you at the gates,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get a bite to eat.’

Around me, as I unwrap my sandwich, there are groups of holiday-makers, families and couples, some business types in suits with laptop bags, and a stag party in matching football shirts with rude names on the backs: Twat, Dickhead, Arsehole. Hilarious.

I chew slowly, hoping to settle my stomach, and take small sips of tea.

Two girls come in, backpackers by the look of them, clothes in clashing prints, bracelets, piercings and tattoos. I wonder where they’re headed, have a stupid urge to go and make conversation, tell them to be sure to keep in touch with people back home, to pass on the numbers of new friends or lovers, to take care and stick together.

‘Look at the state of that,’ one of the stag party says. ‘You’d have to be desperate.’ The girls hear, we all hear, and one of them turns bright red, like she’s been scalded. A surge of anger and something like shame flames hot inside me and I turn around and raise my voice to the man, ‘Keep your nasty little comments to yourself, you sexist shit.’

This wins me a chorus of boos and jeers and foul language. No one else in earshot says a thing, though they’re all aware of the scene playing out: glances fly between groups, people move in their seats or bow to whisper to their neighbours.

I imagine the bride-to-be: what must she be like to accept a proposal from Fuckwit or Knobhead? I conjure up some girl teetering on high heels with a startling spray tan, false eyelashes and a dress the size of a handkerchief, all feminine incompetence. And then I despise myself for thinking that – isn’t the whole point that women should be able to be whoever they want to be, to dress however they like, without any censure?

With my own cheeks burning, I doggedly finish my tea, then find a seat in the concourse and wait until the gate is flagged up on the screens. I text Nick, Love you, about to board xxx and he replies, Safe journey Love you too xxx. I find my boarding card and walk along the corridor to the far end where a crowd has already gathered, most of them Chinese, and the sound of that unfamiliar language fills the air.

It’s only an hour until we land in Schiphol for our connecting flight. We come down in dense fog and cloud. The land is striped with drainage canals and dotted with lakes. The airport is huge. The endless corridors, modulated announcements, glistening walkways and glittering shops remind me of some science-fiction dystopia, where everything is clean, shiny and powered by consumerism, dissent stifled by drugs. Signs advise it’s a ten- or fifteen-minute walk between departure piers. There is a second security check. They take away our water and we go through the scanners again. A large group of Chinese people travelling together are laden with shopping bags and gifts.

I imagine Lori here, back in September, striking out on her own, full of excitement, a little on edge, maybe, as she tries to follow procedures.

On board there is a scramble for the overhead luggage space, people squashing in bags, others complaining to the cabin crew that there is no room.

Water is dripping from a panel in the ceiling. The cabin lights go out, come on, then fail again, as does the air-con. The television screens on the back of the seats go blank and we are left with only emergency lighting. The captain announces they are attempting a repair and have sent for another onboard power unit in case it is needed. My elbows ache, jammed hard against the armrests. I affect resignation but my impatience and worry grow. What if the flight is cancelled, if we can’t travel today? All the arrangements will have to change. The start of our search will be delayed.

At last the problem is fixed and we take off. Tom is restless – no smoking on board. He gets a gin and tonic from the complimentary trolley service and, after a moment’s hesitation, I do the same and am given an unidentifiable snack, two small biscuits that taste of fish paste. When the main meal comes, the combination of nausea and hunger makes it hard to know what to eat. I pick at the food. I have wine with it, thinking it might help me sleep, but I just get thirsty.

I’ve a flashback to a holiday together, Lori and I. Lori was seven and I’d saved enough for a week in the Algarve, a studio apartment on a complex with a pool. We were like little kids together that day, on her first flight, holding hands for take-off, sucking boiled sweets in case our ears popped, taking delight in the smallest things, the plastic cutlery and the tiny packets of salt and sugar.

We’ve never done this, Tom and I, flown together. The holidays we had as students were a couple of camping trips in the Lakes and, once, down to Cornwall. Then Lori came along and we’d no money. Then Tom left. There had been months of arguments, clashes. The nearest I ever came to understanding it was that he was trapped, confined, reduced by our circumstances. And he would thrash like a wild animal. And me? Wasn’t I just the same – not angered but my life suddenly limited by the demands of a child? Were we too young? Or was he too young and me forced to become mature beyond my years? Was Tom simply too shallow, too incomplete with his messy, mean upbringing to rise to the occasion? While I, with my good-enough childhood, a good-enough relationship with my parents, had sturdier foundations to weather the change in lifestyle. I saw my own impending parenthood as a gift, a wonderful experience. Albeit a shock.

Tom was excited at first. Almost manic. Fatherhood seemed to equate with any other life experience – he paid the subscription, was engaged, almost obsessed at first, then lost interest as it became repetitive, boring, relentless, so he let his membership lapse. He loves Lori, but he has hurt her, too. Let-downs and cock-ups. I was probably more upset than she was, all those times he was late or missing and she waited with her bag packed. I tried my best not to project. But who knows?

Tom falls asleep. I give up on rest and scroll through the films. Penny has recommended Philomena. I love Judi Dench and start watching before it really sinks in that it’s about a mother searching for her child. Just as I am. The performances and the flashes of humour keep me watching, but it makes me cry (there is no happy reunion for Philomena), which doesn’t help with the dehydration. The next time the cabin crew come with water, I ask for two, motioning to Tom who sleeps on, his face shrouded by his hair, long legs angled sideways.

We are flying into the light, meeting the dawn, but it’s a night flight so the steward asks us to lower the window blinds and use our personal reading lights. Perhaps it’s a sign of hope, that endless sunrise. We will land and someone from the consulate will tell us Lori is safe and well, just a little sheepish for all the bother she has caused, that she had a ‘bare awesome’ time in Nepal or Hong Kong.

I must’ve slept because I’m startled awake by a misstep in my dream. Lori’s in it and we’re Skyping but I can’t get the focus right and I try to adjust the screen, pressing buttons on the side. Then she says she has to join the stag do. And she shows me her T-shirt but I can’t read the writing. It seems important but I can’t understand a single letter of it, and then I’m awake with the endless rushing roar of the air-conditioning, like a thundering weir. My mouth is tacky, my stomach bloated.

We meet the lurch and pitch of turbulence. I feel the bucking of the aircraft, the kick and shift of the whole cabin, the way the panels shudder, as the wind buffets us time and again. I hold fast to the armrests and try to breathe slowly until things calm down.

Then we are closer. Across the aisle, someone raises the blind to blazing sunlight and I see the wrinkle of mountain peaks covered with snow.

We begin our descent.