Читать книгу The English Wife - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 15

The school buses inch along the tarmac. They look like a line of fat orange and black caterpillars, Sophie muses, as she clutches the handrail of the metal staircase they’ve rolled up to the aeroplane. She blinks at the morning sun. The autumn grass is yellow around the runways, and a forest of trees so dark that they appear almost black ring the patchy fields and the nondescript grey buildings of Gander International Airport. Yawning, she rolls her head from side to side. Her calf muscles spasm. She could’ve done without the night in her economy seat, cramped between the window and Mike’s spreading bulk. It’s added a year to her age, she’s sure, and at thirty-eight, that’s something she absolutely can’t afford.

She follows the other passengers onto a bus, pulling her carry-on case behind her. All around her, thousands of other travellers – their expressions disoriented, upset, puzzled, worried – climb down the staircases from their aeroplanes and file into the waiting buses.

Inside the terminal building, the yellow vinyl airport seating has been shoved into clusters against the beige walls of the cavernous 60s interior. Under a stylised Mid-Century mural, Canadian immigration officers in short-sleeved white shirts sit at rows of tables, processing the exhausted arrivals. High up on another wall, above a portrait of the Queen, large brown letters spell out CANADA, flanked by flags of Canada, the UK and an odd, multi-coloured flag that looks like a modernist Union Jack.

After an hour in the immigration queue, Sophie finds a space by a pillar. She tries her mobile phone again, but the signal is still blocked. Slipping her phone into her shoulder bag, she scans the terminal. Its brown and beige terrazzo floor is virtually obliterated by the passengers sitting, standing and lying down wherever they’ve found space. She wanders aimlessly into the crowd. At a large sculpture, she reaches out and grasps the head of a bronze bird, the touch of the cold metal grounding her. She spots a queue in front of tables staffed by local women handing out plastic bags of provisions. Pulling her case across the terrazzo floor, she joins the queue.

A middle-aged woman with a tight brunette perm drops an Oh Henry! chocolate bar and a bag of ketchup-flavoured potato chips into a plastic Foodland bag. ‘It’s not much, duckie, but I hopes it’ll take the edge off till we can gets you sorted out with a hot supper and a bed for tonight. You gots yourself all sorted out over there in Customs and the Red Cross? Janie Brinks at the Salvation Army’s sorting out beds over at the legion hall. We’ve gots the colleges and schools chippin’ in too. I hears a bunch of you’ll be off to some of the other local towns. We’re only nine thousand, give or take, here in Gander, and it looks like we’ve doubled the population today, so we had to call round for more places for everyone to stay.’

‘What do you mean you’re looking for places for us to stay? Aren’t we leaving later today? I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow.’

The woman drops a bottle of water into the bag. ‘Oh, no, not today, duckie. The planes are all grounded. They’re sayin’ it’ll be two, three days most likely. Could be more. Don’t you worry. You’re all welcome here, duck. I’d have you at my place, but I’s already got some newlyweds stayin’. They were off on their honeymoon to Las Vegas. I’m chuckin’ my husband onto the couch and I’m bunkin’ in with my daughter to give them some privacy, if you knows what I mean.’

She holds out the Foodland bag to Sophie. ‘They’re sortin’ all the buses out there now. Who’s goin’ where, when, all that stuff. Logistics, y’know? God help us. We had a bus strike goin’ but they cancelled it today. It’ll probably start up again once you’re all gone, but thank heaven for small mercies, is what I says. Mavis over there can set up you up with a hot coffee or tea, if you likes.’

Sophie’s heart thumps around her chest like a loose spring. ‘Is there anywhere I can make a phone call? I’ve got to call New York. My phone’s not working.’

‘Nobody’s phones is workin’ just now, pet. There’s just the payphones over there by the stairs. There’s only one workin’, but it looks like half the country is waitin’ for it. And I hears you can only make local calls. They should’a fixed the phones ages ago, but they’re talking of tearin’ down this place, so there didn’t seem much point, did there?’

Sophie steps away from the table, clutching the plastic bag against her chest like a protective pillow as she stands in the middle of the crowded terminal. Okay, okay. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. Bloody hell. Frig.

I’ll have a cup of tea and find a phone. I’ll get to New York somehow. I have to get to New York.

She joins the line at the tea tables behind a group of agitated Italians, and has to duck several times to avoid their gesticulating limbs.

‘Your turn.’ A tap on her shoulder. ‘Your turn.’

She turns to see a tall man in leather biker gear behind her. His lean face is shadowed with stubble, and his black hair looks like it could use a comb. He gestures towards the tea table with his bike helmet. ‘Your turn. You must be thirsty or you wouldn’t be here.’

‘I am thirsty, but I’d actually very much prefer not to be here—’ she waves her hand at the heaving terminal ‘—wherever here bloody is.’

A line creases the man’s forehead as he grins. His face is brown from the sun, and the fine lines at the corners of his brown eyes deepen. ‘Oh, you’ve come to the best place on earth. You don’t know how lucky you are.’

‘Yes, m’love, I’m Mavis,’ a woman in a purple tracksuit and pink-rimmed bifocals says from behind the table. ‘What’s your fancy?’

Frowning at the biker, Sophie turns to Mavis, who’s now tugging at the cellophane covering a bag of cookies.

‘Tea, please.’

‘We’ve gots a shedload of teabags in from Foodland,’ Mavis says as she dumps the cookies onto a yellow plastic tray. ‘Runnin’ thin on the ground with the Nescafé. Those Americans all loves their coffee.’

‘Tea’s fine. Thanks.’

Mavis holds up a can of Carnation Evaporated Milk, her fingernails the same bright pink as her glasses. ‘Milk, duck?’

Sophie stares at the canned milk. She shakes her head. ‘No. Just black. Thanks.’

Mavis pushes the plate of cookies towards her. ‘Have a cookie, duck, while I pours your tea.’

‘No, thanks all the same.’

‘Oh, no, no, no. You’ve got to have a Jam Jam.’

Sophie turns around and glares at the biker. ‘What?’

He points to a tray of beige, jam-filled cookies. ‘A Jam Jam.’ Leaning past her, he grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth. ‘Thanks, Mavis,’ he says, wiping crumbs off his face with his fingers. ‘Anything else you need? I’ve got the Warriors on standby out in the parking lot.’

‘Thanks, Sam. Hold on a minute. I’ll go ask Mudge. I thinks she was looking for some Cheezies for the kids.’

Sophie waves at Mavis’s retreating back. ‘But … but … Great. So much for my tea.’

‘Stay right there.’ The biker squeezes around the end of table and drops a teabag into a Styrofoam cup. Holding the cup under a hot water dispenser, he turns on the tap, releasing a stream of steaming water. He presents the steaming cup to Sophie with a flourish. ‘There you go, Princess Grace. Best tea in Newfoundland. Or, at least … here.’

‘Princess Grace? Seriously?’ Sophie screws up her nose as she sips the bitter tea. Who is this guy? Sophie grimaces at the queue for the payphone. ‘You don’t happen to know where I could find a phone, do you?’

‘There’s one over at the library. I can give you a ride over there if you don’t mind hopping on the back of a bike.’

A bike? In this Escada suit? Sophie eyes the man’s dusty leather trousers and battered jacket with a CHROME WARRIORS badge in yellow embroidery, and a smaller one with DAD in white letters. There’s no bloody way.

‘Thanks. I’ll get back to you on that.’ Adjusting her shoulder bag, she loops the Foodland bag over her arm and picks up the handle of her case.

‘Sam Byrne.’

She jerks her head towards the biker. ‘What?’

‘You’ll need to know my name if you’re going to get back to me.’

‘Right. Thanks.’ She turns and heads towards the phone queue.

‘And you are?’ he shouts after her.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ she says over her shoulder. ‘I’m leaving here as soon as I can.’

***

‘Delta! All passengers from Delta Flight Fifteen from Frankfurt travelling to Atlanta!’

A beefy man in a short-sleeved check shirt and sleeveless red woollen vest stands by the front doors waving at the crowd with one hand while he holds up a megaphone with the other.

‘Please make your way out the front doors here, folks. We’ve gots a bus ready to take you to Lewisporte. It’s a lovely spot on the coast. We’re puttin’ you up at the high school there. It may not be the Ritz Carlton, but you’ll have beds and blankets and all the tea in China. Delta Flight Fifteen, off you goes.’

Sophie pushes through the surging bodies. ‘Excuse me!’

‘Hello, m’dear.’ The man points at the doors with the megaphone. ‘Are you Delta? Just follow the crowd through the doors there.’

‘What’s happening? Why are we getting moved? I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve got an important meeting first thing in the morning.’

The man clucks his tongue. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be happenin’, m’dear. The planes are all stayin’ here till further notice.’

‘You don’t understand. I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve just got to.’

The man shakes his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘Don’t you worry, m’love. We’ll gets you there as soon as we can. The last I heard it’s goin’ to be a few days yet. Things aren’t lookin’ too good in New York right now.’

‘What’s happened? Someone said something about the World Trade Center. I tried to call New York, but none of the phones are working. They said one of the payphones was working, but it’s not anymore.’

The man’s fleshy red face clouds over. ‘You haven’t heard?’

‘Heard what?’

The crowd surges forward, knocking Sophie into the stocky man. ‘I’m sorry, m’dear. I’ve gots to get this bunch back under control.’ He presses the megaphone to his mouth. ‘C’mon, now, behave nice or I’ll be asking you to do this single file like the nuns makes them do down at Notre Dame Academy. Orderly fashion, please! Delta Fifteen. Is that all of you?’

Sophie squeezes through the crowd back to the bird statue. She sets the Foodland bag on the floor beside her case. Her heart pounds against her ribcage like a mallet. It’s like her future is on a raft that’s drifting out to sea. One more wave and it’ll be gone forever.

She reaches into her shoulder bag and fumbles for her change purse. Her fingers rub against the edges of her old green leather address book, wedged into an inner pocket. Slipping it out of her bag, she flips through the flimsy blue pages full of scribbles and crossings-out. D, E, F, G, H. There it is. Parsons. Ellie Parsons. 1 Tizzard’s Point, Tippy’s Tickle, Newfoundland. No phone number.

She tucks the address book into her bag and heads back to Mavis.

There’s no bloody way I’m bunking down with hundreds of strangers on a gym floor. Aunt Ellie, you’re about to meet your niece. Surprise!

‘Hello, my love.’ Mavis greets her, picking up a plastic cup. ‘Tea?’

‘No thanks. I was just wondering, have you heard of a place called Tippy’s Tickle?’

‘Tippy’s Tickle? Well, sure. It’s up the coast past Gambo. Back of beyond, and that’s sayin’ a lot in these parts.’

‘I have an aunt there. I’d like to try to get in touch with her but I don’t have a phone number.’

‘Well, duckie, today’s your lucky day.’ Mavis drops a teabag into the styrofoam cup. ‘Sure you don’t want some tea?’

Sophie shakes her head. ‘What do you mean, today’s my lucky day?’

‘We’ve gots somebody here from Tippy’s Tickle.’

Sophie’s heart leaps. ‘You do?’

‘We sure does, duck. I’ll go give them a holler.’

Sophie watches Mavis disappear through a door. Her stomach rumbles. The last thing she’d eaten was half a stale cheese sandwich the night before. Eyeing the tray stacked with beige cookies oozing red jam, she grabs one and takes a tentative bite.

‘I told you you had to try a Jam Jam.’

She looks up to see the biker grinning at her. ‘You?’

Mavis smiles, displaying a set of bright white dentures. ‘Here you goes, duckie. This is Sam Byrne. He lives in Tippy’s Tickle. Didn’t I say it was your lucky day?’

Sam sweeps an arm towards the front doors of the terminal. ‘Miss Julie awaits.’

‘Miss Julie?’

‘My bike. Named her after Julie Christie. Saw Doctor Zhivago at least ten times over at the Popular Theatre in Grand Falls when I was a kid. My uncle Jerry at the candy counter used to sneak me a Cherry Blossom if I promised to behave. Well, he wasn’t really my uncle. We all just called him uncle.’

‘I imagine that was hard for you.’ Sophie looks over at Mavis. ‘Maybe there’s a taxi I can take?’

‘A taxi to Tippy’s Tickle?’ Mavis laughs. ‘Did you hear that, Sam? No, m’dear. It’s too far for that. Sam’s your best bet unless you hires a car. Only they’re all out getting’ folks to Gambo and Lewisporte.’

‘Well, Princess Grace, it looks like I’m your man.’

Sophie rolls her eyes. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘You could always bunk up in the legion hall with a thousand others.’

Sophie fixes Sam with a glare that could freeze the Sahara. ‘I’m only going with you because Mavis knows you.’

‘Oh, you’ll be all right with Sam, duckie,’ Mavis says, patting Sophie’s arm. ‘Sweetest fellow you’d ever meet. Even all those years he was down in Boston didn’t rub it out of him. That’s as long as you don’t gets on his bad side. Now that’s another story. Whatever you do, you don’t wants to do that.’