Читать книгу Seize the Reckless Wind - John Davis Gordon - Страница 17

Flying. One of the best things to do when you are unhappy is to fly. Fly away into the sunset, every moment hurtling you further away from your pain, into a different world: the unreality of crossing continents, high mountains down there, seeing faraway lights and oceans; one moment flying through black cloud, the next through moonlight or sunshine, from the countries that have rain and snow to the countries that have sunshine and flowers; within hours, from great cities to countries that have only jungles and deserts; and you look down and realise there is an infinite amount of life apart from your own, all those millions of people down there living and dying and loving, and millions of other creatures whose lives are just as important to them – and the skies stretching on into infinity, not contained by anything, holding millions of other worlds: and you realise just how small one human being is, how unimportant one heart-break, and maybe for a moment you will almost glimpse the whole cosmic picture and what a minute, insignificant part of it your troubles are.

But flying is also one of the worst things when you are unhappy. Because there is nothing to do but sit there, and stare out of the perspex at the night, every moment your aeroplane hurtling you further away from the place you really want to be, your home and wife and child who are busy leaving you, and when you get back it’ll be two days nearer, and all you want to do is get this aeroplane to the other end and discharge the cargo and fly, fly back home before it is too late and walk in the front door and say …

Say what? Please don’t leave? … I love you? …

‘Hullo,’ he said.

‘Hullo. You’re back early! Have a good trip?’

‘Is Cathy asleep yet?’

‘Yes, don’t disturb her, please. Did you have a good trip?’

Oh Cathy. He just wanted to be with her. Each day was precious. ‘The homeward-bound cargo didn’t show up.’

‘So. More pineapples, is it?’

‘No pineapples, either. Tomatoes. Can I get you a drink?’

‘One day you’re going to find yourself stuck with twenty-eight tons of rotting tomatoes. Did Dolores find a buyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘God, you take chances.’

‘Will you have a drink if I light a fire?’

‘No, it’s too early. You go ahead.’

Oh God, he did not want to stay in the emptying house, and he did not want to go out. ‘Would you like to go to The Rabbit? I’ll ask one of the Todd children to babysit.’

‘No, you go ahead. I’m awfully busy.’

She was very businesslike. The paintings were the first to go, and the walls shrieked at him. For days the paintings stood stacked: then, when he came back from a trip, they were gone.

‘Malcolm Todd built me some crates. The rest I farmed out, for safe-keeping.’

For safe-keeping? Till when? And despite himself he felt the hope rise. He heard himself say, ‘You could have left them here.’

‘Oh no, you told me you wanted no reminders.’

She was punishing him. Then she said: ‘Actually, I’ve left two you might like. That one of Cathy. The other is that old one of the farm.’ She added, ‘If you don’t want them, just chuck them.’

He felt his eyes burn. ‘Thank you. Yes, I’d like them.’

‘Well, make up your mind where you want to hang them.’

Off the shelves everything systematically came, all her books and ornaments and knick-knacks, packed into cartons; out of her wardrobes came her clothes, neatly packed into trunks and suitcases, depending on whether they were winter or summer clothes.

‘It’ll be summer there now. The winter stuff can come by sea.’

Maybe she was expecting him to break, tell her she could leave all her things, come back whenever she chose, and her house and all would be waiting for her. And God knows there were times during that long bad month when he almost broke and said it.

He spent every moment he could with Cathy. He hated coming home to the heartbreakingly emptying house, and he was desperate to be with her. He told Dolores to rearrange his flights, so he could get home before she went to bed. If it was raining, he played with her in her room, to have her to himself. But he could not bear the sounds of packing going on and whenever he could he took her out. She was not yet two but he loved to talk to her, to figure out what was going on in her little head. Sometimes he took her to the park, to play on the swings and roundabouts, but she always got over-excited there, and he preferred just to walk with her down the lanes, carrying her on his shoulders, or holding her hand as she toddled along. Sometimes he drove into the village to buy her icecream and to show her the shops. Christmas was coming, and it crunched his heart. Christmas, but no Cathy, and no Shelagh. For that reason he did not like the Christmassy shops, but Cathy thought they were wonderful and he relented, taking her inside on his shoulders so she could see everything, and he always ended up buying her something. He liked to think of her out playing with them in sunny Rhodesia. And oh God, he just hoped that she would remember him when she did. But no, she would not; she was too little to remember these heartbreaking days, when she was leaving her daddy. He took her to see his aeroplanes, tried to explain them to her, hoping she would remember something, he desperately wanted her to remember as much about him as she could. ‘I’m your daddy, my darling, and I will always love you, always, you can always turn to me, for the rest of your life …’ But no, she did not know what was happening to her little life and to her daddy, and it made him feel desperate. She would grow up without him, and get to love some other man as her daddy, and that man could never, never feel the love that he was giving her …

At last he had to take her home to the heartbreaking cottage in the woods, to the sights of packing. And he sat with her while she bathed, watching her; and, oh, the feel of her small body as he soaped her, her little ribs and back and shoulders, then rubbing her dry while she giggled, and clutching her to his breast. And, after he had kissed her goodnight, he did not know what to do. With all his heart he longed to walk up to her mother, just take her in his arms and tell her he loved her, and their daughter, please don’t leave me. But he could not. Neither could he go and sit with Shelagh while she went about her packing; he did not want to let her out of his sight either, but he could not bear the house, so sometimes he went down to The Rabbit.

One night Danish Erika, who owned the joint, said: ‘I hear Shelagh’s leaving.’

He felt his heart squeeze. ‘She’s only going for a holiday.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Danish Erika said. ‘Nice work, if you can get it. So, you’ll be a bachelor. Well, when you start dishing it out, remember your friends.’

He pretended she was joking. At Redcoat House Dolores said, ‘If Shelagh’s only going for a few months, how come Malcolm crated up her pictures?’

‘She needs them at her summer course at the university.’

She followed him into his office. She said: ‘The council served a summons on us yesterday, to get us out of here. They’re sick of you stalling them.’

He looked at the summons. He hardly cared. The hearing was months hence.

‘We’ll wait till the last moment, enter an Appearance to Defend and ask for an adjournment.’

‘Then where do we go?’

‘To the Town Planning Tribunal. Then to the appeal court. Stop worrying, we’ve got years here.’

She looked at him sympathetically; then sat down on the corner of his desk. ‘Joe? It’s all for the best.’

He hated people knowing.

She said quietly: ‘This, too, shall pass …’ She sighed: ‘I should know; I feel much better since I washed my hands of Pomeroy.’

He didn’t say anything.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll mind my own business.’ She stood up. ‘But you are my business, remember.’ She added, challenging. ‘Where’s the beer-swigging, womanizing, life-and-soul-of-the-party I used to know?’

‘O.K., Dolores,’ he said.

‘O.K. But, boy – how the mighty are fallen!’

In the second last week he came back from Accra and the carpets were gone. They were hers. The living room looked very bare. She said, ‘It looks a bit sad, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘The bedroom ones I sold. I need the money. The living room one, Malcolm wrapped up for me, for shipping.’

His throat felt thick. ‘I’d have bought them from you.’

‘Oh no. You told me.’ She added, ‘You’ll probably notice that all your shirts have now got buttons on. I had a blitz.’

He was taken aback. ‘Thank you, Shelagh.’

‘And I’ve stocked the deep-freeze. I opened an account for you, so don’t forget to pay it. The bill’s on the spike.’

He was touched. ‘Thank you.’

She said, ‘Well, I’m going up to Mom and Dad this afternoon, back by Monday night. Do you want to come? I’ll be driving through the Lake District; I haven’t seen it for years.’

The bloody Lake District. ‘No, thanks. I don’t want to intrude on your parents’ last weekend with you.’

‘Very well, please yourself. You always do.’

After they left, he went slowly upstairs, with a glass of whisky. He stood in the bedroom doorway. The bare floor shrieked Shelagh at him. He walked slowly to her wardrobe.

It smelt of her, that faint, woman-body smell of powder, perfume. Only three garments hung there. Dresses she would wear before she left. All her shoes gone, her sexy high heels, her boots, summer sandals, all gone into those cardboard crates that had disappeared. To fly, fly away, a whole life flying away, off to another continent, for other lovers to know. Her dressing table had almost nothing on it. He pulled open her underwear drawers. There were just two pairs of panties left. Gone were her stockings and suspender belts, her slips and bras. Into one of the suitcases to fly, fly away, to other lovers.

He turned slowly out of the naked room. He walked down the passage, into Cathy’s. He stopped. Almost everything of hers was gone. Off the floors, the shelves, all her toys and colouring books gone, the pictures all gone off the walls: just one teddy bear left on her neatly-made bed. The room was empty, childless. He walked slowly in, and laid himself down on her bed, and he put his arm across his eyes; and his heart broke, and the tears ran silently down his face.

That long, bad weekend he just wanted to turn his face to the wall, to be in a dark place, to hide. On Saturday Dolores telephoned to ask if he was coming in, but really to find out if he was all right. He just sat in the kitchen, staring at nothing, drinking beer. Saturday night was very bad. He woke up at three a.m. He got up, tried to work, but he couldn’t. Finally he got a beer and sat in the dark kitchen again. On Sunday there was a persistent knocking on the door. Finally he got up and opened it; there stood Dolores, in her tracksuit.

‘Is there anything I can get for you? A barbecue chicken?’

‘I’m O.K., Dolores.’

‘You look like hell. Shall I get a relief pilot for tomorrow?’

‘No, I’ll be all right.’

‘When this nonsense is finally over.’

Then she put her arms around him, and held him tight; and with the feel of her womanness and sympathy the tears choked him, then suddenly she kissed him. Hard and fierce, as if she wanted to bite him, then her fingers went to her zip and she said, ‘I guess we’ve got to do this – for your good. And mine.’

He backed off, half shocked, half guilty, and wanted to protest that everything was all right with his marriage …

‘If you’re worried about being my boss, don’t be; I’ll pretend it never happened.’ She unzipped her tracksuit and came towards him. He held her again, rigidly. He closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She stared at him, then slumped against the table, her magnificent breasts free.

‘Wow! I don’t know any man who’d knock back an offer that strong. Are you really that hung up on her? Or do I need a bath, I’ve been jogging, dammit!’

‘Dolores …’

‘But you went to bed with her.’ She nodded in the direction of The Rabbit.

He stared. ‘She told you that?’

‘No, but the word’s out.’

He felt absolutely unreasonable panic. ‘Well, the word is wrong! God, what a town.’

‘There’s more adultery here than there are passengers. Pomeroy loves it.’ She held up her hands, and got up. ‘O.K., I’ll go now.’ She looked at him sullenly. ‘Can’t I buy you a beer at The Rabbit? Come on, they’ll be singing Christmas carols.’

Christmas! ‘I’m fine, thank you for coming.’

‘I wish I had,’ she said. ‘More important, I wish you had …’

She left, jogging through the forest, and blew him a truculent kiss. But an hour later she was back, in her car, and a little tipsy. ‘I want to put my case again.’ And she unzipped her tracksuit purposefully; but just then there was a knock on the door. He went to it, with relief, while Dolores hastily zipped up; and in walked Val Meredith, whose husband sometimes flew for Redcoat. In fact he was flying one of the Redcoat planes right that moment. ‘Hullo, I’ve come to invite you to Sunday lunch.’ Then she saw Dolores smiling at her icily. ‘Woops, sorry!’

After she left Dolores said, ‘Not Val Meredith, is it?’

‘No,’ he sighed. He wondered how the hell Val Meredith knew Shelagh was away.

‘O.K.,’ Dolores said, ‘the Florence Nightingale in me is cooled.’ She got up to go, fed up. ‘But do you see? What fun life could be?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Dolores? …’ Then he shook his head. ‘Forget it. I don’t want to know.’

She looked at him. ‘You mean has Shelagh? …’ She put her hands on her hips, wearily. ‘No,’ she said. I haven’t heard even a whisper about her playing around. And believe me, I’d tell you if I had.’

He was a bit better on Monday, but Dolores had arranged a relief pilot. He did not work on Tuesday and Wednesday, so he could be with Cathy. He did not want to let her out of his sight. He played with her in her room. He had to go into the village so he took her to a tea-room and bought her icecream, as much as she wanted, so he could have her to himself, listen to her. He did not want to take her home; she would no longer be alone with him. He bathed her and sat with her while she had her supper. Then he had to let her go to bed. He sat with her until she was asleep, just looking at her. Finally, he had to leave her alone, and then he did not know what to do with himself. He sat in the kitchen and drank beer and tried to read the newspapers, while Shelagh cooked dinner between going upstairs to do the last of her packing. They were polite to each other, even kind. Sometimes she just touched him in passing, though she did not want to start anything. She showed genuine interest in the airline.

‘We’re having a record month,’ he said.

‘Great. That’s three in a row.’ She sighed. ‘Well, you all deserve it. But, truly, don’t buy a third Canadair. Get rid of the Britannia, but don’t replace her.’

‘We’re talking about doing passenger charters with the Britannia.’

‘But she’s such a mess inside.’

‘Tart her up a bit. Quick Change seating, and so forth.’

‘But you need wide-bodies for passenger work. Like Freddie Laker.’

‘It’s easier to fill up a small plane than a big one.’

‘Don’t you think Freddie knows what he’s doing?’

‘He’s a genius. But he’ll come unstuck with all these wide-bodies he’s buying. Small is beautiful.’

‘Remember’ that if you’re thinking of building a bloody great airship, darling.’

It touched him when she used the endearment. Another time she said: ‘I really do think airships are a wonderful idea. So romantic. It’s just …’ She waved her hand. ‘I just don’t believe in them. For all the obvious reasons. And I think you’re …’ She decided not to finish.

‘Wasting my time?’

‘Oh, you’re wasting yourself. You’re a brilliant barrister – everybody says so. But you’re an incurable romantic, darling – your head literally in the clouds.’ She sighed. ‘You’re going to lose every penny you make, and end up a broken man, like Malcolm Todd.’

He smiled. ‘I think he’s a genius.’

She smiled wearily. ‘Of course you do. Birds of a feather.’

They slept in the same bed, but did not touch each other. He lay in the darkness, pretending to sleep, and with all his heart he yearned to reach out and take her in his arms and tell her he loved her, and beg her not to leave. But he could not. Maybe she was also pretending to be asleep, feeling the same. But no. You can feel these things. Maybe she was waiting for him to break, tell her she could come back after she had done her thing, and God knows there were times when he nearly did. On that last Friday morning he awoke before dawn, found himself lying against her, his hand holding her breast; and for a moment, in his half-sleep, he was completely happy. Then he came back to reality, and his heart cracked. He got up, straight away, racked, slammed on the shower, the water beating away his tears. He got dressed, and left the dark cottage. He did not know where he was going; he only knew he could not stay there, waiting for them to wake up and leave. He walked through the woods, down the road, towards Redcoat House. He unlocked the door, and stood there. He could not work. He started walking again. It was getting light when he got back to the cottage. He opened the front door, and her suitcases were lined up. Shelagh was standing there, and he looked at them, and he broke. He leant in the doorway, and the tears rolled down his face, and he reached out and took her in his arms, and whispered, ‘Please come back …’

She stood in his arms a long moment. Then she said gently: ‘Breakfast is ready.’

After that he composed himself. They drove to Heathrow airport, with Cathy sitting between them. They were silent all the way. He checked them in. They had ample time for coffee, but he could not bear it.

He picked up Cathy. He held her tight, and his throat was thick as he said: ‘Look after Mommy, won’t you, darling?’

Then he turned to Shelagh. Her eyes were clear and steady. He held her tight once, then kissed her cheek.

‘Goodbye,’ he whispered. ‘Good luck.’

She smiled. ‘Good luck.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Go now.’

She took Cathy by the hand and turned, without looking at him. He watched them walk away, Cathy toddling along. At the door Shelagh stopped, and looked back, smiled, then waved; then she bent and waved Cathy’s hand at her daddy.

Then they went through the door.

He walked out of the concourse, the tears running down his face. He got into his car, began to start it: then he dropped his face into his hands and wept.

For five minutes he sat there. Then he dragged his wrist across his eyes. He did not want to leave the place he had last seen his wife and child, but he made himself. He drove slowly out of the parking block, then into the tunnel. He drove through the tunnel, out at the other end; he drove slowly round the traffic island, and back into the tunnel, back to the airport again.

He went up to the observation lounge. He could see the plane, but not the passengers boarding. He just stood there and watched the plane.

Finally the Boeing reversed out of the bay. He imagined Shelagh and Cathy inside. He watched it taxi, disappear from sight: then it reappeared, roaring down the runway, fast and faster; it took off, and his heart finally broke, and he sobbed out loud.

He watched it go, getting smaller and smaller. Then it was gone, into the clouds.

But he did not want to leave the airport, the last place he had seen his wife and child.