Читать книгу In a Kingdom by the Sea - Sara MacDonald - Страница 11

London, 2009

A few days after our party, Mike flew off to Karachi for his interview with Pakistani Atlantic Airlines. When the phone rang I already knew what he would say. He had been offered the job and accepted on the spot.

Aware of my silence he said, ‘Gabby, I’m going to have to wait for my visa application to be processed. Even fast-tracked, it will take at least ten days, so we will have time together before I go …’

I take time off work and Will and Matteo head down from Edinburgh and Glasgow to spend a long weekend with Mike before he leaves.

‘FFS, Dad, we’re fighting the Taliban, it’s not exactly the perfect time to head for Pakistan, is it?’

‘You’ll get kidnapped … like that journalist, what’s his name … Pearl Someone …’

‘Daniel. Daniel Pearl, he got …’

‘Shut up, both of you, you’ll worry your mother. Of course I won’t get kidnapped. I’m not a journalist after a story. There are other Europeans working in Pakistan, you know. Oil companies, commercial firms, NGOs. Everyone working out there is given security.’

The parks are stunning, full of trees with translucent green leaves and picnickers enjoying a hot June. Mike loves to roam London when he is home, so we criss-cross the city like tourists, drink coffee by the Serpentine, dip in and out of galleries, go to the theatre. In the evenings we take turns choosing where to eat and sip cold white wine and beer on shady terraces.

I cannot remember the last time we all spent time together in London. I let my happiness settle inside me like a precious thing, hardly daring to own it, in case some mean god snatches it away.

One afternoon Will and Matteo persuade us to take a riverboat down to Greenwich like we used to when they were small. As we chug downriver Mike cross-questions his sons on their career plans.

Both boys somehow ended up studying in Scotland. I’ve never been sure whether this was chance or design. There are only twelve months between them and they are close, often mistaken for twins. Will, who is studying medicine at Edinburgh, says warily, ‘I don’t have any plans, Dad. I’m just concentrating on exams at the moment.’

‘But you must have an idea about how you want to specialize,’ Mike says.

‘I have to get a medical degree first. Anyway, I might want to be a GP and not specialize in anything. Have you thought of that?’

‘Dreary job, totally thankless!’

Oh, Mike, I think. Why can’t you tell your sons you are proud of them, rather than question their choices?

Will looks at him. ‘I disagree. There is a national shortage of GPs.’

Mike shrugs. ‘Well, it’s your life, but I think you’re too bright just to be a GP … You’ve always needed challenges.’

I watch them both. Will is winding Mike up. He does not want to be a GP. He wants to be an orthopaedic surgeon. How can Mike forget that as a little boy Will was fascinated by the names of bones and how they knitted together?

Before he is asked, Matteo, who is at the Glasgow School of Art, says, ‘I’m planning on being the next Banksy, Dad.’

Both boys are laughing at him and Mike makes a face. ‘Okay, I’ll shut up. I was just doing catch up …’

‘If you were around longer you wouldn’t need to,’ Will retorts. He yawns and stretches. ‘Matt and I will bore you with our ambitions later, Dad, this boat is too noisy to talk …’

I watch the water slide past, aware of the fast current and how quickly a day can turn. Perhaps, Mike is conscious of it too, for he says, ‘Okay, let’s make serious plans while we are all together. It’s going to take me all summer to get to grips with this job … but how about we plan for Christmas together? Do you want me to come back home or shall we try for Oman? Revisiting the Barr Al Jissah Resort might be fun. If you aren’t caught up with wild parties and Scottish women, of course …’

Will and Matteo goggle at him. ‘Are you serious?’ Will asks. ‘Do you really think either of us are going to miss a chance of Christmas in Muscat?’

‘Oman! That would be so cool!’ Matteo says, grinning. ‘Any chance of slipping in a girlfriend?’

Mike laughs. ‘No chance.’

‘Only joking. I know that hotel is serious money. Are you sure you don’t want to just take Mum? Will and I are always broke and …’

Mike throws an arm around me. ‘Well, you can buy your mother and me a drink, can’t you?’

I watch my sons do a little jig of excitement. I feel like doing one myself. Muscat is paradise. I bend in the cool river breeze and kiss Mike’s cheek.

‘Thank you. Christmas in Oman will be wonderful.’

‘Make up for leaving you so soon?’

‘Not quite.’

We get off the boat at Greenwich and find a table in a crowded pub garden for lunch. When we have ordered drinks, Will asks, ‘What are you actually going to be doing in Karachi, Dad?’

‘I’ll be there to try to save a failing airline and I’m under no illusions that it’s going to be easy …’

‘I was reading stuff about Karachi online,’ Matteo says. ‘The Sunnis and Shias are permanently trying to blow each other up. It’s a violent city. Bad stuff happens.’

‘Bad stuff happens everywhere, Matt. We’re not immune from bombs and terrorist attacks in London. It doesn’t stop us leading a normal life, does it? When I’m away I worry just as much about your mother in London and both of you in Edinburgh and Glasgow …’

‘Ah, sweet of you, Dad,’ Matt says.

‘And there was me thinking you forgot all about us …’ Will says.

‘London is not in quite the same category as Karachi, Mike.’

Mike smiles at me. ‘Gabby, I am going to be well looked after. Do you really think the airline would want the embarrassment of having their European director disappear?’

‘Any Taliban kidnapping you would let you go pretty quickly after you had grilled them, interminably, on their career path …’ Will announces drily.

We all laugh. ‘As you are obviously going to earn gross amounts of money, can Will and I order anything off this menu?’ Matteo asks.

Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘Gross amounts of money you two have no difficulty parting me from …’ He glances at the menu. ‘This is hardly the Ritz. There is nothing here that will break the bank. Go ahead!’

Matt turns to Will. ‘Oh, to be so old you have forgotten what poor students actually live on …’

‘Well, Mum and Dad are baby boomers, they had the luxury of student grants …’

‘Bollocks!’ Mike says. ‘You two have the luxury of the bank of Mum and Dad and you’ve never gone hungry in your lives …’

I smile as I listen to the three of them happily bantering. Familiar old stag, young stag, rubbish. Mike is right; nowhere is absolutely safe and I will not spend the time we have together worrying.

Mike holds his beer glass up. ‘To us and happy times ahead!’

We clink our glasses together, aware of the mercurial nature of happiness and family life.

In the days before he leaves Mike seems uncharacteristically nervous. There are endless delays with his visa and when it finally comes and his flight is booked he asks me to see him off at Heathrow. It is the first time he has ever wanted me to go to the airport with him.

When we arrive at departures there is a small deputation of courteous but formal PAA staff lined up to meet him. They are deferent and anxious, carefully checking that he has all the correct paperwork for entry into Pakistan.

It is only then I realize Mike is being treated like a VIP, that this job holds high expectations and huge responsibility. He is already someone important before he has even set foot in Pakistan.

Before we have time to say goodbye properly, Mike is whisked away and fast-tracked through security and into the business lounge. I stand for a minute in the frenetic hub of the airport, buffeted by people, watching the place where he disappeared.

When I get home the empty house is very quiet. The washing basket is full of the boys’ dirty clothes. Mike’s loose change lies in the little pottery bowl near the vase of freesias he bought me yesterday. Their scent fills the room.

I push the French windows open. Traffic growls like the sound of distant bees. The buds on the magnolia tree are unfolding like tissue paper, their scent subtle and musty.

At the airport, Mike had pulled me to him and whispered, ‘Thank you darling girl, for everything …’

He sounded so unlike himself, the words strange on his tongue, his voice husky, not quite his own.

Sun slants across the table in the empty house that four people have filled for days. The air hums like a threnody to the rhythm of the men I love. I don’t know why I feel so sad. I have done this a hundred times.

I pick up the phone and ring Dominique. It rings and rings in the tiny flat in Paris but no one answers.