Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

Go Thurs , I text back. Will keep in touch x .

Our number flashes up on the kiosk at the end to the left. I hand over the visa forms, the letter of invitation from the British consulate, the hotel confirmation, the flight details – all arranged by Edward at Missing Overseas – and our passports. A small sign in the corner of the screen shows the prices for the visa service. Three rates. Rush, Express, Standard. We are Rush, next day pick-up, the fastest possible way to get the documentation. The highest fee. The clerk reads carefully through Tom’s application and checks his passport. Then she picks up mine. My mind is dancing about. I need to buy hand wipes and medicines to take, organize after-school club for the boys for the next three weeks, get some Chinese currency.

The clerk looks at my passport and the form, then says, ‘The photo here on passport is more than six month old and you have same on visa application. You need more recent one. Less than six month.’

Oh, God. I’d hoped to save time using the spare photo left over from last time I renewed my passport. The whole edifice of plans teeters. The office shuts at three for applications. Coming back tomorrow will mean…

‘You can do one here.’ She points. At the back of the room is a photo booth. Tom has change. I sit in the booth and follow the instructions on screen. No smiling, no hair over the face, no glasses obscuring your eyes. How about crying? I am past caring and choose the first image, even though I look like a serial killer.

The clerk cuts one of the pictures off and places it on my application, giving me the old one. She hands Tom a receipt and clips everything together.

Outside, the wind funnels down the street, sharp and cold, making my eyes water. I zip my jacket up, stick my hands in the pockets.

‘I’ll see you Thursday,’ Tom says.

‘You need to be here before four o’clock tomorrow to collect the visas,’ I say.

‘Sure.’

‘Let me know if there’s a problem,’ I say.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he says, an edge to his voice. ‘See you.’ He walks off, the breeze blowing his hair, his coat flying out.

I make for the tram stop and, as I turn the corner, see one pulling in ahead. Running as fast as I can, I dodge shoppers and people in office clothes, the buskers and hawkers who fringe the square. Breathless, a pain behind my breastbone, I reach the platform just as the tram gives a mournful hoot and moves off.

‘Shit!’ I attract glances from other passengers.

It shouldn’t matter that I missed it, there’ll be another before long, but it feels like everything is stacking up against me. I stand there, fed up, sweaty and shivery at the same time, and tense with frustration.

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.’