Cath Staincliffe - Half the World Away

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.

As we’re coming in to land, I peer out. It’s as though everything has been smothered in grey, dusty gauze.

Through Immigration and Baggage Reclaim, we exit and find the car that has been booked to take us to the hotel. The air is warm and humid. People throng the pavements, pulling luggage, talking loudly. Tom lights a cigarette as the driver heaves our cases into the boot, signalling to us to get in. Tom holds up his fag and the driver nods. Tom sits in front and the driver lights his own cigarette. In the back I open the window. There are no seatbelts. Policemen are monitoring the taxi rank, chivvying the drivers, shouting and waving to passengers in the queue to use both lines of cars. There is an air of urgency about it, as though it is imperative to disperse people as quickly as possible.

We speed through miles of high-rise developments along the expressway into town. Trees – palms, ginkgo and feathery ailanthus – line the roadsides. Taxis, coloured bright green, swerve in and out of the lanes, around scooters and bicycles and large SUVs in black or white. I taste dust, brassy, in my mouth. Everything looks strange, foreign.