Sara MacDonald - In a Kingdom by the Sea

Oman, Christmas 2009

Stark brown mountains rise up out of a choppy indigo sea. Sunlight falls on rocks making golden veins among the shadows of crevices. Fishing dhows scud across the water. I watch Will and Matteo floating in the aquamarine infinity pool that slides swimmers effortlessly towards the glistening horizon. There is sensory pleasure everywhere. Small tables lit by flickering candles among palm trees. Sunloungers placed on a crystal beach of tiny shells. Our adjoining rooms have small balconies that open out onto the Gulf of Oman and the turquoise Arabian Sea.

On Christmas morning the boys appear in silly hats and wake us. They have filled tiny stockings for us and they sit on the end of our bed watching as we open them. Mike laughs but I can see he is touched by their small student gifts.

We sit in a huge bed facing our lanky sons with their crossed hairy legs and dishevelled hair and Mike says, throwing his arm round me, ‘My God, where did the time go? How did my sons get so enormous? I still see them in those tiny white dressing gowns I bought in Dubai …’

‘I still have those little dressing gowns,’ I say.

This might be the last time the four of us spend Christmas together, without girlfriends, without Will and Matteo itching to be skiing with friends or elsewhere.

In the evening, after we have eaten under the stars, Will and Matteo head off to find other young people at an organized beach party. Mike cautions them about keeping away from anyone doing drugs and stresses the strict penalties in Oman for breaking the law.

Will says, ‘Dad, we’ve been in and out of Muslim countries all our lives … we’re not going to be that stupid.’ And they disappear towards a crowd of noisy young people congregating on the beach.

Mike and I sit watching the decorated camels with elaborate headdresses sitting crouched by the candlelit night stalls. Veiled and silent Saudi women watch their husbands smoking hubble-bubble pipes. I wonder how these women keep their boredom in check. The camels have more fun.

‘Let’s walk,’ Mike says, stretching and taking my hand. We drift among the hibiscus gardens down to the beach path.

There are long, squishy sofas under the palm trees, full of small collapsed children. The last time we were here Will and Matt were six and seven.

‘Where did the time go, Gabby?’ Mike says, echoing my thoughts. ‘It’s hard to accept my sons probably don’t need a lecture on the risks of drug taking in a Muslim country.’

Is Mike mourning the loss of his children or his own lost youth?

‘Oh, I think they do need reminding. They’re still young and not immune from peer pressure.’

I notice the tiredness around his eyes. It has been a lovely Christmas, but Mike seems preoccupied and quiet.

‘How is it going in Karachi?’ I ask. ‘Truthfully.’

‘I’m fine.’ He is abrupt. ‘I want to forget about work for a few days.’ But, he doesn’t. He can’t.

I ask someone to take a couple of photos of us standing with our backs to the Arabian Sea. Later, I see they are too dark. My flash has not worked and we are like ghosts in a landscape of stars. Christmas 2009. Mike and I, not quite real, standing in a backdrop of navy sea.

For the rest of our holiday Mike lies comatose on his lounger, plugged into his music. In the afternoons, he goes back up to the hotel to sleep in the cool. It feels a little as if he is screening us out. I tell myself not to be selfish, that he needs to unwind.

Will and Matteo float between us and the groups of young people who migrate together like starlings. I stay outside under a sun umbrella. I don’t want to miss a moment of sun and sea and mountains.

One afternoon, Matteo, reading beside me, puts his book down. ‘Dad seems a bit played out this holiday. Usually, he wants to hire a boat or do something.’

‘He would never admit it, but I think his job is proving a challenge. He’s weary, Matt.’

Will appears. He had gone back to the hotel to fetch his iPod.

‘Dad’s not resting, Mum. He’s bloody working. He’s writing emails and phoning Karachi …’

Will sounds so unaccountably angry I sit up, startled.

‘I told him that if he’s not sleeping he should be spending time down here with you. You’re on your own the whole bloody time. He’s spent a fortune on getting us here and then he slopes off to work every afternoon …’

‘Will, come on, be fair. He has to keep in touch with his office …’

‘There you go again. Just accepting everything, all the time, just as you always do. You’ve been apart for six months and Dad can’t even be truthful about why he slopes back to his room every afternoon … You know what, Mum, how different are you from those veiled … passive Saudi wives we saw at lunch today, lifting their stupid bits of material so they can poke food into their mouths, because of some male edict …’

Will throws his iPod and book onto his lounger and heads for the sea.

Shocked, I watch him walk away. This is so unlike him.

‘Go after him,’ I say to Matteo. ‘Do you think they had a row or something?’

Matteo walks across the sand and he and Will both stand with their backs to me, heads bent together. Voices carry over water and I hear Matt say, ‘Will, you can’t be sure and you certainly can’t say anything to Mum …’

Will shrugs, enters the water and starts to swim away. Matt walks back to me.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

Matteo drops on the sand beside me. ‘Will’s not angry with you, Mum. He caught Dad sitting out on the balcony having a long chatty conversation. He got mad that he wasn’t down here talking to you. Dad’s gone to all this effort and expense but he isn’t really here with us, is he? He’s still in Karachi.’

I know Matteo is right, but I say, ‘Matt, if your dad wants to disappear in the afternoons to rest and unwind, why shouldn’t he?’

‘But he’s not resting and unwinding, is he? He’s working. Dad chooses to live and work away from us. We are only with him for a few days. Is it too much to ask that he unplugs his bloody music and engages with us when we are all together? That he doesn’t leave you on your own every single afternoon?’

‘I don’t mind …’

‘Well, we do. We worry about you, Mum …’ He jumps up. ‘Listen to me. This is stupid. Will and I are adults, for Christ’s sake, not four year olds. Dad will always be Dad. It’s just, Will and I always hope things might change as we get older and it never does …’

I never knew. I never knew my sons felt like this.

On our last evening in Oman, I sit on the sea wall looking out over the Arabian Sea towards Iran and Pakistan. Behind the mountains the sky is ochre and pink and gold. A small wooden dhow with a white canopy is moored, turning in the breeze.

Will and Matteo come and sit each side of me. We sit in companionable silence watching the sky and sea catch fire.

‘Reminds me a bit of Cornwall,’ Matt says, after a while. ‘That feeling of awe and sad insignificance in the sheer power of …’

‘Sad insignificance!’ Will jeers, leaning over me to peer at his brother. ‘Wha …’

‘Oh shut up,’ Matteo says before Will can say any more.

I smile. My eldest son will now make everything sadly insignificant all evening.

‘Ignore him,’ I say to Matteo. ‘I know what you mean. The power and beauty of nature does make you feel small and insignificant.’

‘Sometimes,’ Matteo says, ‘I forget Mamie and Gramps are dead.’

‘I wish we could have kept their house in Cornwall,’ Will says. ‘We shouldn’t have sold it.’

‘We had to sell. Dominique needed the money and …’