Sara MacDonald - In a Kingdom by the Sea

‘Why couldn’t you and Dad have bought her out?’

‘Because the house needed a fortune spent on it and we still have a sizeable mortgage on the London house …’

‘But it would have been possible, wouldn’t it, if Dad had wanted to keep it too? You could have rented it out for a fortune each summer to help with the mortgage.’

I do not want to revisit the pain of letting my home go. Mike and I had argued vehemently. It was the only thing I had ever asked or fought for. He was right though. We had two boys to put through university. Pouring money into repairing a house hundreds of miles from where we lived was not practical. We did not have unlimited resources. Yet selling it nearly broke my heart.

‘It was the wrong time. Too much work and too much money and I was reeling with shock …’

‘It was awful. I can’t imagine what it would be like if you and Dad died within months of each other …’ Matteo says.

‘Mum?’ Will says. ‘Did you ever think it odd that Gramps drowned?’

I stare at him.

‘I mean. He knew the sea. He fished all his life …’

‘Fishermen drown, Will.’

‘Yes, but Gramps could spot weather coming in faster than anyone. He never got it wrong. So why was he out in a force eight gale?’

‘He was in his eighties. He must have misjudged the speed of the storm …’ I say, uneasily, trying to banish the image of a little boat foundering in huge seas.

‘We’ll never really know why he was out in rough weather, will we?’ Matteo says quietly.

At that moment, Mike arrives looking showered and spruced, followed by a waiter carrying a glass of drinks.

‘Ah!’ he calls. ‘I’ve found you. My lost family! As it’s our last night here, I have pushed the boat out. I have champagne!’

Never have three people been so happy to see him. He’s seemed so much happier and more relaxed these last two days. We jump up and hug him until he is overwhelmed. Who knows when the four of us will all be together again.

‘My God! What did I do to deserve all this? It is only one bottle of probably doubtful champagne …’

Will holds his glass up to him. ‘Every now and then, Dad, you remind us of why we love you. Your timing is impeccable. This is perfect.’

I watch Mike’s face. A myriad of emotions cross it. He is touched and trying not to show it. My heart turns. I don’t need to be reminded of why I love him.

Karachi, 2009

Nothing could have prepared me for Karachi Airport. It is a swirling mass of earthy, colourful humanity. As the plane doors slide open there is a tall security man with a thin moustache and a severe, unsmiling face waiting. I know this is Mahsood, an alarming ex-military man, who regularly navigates Mike through the horrors of Jinnah International Airport.

We are first off the plane but there is a press of people behind us. Mike grabs my hand luggage and Mahsood grabs my documents and passport.

‘Follow close, please …’ Mahsood takes off at speed through the masses pouring off incoming flights. Mike and I dash after him as he navigates a passage through the crowds.

‘Don’t take your eyes off his back,’ Mike says. ‘Or we will lose him.’

Easy to say, but there are people pushing in all directions, struggling with parcels and bundles and small children, all pushing relentlessly forward before coming to an anxious halt at one of the numerous security checks.

Mahsood guides us to the head of a queue, like VIPs. We stand awkwardly to one side as he offers up our passports to moustached officials. Even Mahsood cannot hurry the deliberately slow perusal of our papers. Dark eyes flick over us from stiff official faces. I am relieved when we eventually reach the baggage carousel.

‘My God,’ I say to Mike. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through this airport on my own.’

‘It’s hell. I wouldn’t even try without Mahsood.’

Mahsood keeps us close to him like a sheepdog, his eyes ranging nervously across the airport as if danger might come from any direction. When I ask to go to the lavatory, he comes to the door and stands guard until I return.

As we wait for our luggage Mike chats to some PAA airport officials. Other than the briefest of nods I remain unacknowledged. I feel like a stranded alien in the middle of a dizzying island of chaos and I have my first glimpse of what it might be like to be a woman in Pakistan.

I am relieved when we have our luggage and Mahsood is herding us briskly out of the terminal. It is early evening and the sun is low. There is the smell of dust and petrol and, faintly, of sewerage. The world is tinged in an orange glow and I feel a visceral pull, as if I am standing on the edge of a still photograph about to plunge into lives both unknown and familiar.

Mike smiles at me. ‘Okay? The worst bit is over!’

Armed soldiers are weaving between the taxis, looking into the boots of cars. I can see there is a heavily guarded checkpoint in and out of the airport. Mike had not mentioned there were guns everywhere. It is a bit of a shock.

Noor, Mike’s Pashtun driver, is standing by his car waiting for us.

‘Welcome to Pakistan, mem.’

He is a young, stocky man with extraordinary, luminous green eyes and a big smile.

‘Thank you.’ I hold out my hand and Noor grasps it.

Mahsood climbs into the front seat and the car is waved through the checkpoint. Mike leans towards me.

‘Gabby, women don’t offer their hands to men in Pakistan. I just thought I would tell you …’

‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘Noor did not seem to mind.’

Mike laughs. ‘Of course he didn’t mind. He will have taken it as a compliment …’

After a few miles, Noor turns off the dusty road and stops in the middle of a treeless square. Apartments as bleak and lifeless as a Russian suburb rise up in the distance. Mahsood slides out of the car and disappears into the shadows like a moth.

I stare after him. ‘That’s spooky. Where does he go? It’s pure John le Carré …’

‘I presume Mahsood lives in one of those flats,’ Mike says.

As we join the main throughway traffic thunders with frightening speed on both sides of the car. There are entire families on motorcycles weaving and wobbling through the traffic. Toddlers are wedged between their parents; babies are literally dangling over handlebars.

Mike and Noor laugh at my horrified face. ‘It still rush hour, mem,’ Noor says.

Fascinated, I peer out of the window at the explosion of vehicles and roar of sound. Intricately painted buses, lopsided with people, sway past like decorated elephants. I catch glimpses of gold-ringed fingers and frangipani bangles on thin wrists. Everywhere there are fleeting flashes of colour like the sun blazing through trees. There are saris and shalwar kameez, in red, gold and aquamarine.

Eyes rest for fleeting seconds on mine as they shoot past. Rings glitter on exquisite noses. Dupattas are drawn over glossy dark hair. Horns blare, insults are exchanged, accidents averted by a whisker. This is not so much a journey but an abrupt and terrifying assault on the senses. I am captivated.

When we reach the gates of the Hotel Shalimar there is a checkpoint. Armed security guards peer into the bonnet of the car and run a bomb detector over the passenger seats and floor and then under the car.

We drive up a small drive with another ramp and Noor parks outside the large glass entrance. He places our luggage on an X-ray conveyer belt that slides into the hotel. A uniformed doorman scans Mike’s wallet, my bag and our mobile phones.

I follow Mike through the glass doors. It certainly is a secure hotel. The foyer has a marbled floor and is full of lighted chandeliers, potted plants and soft music. Two women in beautiful shalwar kameez stand smiling behind the reception desk.