Three Women

Prologue

She knelt down on the bare wooden floor taking care to watch out for loose splinters,
the metallic drip, drip of the Victorian plumbing, a watery counterpoint to the rain
now splashing steadily onto the skylight. It was hard to be certain in the dim light. A
scrap of something peeked out at her teasingly. Whatever it was had become wedged
under a ripped sagging cardboard box of chipped mismatched china. Probably
nothing. She felt with her fingers, tentatively.

“Ouch damn it! Shit!” she yelled, biting her tongue on a stream of earthier expletives,
remembering that there were strangers in the house. She sucked on a forefinger. Paper
cut! Tiny, but excruciating.

She returned to her task, cursing under her breath. Grasped the ripped cardboard,
burrowed her hands under its base, and heaved. There was a satisfying crash of
porcelain as she dropped the box just clear of her quarry. She should have waited for
the men, but curiosity had the better of her.

A wad of yellowing papers was revealed, around half of them folded on the diagonal
when the crockery had been dumped on them, God knows how many years ago. She
could make out faded typescript, a title at the top of the first page.

Long forgotten university notes? Recipes? Missed vital legal document?

She picked up the bundle, warily flipping through to the last page. As her eyes
became accustomed to the gloom she could just read it.

A name.

She felt a tiny frisson that had nothing to do with the dank surroundings as it dawned
on her. She was looking at pages and pages of manuscript. Something she hadn’t
expected to find. She crawled out of the cramped attic space grasping her treasure.
She would let the men finish the task. Nothing more of value here she was sure,
sentimental or pecuniary.

She went downstairs and into the conservatory, clutching the papers close, utterly
intrigued. They were loose, and she’d had to make certain she hadn’t missed any.
Fortunately they were numbered and in sequence, more or less. None lost thank
goodness. She found a fairly comfortable wicker chair; the only one left in the house,
settled into it and started reading.

1. Pandora's Box

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Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, anyone else but me, anyone
else but me….

The long forgotten song played through her head over and over. She waited, half
hoping for the needle to slide abruptly, harshly off the end of the gramophone record,
make the music stop for good, but it never did. It just returned to the beginning and
started again. Strange how a song could catch a moment of time or a piece of life and
brand it into our souls forever, the way nothing else could, she thought, not for the
first, or last time.

Don’t sit under the apple tree…

Memories too raw and sharp pushed to the surface, soaring joy to searing pain and all
the mess and confusion in between. Some buried so deep it had been almost more
than she could bear to dig them up. And yet, and yet, now she sat, shovel set aside,
task almost complete, excitement, anticipation and dread all jostling for position,
Pandora’s box unearthed for good or ill, forced open, its contents spilling over. She’d
been cajoled into it at first by her enthusiastic and encouraging niece, agreed in a
moment of weakness, or was it unconscious desire, to let her set everything in
motion. Like the proverbial boulder at the top of the hill it had begun to roll, slowly at
first then gaining momentum, till there was no chance of stopping it, except that this
boulder would become suffocated and choked with moss along the way. Despite this,
she knew that ultimately the decision to delve into her untidy past had been her own.
She bore all the hurt and responsibility as well as most of the hope entirely alone.

… with anyone else but me.

With an effort she brought herself back to a present that more and more these days
felt like a dream, somewhere she had no place or right to be. She gazed around the
vast noisy echoing cathedral space of glass and concrete and plastic, feeling entirely
out of her element, as if she’d been transported involuntarily to another time and
space. People everywhere, scurrying to and fro, demented souls talking to themselves
out loud, others wearing those ubiquitous white hearing aids, as if a deafness
epidemic had become the unforeseen scourge of the 21st century.

“Would you like some coffee auntie?” her solicitous niece had enquired with a nod
towards a centrally located food outlet.

It had an Italian name, which at least gave her some comfort of the familiar. Her
steady, deep grey eyes smiled a secret little half smile in remembrance of childhood
Italian cafes. Garish table clothes, shiny dark wood seats, the unmistakable café
smell, a heady mixture of coffee and cakes and stale cigarette smoke and polish.
Their wondrous ice cream, a rare treat, served by the jolly Luigi or his sullen,
unwilling son Silvio, had been the stuff of dreams. Of course Luigi and Silvio had
quietly disappeared when the war came. Italy was the enemy and jolly Italian café
owners, purveyors of delicious treats, were now potential traitors and had to be
unceremoniously removed and interned.

She’d sat with her niece perched on an extremely uncomfortable stool, in, truth be

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told, a fair amount of pain. But a woman of her innate dignity and gentile refinement
would never ever complain. In any case the secret aches and strains of old age, she
could see, entirely passed by her kindly, gregarious middle-aged niece, despite all her
fussing to make sure her aunt was comfortable. She’d sat ramrod straight and sipped
tentatively and politely at what appeared to be a foamy pudding of some sort. She
couldn’t quite decide if she tasted coffee or chocolate. She’d agreed to a muffin when
encouraged by her niece but it wasn’t what she’d expecting at all and seemed to be
some sort of fruit laden, dense, yeasty cake. She’d have been far happier with a nice
cup of tea and a jaffa cake...

At least now she was back in the relative comfort of the airport waiting lounge’s
upholstered cloth seats. A strange notice on the wall just to her left, its meaning
impossible to guess - WI-FI.

Wi–Fi?

The coffee and cake – muffin - had made her sleepy.

Her mind drifted.

Wi-Fi, now was that like Hi-Fi or Sci-Fi? Fidelity or fiction, Fidelity, fiction.

The fiction of fidelity?

She’d married not long after the war to George. Respectable from the top of his
bowler hat to his highly polished patent leather shoes. A neat, dapper man with a
steady job in the menswear department of Copland and Lye. Brought home a lot more
than could be expected by most in those austere post-war years. Rose to be assistant
manager. Upright citizen, respected in his community and in the local Kirk. George
was the ‘ideal husband’, dependable. They were a model couple, neat little flat they’d
lived in, beautifully furnished in a timeless sort of way. She’d visited the local
auction sales and bought wisely, frugally, and with effortless taste. Of course there
had been no children to mess the place or break the ornaments. When nieces and
nephews visited they were warned to be on their best behaviour. People had
whispered to each other, “Wasn’t it sad they had never been blessed, such a lovely
couple”, but of course they’d never ever utter it to her face.

Fidelity and fiction.

Very, very late every Friday and Saturday night, and just occasionally during the
week too, she would listen, ears straining for the sound of his key in the latch.
Finally, she’d hear it, quiet and discreet, just like George. She would lie in her twin
bed, in the neat little room they nominally shared, rigid, feigning even breaths,
pretending to be asleep, oblivious, unquestioning, heart pounding. That was just the
way it was. She never complained. She was lucky to have him, she knew. That had
always been inferred, without the need for words.

Her niece returned from checking the arrivals screen, a little flustered - she noted the
tiny beads of perspiration - smiling encouragement and gently grasping her arm. The
flight from New York had been delayed by two hours so there was nothing to do but

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wait. Correctly gauging her need for silence, the younger woman retrieved a dog-
eared old favourite from her messy bag, settling further into her seat as she turned to
chapter one.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”.

She had retained her family’s renowned fine-boned beauty into old age. Her steady
deep grey eyes were intelligent still, unfathomable and discreet – bespectacled now,
watchful too, as she scanned the busy concourse. Of course some people had tried to
bomb this place last summer. Drove a jeep loaded with explosives at the main
entrance on the first day of the school summer holidays, but were stopped at the door.
Two weeks before she’d visited her dear old friend Maisie in a hospital close by.
Turned out the nice young Asian doctor caring for her had been one of the occupants
of the jeep. The terrorists had encountered the familiar Glasgow disdain for anyone
who tried to get above themselves, or make themselves out to be anything special. It
was really just luck that the bombs hadn’t exploded, but nobody felt inclined to tell
the story that way. Glaswegian bravado had saved the day and no one would be
allowed to forget it. Yet people had been shocked too that anyone would think to
target safe old Glasgow.

“The Germans are coming! The Germans are coming!”

How they’d giggled as their mother had run through the house, yelling and banging
on doors, urging her children down to the Anderson shelter, as the air raid sirens
wailed in anger that first time.

And then came Clydebank.

Night after night, they’d listen as the two-tone engine sounds passed overhead.

”Crump, crump, crump. Crump crump.

Crump, crump, crump. Crump crump.”

She would play an urgent little game. She’d sit hunched on the hard mattress,
hugging her pillow and Brown Ted, forcing the insistent sound into the rhythm of
happy, familiar tunes. A whistling noise meant that a stray bomb was falling very
close, and in those screeching moments she’d hold her breath, scrunch her eyes tight
shut and squeeze her ears with her fingers, counting the seconds, waiting for the
moment of oblivion, and wondering if there would be time for it to hurt?

One day Jane McPherson’s house had been hit and her mother killed outright.

Safe old Glasgow.

Her brother, eldest in the family had joined the RAF and flew Lancasters. When he
came home on leave he’d stayed tucked up in his warm bed during air raids, to his
mother’s helpless chagrin. Later he had been decorated along with his crew for flying
his plane home and landing it safely. The bomb bay doors had jammed, and instead of
bailing out over Norway, and possibly killing people on the ground they’d carried on

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home. After the war he joined Glasgow Corporation as a clerk and never went near
another plane, not even as a passenger.

She had two older sisters as well, Maggie and Isa. They were giggly, flighty,
imagined themselves as the leading ladies they watched all agog, twice a week, in the
local picture house. Dreams of Hollywood recreated in the local Ascot. She knew
Maggie lived her life as Rita Hayworth. Her wise young eyes watched amused as her
sister grew her hair like Rita’s, aped her way of moving and talking, walking the grid
of streets in Glasgow as if it was a mini New York, not looking up too high so that
she could pretend the solid, sooty, Victorian merchant buildings were skyscrapers.

So when the GI’s started arriving from America, well, Maggie and Isa were just in
seventh heaven. They talked excitedly and often in unison about the American
soldiers, their extra smart uniforms, their exotic accents, the money they had to
spend. Every last one a handsome film star dropped straight in from Hollywood.
They’d go out to the Locarno or the Albert, dressed to the nines in their pretty home
sewn frocks, eye brow pencilled and ruby lipped, and would come home too bright-
eyed, sometimes slightly dishevelled, purses stuffed with nylons and chocolate,
reprising all the tunes, spinning round the living room in remembrance, in the arms of
phantom partners.

As the youngest in the family she could only listen to these tales of glamour, and
dream, until one spring day… A charity event, dreamt up spontaneously by the
generous GIs for the children of Clydebank who’d lost their tenement homes, their
parents, their siblings, their childhood. They’d put on a show and charged only what
local people could afford. Everyone in the neighbourhood squeezed into the Church
Hall, convinced that they were going to be given a privileged glimpse of Hollywood
or Broadway. Some of soldiers were extremely talented and everyone last one of
them beautiful to her, or, if not handsome, then at least uproariously funny. She
laughed and clapped and cheered in delight, wept at the sentimental songs and fell in
love with theatre utterly and forever from that day on.

Afterwards came the dancing. She was not yet seventeen and she’d been allowed to
stay for this because it was in a good cause. Her very first dance; with the added
bonus of a real-life, bona fide American dance band on stage. Ah the Americans,
smart, accomplished on the floor, faces shining with well-fed health, so charming and
polite. The Glasgow boys really should learn something from these young men, she’d
thought. The offhand, inarticulate, awkward, pale, pinch-faced local boys hadn’t
stood a chance her older self thought wryly. At the time she remembered thinking that
the GIs’ mothers must be wonderful people to have brought up sons with such
impeccable manners.

She hadn’t noticed him at all until just before he reached her, where she sat with her
sisters. Then there he was, all effortless graceful movement and charm, eyes dark and
deep and liquid, asking her if she’d care to dance. Well, of course she’d said yes, and
allowed herself to be swept up in a dream. He’d walked her home and placed a chaste
kiss of farewell on her cheek. Then he had asked to see her again. She was afraid of
her father and hated to disappoint her mother, could imagine them reacting with
something approaching horror, but she’d had no choice. In any case she heard her
voice uttering yes, before she’d quite made up her mind.

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Little secret trips to Kelvingrove park in apple blossom time. Hand in hand. She was
glad she could introduce him to Glasgow while it was showing itself off at its very
best. In the winter it was dark and greasy and dank and bitterly cold and sad, she
always felt, especially so in its drab wartime garb. In May Glasgow was dressed up in
it’s finest Sunday clothes, nature freshly and newly alive and benign, bursting with
vivid colour and people and sound, birds, flowers, trees, cherry and apple, heavy
sweet scented blossom, inhaled almost like a narcotic. Sitting under the trees
laughing and talking about everything, white and pink blossom landing on them like
confetti at some secret, pagan wedding ceremony. She wondered if it would have
been quite the same if she’d met him in winter.

She’d taught him some local secrets too. He laughed at her serious face as she
instructed him with great solemnity to breathe in deeply whenever they passed the
entrance to Hillhead Subway Station on Byres Road. Yes, it was the Glasgow
‘Subway’, never the ‘Tube’; that was London, didn’t even use the generic term
‘Underground’ that she heard often nowadays. Then it was always the ‘Subway’.
Anyway, it had an inexplicable deeply satisfying earthy smell that she’d never
encountered anywhere else and never would. One of the hidden little joys of
Glasgow.

One day, he dared her to go on a trip with him to Loch Lomond in a borrowed US
army jeep, gears grinding and grunting. Fortunately the journey to Balmaha was not
far. She allowed herself a secret ghost of a smile in quiet remembrance of a sweet,
pure happiness that she wished she’d been able to bottle and keep hidden in a most
secret place as insurance. Laughter and giggles and the wind in her hair, allowing her
to push to the back of her mind the guilt she’d felt at the lies she’d told her family.

How he had adored the soft light and the gentle pastel colours and textures of the
hillsides and the water. He had exclaimed so out loud in his open American way that
never seemed afraid of ridicule. A northern June day that seemed to last forever, did
so still in her mind, endless twilight painting the soft hillsides, lengthening shadows
deepening the contrast between light and shade, impressionist, changeable hues of
browns, greens and yes the cliché purple of the heather, twice the fun as you watched
the moving, swaying reflection reproduced in the rippling waters of the ever
darkening loch. You could feel your senses drunk on nature at it’s most impossibly
beautiful, joy and a sense of peace tempered only by the inevitable evening scourge
of the midges, biting into sweet flesh.

They’d found a spot where they could be totally alone, an easy thing to do there.
Enjoyed a picnic of his rations, chocolate as a heavenly treat. He had lain beside her
and talked of wide vistas and big open skies and she’d tried her best to imagine it,
finding the idea of it almost impossibly alien as she lay there next to him, daring in
her shy way to brush her fingers through his dark hair, surrounded as they were by
soft warm comforting cosy hills, in a little corner of this great planet that seemed to
belong to her, be part of her, in an organic way.

Had she really felt all this, her older self wondered, or was memory imposing mature
insight? Had it in fact been his glamorous presence that had given this day of days its
glorious sheen? She only knew in that place on that day, finally in the warm shelter of

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his arms she’d felt immune from everyday fears like war and separation and pain and
loss and sorrow.

They’d seen each other – always surreptitiously – as often as they could all summer
long. Then one day in early September, trees heavy and dark and ripe, sweet damp
dank mist hanging in the air they’d met at the entrance to Kelvingrove Park.

And he’d told her.

Marching orders.

His unit were moving south the very next day. There had been no time to take it in.
Tears, vows to write, heartfelt, earnest declarations of love, unbearable sadness, and
one last evening together. They should have spent it in some enchanted forest, or at
least the local equivalent, but there had been no time left. It had started raining and
the ground was sodden and anyway this was real life. He’d led her down a black
deserted lane just off Great Western Road. People nowadays would find it hard to
imagine a city blacked out, so dark you couldn’t see your fingers in front of your
face. Seedy, sordid, sweet, glorious memories of one last reckless night of frantic,
ferocious passion, against a damp tenement wall.

Then he was gone.

She remembered running home, thoughts in a whirl, stockings and shoes soaked by
unseen puddles; gasping in shock at a sudden painful glancing blow to her arm, the
lamp post looming just too late in the dark; recalling that night when she’d caught her
sisters chortling, whispering too loudly, naively, thinking she couldn’t hear them, now
praying to herself that it was true.

“If you do it standing up you can’t get pregnant!”

She’d crept back into the house at two in the morning, knocked her shin hard and
loud against a chair or a table in the bedroom she shared with her sisters, urged them
to stay silent as they snickered conspiratorially. She lay awake on top of the bed
covers, eyes brimming, body shuddering, staring at nothing, not wanting to think,
only knowing she wanted to die, just as she’d begun to live.

She’d missed him and mourned him, her first love. He wrote, every other day for a
while, sweet letters that she’d bundled up, tied neatly with a ribbon, of course, and
kept hidden in a scuffed old shoe box beneath her bed, and she’d always replied
straightaway, as best she could. But after a while the gaps between his letters got
wider, until eventually they petered out. She would work at rationalising this in her
head, urging herself to believe that he was so busy training for invasion he no longer
had time to write. But more and more in the weeks that followed, a creeping cold
doubt would seep into her. The pain of it was physical. It would start at her fingertips,
run up her arms, past her shoulders, catching at her throat, then down again, piercing
her heart, then on into the pit of her stomach, twisting it painfully.

Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.

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She expected the trees would be just as beautiful in Wiltshire in May.

Then came the nausea.

She’d remained in denial for three months until she’d finally had to face the stark,
awful truth. Most of her memories of that time had congealed into a horrible ill-
defined mess, squashed down deep, just out of reach, vague and blurry, until she’d
begun recently to unearth them. One or two had remained pin sharp. Confessing first
to her wide-eyed sisters, who’d run to her brother, home on leave. He said he’d
arrange something for her through his RAF connections. The RAF boys had needed
some comfort other than drink between suicide missions, she’d supposed, and had
become unwilling experts in the matter. She could remember the warmth of her
brother’s comforting arm round her shoulder as he’d told her not to worry, got a
number from a friend; hazy memories of following him one deep winter’s night down
to a seedy row of soot-blackened tenements. Yes it actually was a back street, an icy,
cobbled Dickensian cliché, right by the docks too; till she stopped, suddenly realising
she could never, ever go through with it.

The final awful scene with her parents, mother screaming that she’d always been the
sensible one, as if by saying it very loud she could make it so once again, the shame
she’d brought on the family, her father strangely silent all the while, watching. The
sudden hot shock of the back of his hand across her face had stung, but it had been
the cold, cruel, dead, empty look in her father’s eyes as he did so that would brand
itself into her memory forever.

She’d tried more than once to write to her love, wondering if she dared call him that
any longer, at his training base in the south, to tell him the news. She knew she ought
to. She’d sat there, at the wobbly little ink-stained table by the window of her room,
God knows how long, biting at her lip until it was raw, pen poised over paper, fingers
paralysed, unable to write down the words, and give substance and reality to
something she could not believe herself, despite her swelling belly.

A baby?

No, she never told him.

Eventually they’d sent her off to an unmarried mother and baby home in England, run
by nuns, who’d made it clear to her and her fellow inmates, in deed and word, that
they were there first and foremost to atone for their Sin.

Labour.

Memories of bare off-white scuffed walls, the harsh light from a bare ceiling bulb and
a large round metallic clock ticking loudly, busily intent on marking out the seconds,
minutes, hours. Dressed in a rough cotton gown, blotched with the faint pale pinkish,
brownish stains of former tragedies, she hadn’t had a clue what was happening to her
body. In her ignorance she’d been certain she going to die that dreary June day. Of
course there had been no pain relief. Each contraction burned like six sharp knives
twisting in her gut; the pain, the hard eyes of the nuns seemed to suggest, barely
adequate punishment for her shameless wanton act. In those sweating, excruciating

8
moments she believed utterly in the nuns. She was enduring the righteous retribution
of a vengeful Old Testament God.

There had been one young pale dark-eyed nun who stayed by her side throughout,
smiled silent warm encouragement and wiped her brow and squeezed her hand in
empathy when she thought no one else was looking. She didn’t know how she would
have got by without her. From time to time she’d gazed out of the rusting barred
window at the sad grey sky, rain never far off, trees bending this way and that,
restless and impatient in the swirling wind.

June.

At times she would be briefly transported back to that golden unending day by the
loch, almost a year ago, nature on show at it’s most benign, her love by her side, until
another contraction would drag her roughly back into the present. In thrall to nature
once again, but this time wearing its cruellest garb. Nature in the raw, laughing
heartily at the transitory aspect of happiness.

Then someone said that they could see the head. Not long after, one final exhausted
push and her son popped out like a bar of soap. There he was on the mattress.
Absurdly, in those first seconds, her uppermost emotion had been surprise. Surprise
that a perfect little stranger had emerged so suddenly from within her. They’d
scooped him up and taken him away to clean him before he’d had time to cry.

It was much later that she’d heard the news, D-Day, Invasion, the Second Front.

June 6th 1944, the day her most precious thing in all the world was born.

“Auntie!”

The voice seemed to come from far, far away. She felt as if she was swimming up
through a deep viscous pool of molasses to the surface. Her niece was tapping her
gently on her shoulder and presenting her watch. “An hour to go.” She peered
groggily at the younger woman’s kindly face, watching the progress of the little
shadow of concern as it crossed. The face was redder now, beads of nervous
perspiration more prominent. Then her niece’s voice again, loud against a muffled
announcement. “I’ll just go and get us some more water. It’s so stuffy in here”. She
nodded in agreement, almost fully recovered, enough at least to record her
bemusement, not for the first time, at the twenty-first century need to pay for little
plastic bottles of mineral water. Here in Glasgow anyway, where everyone knew that
the ever-abundant soft Loch Katrine tap water was the safest, sweetest stuff in the
world.

She’d been sitting awkwardly and her joints were stiff and achy. She got up to stretch
her limbs, taking careful effort to disguise the pain she was in. She walked the length
of the teeming concourse, slowly as ever nowadays, dodging bouncing children,
trundling suitcases, (what a simple yet wonderful invention those little wheels were),
and those people who always walked backwards, reading screens, talking into
phones, oblivious to their fellow human beings until they jabbed them with sharp
elbows or trod painfully on toes. She found her way to the ladies room. As she looked

9
in the mirror she caught sight of herself as she was now, always a shock these days,
as her grandmother stared back. Then she sighed quietly, reprimanded herself for her
vanity. She knew her inherited bone structure made her luckier than many. But still…

“Mr DeMille, just keep it in long shot”, she chuckled inwardly.

Norma Desmond, poor old soul, had been all of 50 for God sakes, 50!

She splashed her face with cool water, and felt much better. She carefully added a
touch of powder to her nose and cheeks. She would never give up making the effort,
and especially not today. In those wartime days, she mused, tragedy or the threat of it
had been the close and constant companion of all, yet no one ever complained, or for
one moment considered the need for counselling or therapy from so-called experts,
the way they did today. Why, they just got on with it, soldiered on, made the best of
things.

Mustn’t grumble!

Nowadays they’d probably expect someone like her to go on one of those awful talk
shows she came across sometimes by accident on television, populated by people
with a reckless and undignified need to spill out all their secrets to a barely interested
world.

She made her way back to her seat, and daintily sipped at some of the water offered
by her niece. Some smart young entrepreneur really should start bottling Loch
Katrine water. They’d make a fortune.

Before he’d been born she’d been afraid to even think of loving him - or her. Knew
the decision she had made and would be expected to stick to. But all that changed the
moment, they’d brought the little bundle back to her, all clean and soft and warm, and
she’d looked at the wondrous reality of him and loved him.

Even the severe, sharp, disapproving nuns forgot themselves briefly and seemed
suddenly blurred at the edges, momentarily transformed into kindly kindred spirits.

“For a spell or two no one seems forlorn. This comes to pass, when a child is born.”

Silly emotional Christmas song! It annoyed her intensely that it never failed to bring
tears, every single time she heard it, usually and embarrassingly over tinny little
speakers in busy shops at Christmas time.

Six precious weeks.

She’d look at him as she held him close, could never get enough of looking, at the
curve and colour and softness of his little cheeks, his full soft lips, his beautiful long
dark eyelashes. She loved it most of all when he suckled on her breast, cosy little
bundle, all earnest frowning concentration. This little soul with no experience of the
world, yet with the wisdom of the ages in his face. He looked so perfect and new and
fresh it was as if the colours hadn’t dried yet. She adored his little hands and fingers
and his absurdly tiny fingernails, sharp enough to cut as he reached out and gripped.
They’d put on miniature protective cotton mittens after a day or so for his sake and

10
for hers.

She would watch him as he slept and wonder at the little movements and sounds he
made. What on earth could you dream about when your life experiences were so
limited? Happy sensuous dreams, she hoped, of scents and textures and touch and
taste and sound and love. She’d be so wrapped up in him, would stare at him for so
long, burning the details of his neat little features into her mind, than when she turned
to adult faces they would appear grotesquely, comically huge.

And she loved his eyes most of all.

Eyes the colour of Tuesday.

She’d always been too embarrassed to tell people that she saw colours and shapes for
all the days of the week and the months and the years - for numbers as well - once it
had dawned on her that this didn’t happen for others. She’d laughed out loud not long
ago as she watched a documentary. Goodness, it even had a name.

Synaesthesia they’d called it.

Pretty rare seemingly. Even suggested it was some kind of anomalous wiring of the
brain. People who associated words, numbers or names, sometimes musical notes
with colour or shape or texture, and even sound and smell. She’d been amused and
just a little proud, she was forced to admit, to discover that she shared this trait with
many of the great artists, musicians and writers.

She shifted slightly in the firm airport seat, ostensibly to get more comfortable, sat a
little more upright, clasped her hands in her lap, looked around at the echoing
concourse with unseeing eyes, then stared down at a little piece of torn biscuit packet
on the floor, momentarily transfixed by a fly flitting over the letters McV in its search
for infinitesimal crumbs. She was consumed by a desperate compulsive need to tell
herself the whole story, set everything straight, in careful chronological order in her
head before she could move on to the next chapter of her life.

But she had to steel herself to dig up the next memory.

One day they came and took him away, her little love, her joy, her life.

And she’d screamed and screamed and screamed and never, ever stopped. She knew
she’d done it out loud at first, God knows for how long, clinging hopelessly to the
pale young nun for a comfort she knew would never come. She wasn’t sure exactly
when she’d stopped screaming out loud, when it had become internalised? Couldn’t
pinpoint it in her memory. But the scream was always there. Most of the time she
managed to keep it to a tiny thin sound, insistent, but well hidden within the deepest
recesses of her soul. Of course from time to time, it would emerge. Birthdays, special
landmarks, and all those unexpected times as well, it would pop to the surface,
deafening her, sometimes a pure high pitched piercing noise, icicle sharp, sometimes
a long low wailing persistent moan. It became part of her and she’d learned to adapt
to its presence, and eventually, to live with it. And no one ever knew that she did.

11
What had made it worst of all was that she’d signed the papers. She’d had no choice.
All she could offer him was a life of destitution. She wanted him to be happy, to have
the best chances. It was the only gift she could offer him. Her parents would never
accept him, and a letter not long after from a kindly GI friend in Normandy, revealing
too late how he’d often talked about her, before gently recounting horror stories of
Omaha beach and selfless courage and leading from the front, putting paid to those
silly, futile, little dreams of a happy little life for the three of them under wide
American skies.

There are dreams that cannot be, there are storms we cannot weather.

How she’d loved that show when she’d seen it in later years in touring productions,
twice at the Kings and once at the Playhouse in Edinburgh. Silly and corny of her, she
knew, but she always felt, through stinging tears that Fantine was singing it directly
to her.

And oh yes, she was only too aware of how she’d cruelly denied him the knowledge
that he was going to be a father. She had long pondered the possible consequences of
that naïve and selfish piece of negligence. Just another little item to stow tidily away
in a corner of her ever-expanding Pandora’s box of regrets.

She went home.

No one discussed her child or mentioned him ever. She’d received a little package of
knitted clothes from her mother shortly after his birth; that was all. It was as if her
son, and that wonderful summer of love had never been. And she got up and got on
with life, soldiered on, made the best of things, as was expected of her.

***

George was the only child of her mother’s best friend Mrs Sutherland. Yes, the two
close neighbours had known each other pretty intimately for over twenty years, but
for her mother’s generation it was always the formal ‘Mrs Wilson’, ‘Mrs Forbes’,
‘Mrs Sutherland’. Mrs Sutherland's husband was called Arthur. He was always
known as Arthur.

So it was Mrs Sutherland and – Arthur.

Funny, she’d never thought about the strangeness of that until now. It had remained
that way for her mother all the years she'd known them. And of course, there was
George.

He was over ten years older than her. ‘Harmless’, she’d thought, would be the first
adjective that would spring to mind to describe George. He was the kind of person no
one would ever noticed in a crowd, would struggle to be served in the crush of a
packed bar, or get a waiter to bring the bill. Medium height, medium build, mid-
brown hair, pleasant enough to look at, neat and dapper. Harmless, but it had to be
said, a little dull.

The ample and ebullient Mrs Sutherland, it was abundantly clear, was by now

12
desperate to find a ‘nice’ girl for George. She was one of the very few people to
whom her mother had confided her youngest daughter’s secret shame, officially at
least. Everybody knew, of course, but nobody ever said. The number of hushed little
conversations that had stopped as soon as she was within earshot was proof enough
of that, especially in the first months after her return. Mrs Sutherland, however, had
been allowed into the highly exclusive official inner circle. Rest assured she’d made
sure that her son George knew too. His mother had obviously decided that he’d left it
so late he’d had no choice but to make do with ‘soiled goods’. He would never ever
call her that, he was far too polite, but she’d always known he thought of her this way
somewhere. He was never anything other than completely kind, but nevertheless, the
little shadow was always there, and along with it the lurking, silent threat that he
might just use it as a weapon if really pressed.

George had been invited for afternoon tea, and to dinner and she would be asked
reciprocally to the Sutherland’s. Eventually, George, ‘shy with girls’, had plucked up
courage and done what was expected of him. They went out on their first official
date, to the tearoom at Copland and Lye, in Sauchiehall Street, where, of course, he
got staff discount.

They'd had to stifle guffaws at the sight of the stern-eyed, ever so slightly overweight
waitress in her black tightly fitting dress, white starched apron and little white
starched cap, as she placed the pot of tea for two and scones and jam down on the
table just a little too heavily, with glinting disapproval. It was a bit like laughing in
church in the quiet, stuffy ultra gentile atmosphere of the tearoom. But the ice was
broken. George was quite amusing once you got past his natural reserve and would
recount entertaining anecdotes of eccentric customers, accompanied by brave little
attempts at voices and mannerisms. After that they had made regular trips to the
pictures, and undaunted, by that first experience, even occasionally would venture
into Miss Cranston’s Willow Tearooms. If Copland and Lye was the church, Miss
Cranston’s was the cathedral.

After their third date he’d kissed her sweetly on the lips before saying goodnight at
her door, and from that day on they were officially courting. He was pleasant enough
company and kind, but there was no unending sunlit loch-side day in June, seared
into memory, no apple blossom confetti, no catch in the throat or thump of the heart
at the unexpected sight of him, no breathless, passionate declarations of love, no
desire to die in his arms.

She knew younger generations would never understand, but when, six months later
he asked her to marry him, she’d said yes straight away. Nowadays at the first sight
of trouble they were falling over themselves in the rush to the divorce courts. But she
had lived in an utterly different world. She had no independent means. Her only hope
of escape from the ever-present threat of her father’s cold ire, and to make a home for
herself was to marry. She’d left school at fourteen, at her father’s insistence and she
would never ever stand up to him. He didn’t think girls were suited to cope with the
mental rigours of higher education and was scathingly disdainful of what he'd called
‘bluestockings’, women of education. No, she was an accomplished seamstress and a
proficient cook, neat and tidy, perfect for her place in life as a housewife.

They were married in June 1946, and moved into their neat little West End flat, no

13
money left for a honeymoon. Their wedding night was a disaster. They’d tried a few
times intermittently after that, but things were no better. He was slow to anger, but
one night, in what she knew was self-defence, he’d accused her of being frigid, and
after that they just gave up.

A few months into the marriage George started his secret nocturnal trips. The first
time he’d just said he was going out and would be back late. She’d fretted and
worried, peering through curtains, anxiously checking and rechecking the time, heart
pounding in panic, until she’d heard his key in the latch. She’d leapt into her twin
bed, hauled up the covers and feigned sleep. Then, as it became a regular twice and
often thrice weekly occurrence she’d learned to know what to expect and in the secret
depths of her soul guessed the truth of her place in his life.

He never told her where he went and she never asked or gave indication that she
cared or even knew. She would pretend to be comatose and oblivious when he
returned home, but she could never give up worrying about him, panicking if was
even five minutes late, and fearing the shame for both of them if he was ever found
out. They had a silent unspoken pact that both adhered to rigidly.

‘I won’t tell your secrets, if you don’t tell mine’.

In some strange way, despite her fears, it made her feel closer to him. After all, she’d
reasoned eventually, both of them were innocent victims of the age into which they’d
been born, and despite her worries and fears, it gave them a sort of kindredship.

They’d eventually settled into companionable but separate lives. He was an avid
collector of the strangest things, which thankfully he’d agreed to keep in the spare
room, toy cars, stamps and even thimbles. Although his chronic asthma had left him
unfit for military service he had a passionate interest in the war recently ended, a
mystery to her. She did adore one of his hobbies. He loved to bake and his selection
of light fluffy cakes, and delicious tablet, a sinful buttery, sugary teeth-rotting treat,
became some of life’s happy compensations. She knew she was lucky to have
inherited a physique that never gained weight, however much she ate.

Confectionery in place of sex?

Well, some people would call her lucky. And anyway she had her own passions.

She smiled wryly to herself, but anyone observing her closely in that split second
might also have caught the merest hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

She was briefly transported forward in time in a headlong rush, as the echoing
announcement declared that the flight from New York was now expected in twenty
minutes. She watched as her niece stuffed the second Mrs de Winter, nasty Mrs
Danvers and the dashing but melancholy Max de Winter – she always pictured
Lawrence Olivier - into her capacious handbag and began to pace the floor.

She’d never liked the big department stores, not even the classy ones like Pettigrew
and Stephen or Watt Brothers, although she did go to Copland and Lye, for the
discount. Mainly she shopped sparingly and sensibly in the proudly independent little

14
West End dress shops of Byers Road and Great Western Road, making thoughtful
purchases, resulting in a style that was classic and timeless. She loved antiques fairs,
and along with her best friends from childhood, Maisie and Moira, would go along
bright and early to seek out bargains. She would avidly read the antiques catalogues
and books borrowed from the local library. She was not too proud to say that over the
years she’d become a bit of an expert in Royal Worcester, Royal Doulton and Spode,
china tea sets, dinner services, classic figurines, ornaments of all sorts. She’d also
developed a practiced eye for items of classic occasional furniture, and she would
thrill in delight whenever she managed to beat an unwitting seller down to a bargain
price. She and her friends would then go off for lunch, to a café or if feeling flush to
an Italian. She supposed they’d been ladies who lunched, long before the phrase was
coined.

She loved all the performing arts, and along with Maisie would go to the Scottish
Ballet, and slightly less often to the Scottish Opera, depending on the production. She
wasn’t too keen on the Germans, but the Italians were marvellous – just like their ice
cream! She loved classical music, especially the Romantic period.

Her burning passion, however, was theatre. She’d go to everything at the Kings , the
Alhambra, even the Pavilion, pantomime, musicals, comedies and tragedies, the
whole gamut. But there was one theatre that would always hold a special place in her
heart, The Citizens. Over the years she’d watched numerous small but enthusiastic
companies of eager young actors work with an energy and passion and an utter lack
of fear that she never saw elsewhere. Sets were of necessity sparse – she noticed a
recurring preference for monochrome - effects minimal, and there was always that
feeling that each production was running just half a step ahead of disaster, but
somehow the rough edges gave them an honesty and raw purity that was uniquely
satisfying. As usual she noticed a particular smell that she couldn’t quite place. She
used to like to imagine it was greasepaint, and would add in rare foray into humour
that she was the roar of the crowd.

Over the years she saw everything there, sometimes with Maisie and Moira,
sometimes alone; Shakespeare, Shaw, Ibsen, Chekov, Wilde, and surprising perhaps
to those who didn’t know her well, Brecht, Ionesco, Pinter, Osborne and even Orton.
She became a member of the theatre and donated as generously as she sensibly could.
The Citizens would become an excellent training ground for young aspiring thesps
and she’d always feel a sense of motherly pride whenever any of her ‘charges’ made
it in London’s West End as actors or directors, or turned up, as they did on a fairly
regular basis on television, and occasionally film, and on one glorious night, in
Hollywood clutching an Oscar.

Her brother stayed single and remained always a good and close friend. Her sisters
had married fairly well, Isa for money and Maggie for love. They each had several
children who grew up to live lives of quiet success or drama and dysfunction, the
usual mix. Maggie and Isa even took up amateur theatre as a hobby and thus in some
small way lived out their early dreams. She often went along to watch and had great
fun. Maggie looked more like Lucille Ball now than Rita Hayworth but as she was
almost as funny that was fine.

Then one rainy afternoon, two and a half years ago George passed away. He did so

15
quietly and discreetly just as he had lived his life. He had dozed off after completing
the Herald crossword, and ebbed away in his favourite chair by the fireside. She felt
numb and unreal, as nieces and nephews and siblings fussed around arranging the
funeral and sorting out the financial stuff, which George had left tidily in order. It was
all a bit of a blur.

Then one day, around two weeks after the funeral and quite without warning, she’d
broken down, thrown herself on her bed and howled and howled without hope of
consolation. She knew then how much he missed his companionable presence round
the flat, the way he’d bring her cups of tea unasked, get her to sample his latest cake
creation, the look of frowning concentration on his face as he’d peer over his
newspaper and his spectacles to ask for her help when he got stuck with a crossword
clue; his earnest, open enthusiasm as he read out snippets from the newspaper that
caught his interest and he felt the need to share with her; his kindness, and caring.
And she understood at last how essential he had become to her and that she had
grown to love him deeply after all.

It had been around this time that her gregarious niece, Isa’s second daughter, had
begun to visit. She was a successful lawyer by profession, a partner in a venerable
Glasgow firm. She was divorced and her children had gone off to university, so she
had a little more time on her hands. In the weeks and months that followed George’s
death she appeared more and more often at the door. She fussed around, made sure
that she was managing on her own, arranged for a cleaner to come and help out a
couple of times a week, and generally became a pleasant and welcome presence. She
was naturally warm and friendly, the kind of person you could find yourself confiding
in, telling just a little more than you’d intended, she was so eager and warm and
encouraging of openness.

Then one night when they’d each consumed the last drops of their third glass of
Harvey’s Bristol Cream that she really only kept for cooking, she found herself
telling all.

That winter’s night she unburdened all the secret guilt and shame and all the hidden
pain and sorrow and lost love on her niece.

Well, not quite all. After all she had promised, an unspoken promise, but knew it was
there and she always honoured her promises.

As she spoke she decided she must be feeling a little light-headed from the sherry, for
she became increasingly aware of the sound of the old grandmother clock that stood
beside the tall carved wood fireplace. It had been one of her first and favourite
antique sale purchases, and that night the ticking seemed somehow louder than usual.

No, not just louder. It had a strange attenuated echo, ti-tick, to-tock, whimsy, she
knew, but she could almost imagine it straddling time between the then and the now,
counting the beats of parallel lives.

As she’d talked she’d wondered absently if her niece heard this too. The cosy little
room seemed faded and a little fuzzy, as if not quite real. Each quarter hour the clock
would remember to chime obediently, marking the phases of her story. Her niece sat

16
agog, mesmerised, transfixed, eyes a little wider than normal, unnaturally silent, aside
from sporadic little involuntary exclamations of empathy. When she’d finally finished
her niece got up, cleared her throat and turned away quickly excusing herself to the
bathroom. Five minutes later she had returned, thrown open the door, rushed to her
aunt and scooped the smaller woman up into her ample bosom and squeezed her
tight.

The next day was a frosty, bright Saturday. It had been around eight thirty in the
morning when the doorbell rang and there was her niece laden with electronic
accoutrements, and an air of warm efficient optimism. “It’s so easy now”, she’d cried,
swept up by the beguiling notion that she could set things right, “we can find him on
the internet!” The way she’d said it, so confident and ebullient, she almost expected
her to add, “and then we can ask him round for dinner!”

She remembered making tea in her neat square little kitchen and bringing it through
to the living room on a tray, taking great care as always these days, matching china
cups and tea plates, of course, a larger plate piled with McVities chocolate digestives,
and some left over shortbread that she’d found in a tin. She’d sat in her favourite
high-backed chair by the fire, opposite George’s, and watched her niece tapping
away, fiddling with strange sticks, making calls. The names on the phone and the
computer momentarily transported back to childhood and the sweet pungent smell of
fruit boiling in the big heavy pot on the stove for her mother’s delicious jam.

And as she’d watched she realised she wasn’t sure if she wanted to do this.

It had all seemed just a little unreal and absurd, as if all she had needed to do in the
end was wait for the twenty-first century to turn up and the huge mess of doubt and
anguish and loss and despair would be swept up neatly and tidily in an afternoon.
She’d known of course it was never going to be that easy and she’d always feared
hope.

Hope was a cruel temptress, clad in a scarlet satin gown, beckoning you with an easy
smile playing on red painted lips, offering the moon and the stars only to snatch them
away again at the very last with barely disguised glee and mocking laugh. Sometimes
she felt it would be best never to let her in. But her niece was enthused and full of
love and caring and a certainty that she could make things right. How could she
possibly make her understand or even begin to explain? She knew that the boulder
had been set at the top of the hill and pushed off and there was nothing she could do
about it.

She’d watched her niece during this period in a kind of semi-detached haze, as if a
veil of gauze had enshrouded her and separated her from the now. She’d always been
terrified of becoming forgetful but somewhere deep within her now she almost
longed for the peace of it.

First her niece had found the names of her son’s adoptive parents, along with the first
revelation that they’d emigrated to the United States in 1947. How strange that he
should in some way fulfil his part of her little hopeful dream. Chicago, Illinois. The
“Windy City” she’d added silently, well at least according to Doris Day.

17
She wondered hopelessly what his life had been like there and prayed that it had been
the best that it could be. Still, it was surreal and she struggled to imagine the reality of
him. In her mind, despite the passage of time, he’d always been that tiny warm
bundle.

Over the next few evenings running into weeks little pieces of the puzzle began to
take shape. The family had moved to Wisconsin, when he was twelve, no reason
given. He’d got married there in 1972 and moved to New Jersey. But no clue as to
where he was now. Her niece had explained to her about these absurd internet social
groups with peculiar names like My Face that twenty-first century people felt the
need to join, and live their lives in a goldfish bowl; she couldn’t for the life of her
fathom why. But he wasn’t on any of them.

Was he even alive?

“Ten minutes!” her niece nudged her awake. “Ten minutes”, her face by now beetroot
red.

She’d wondered at the names of all these American states. Now, who was it? Yes,
Perry Como, his voice was so relaxed, sleepy almost. She remembered he had lovely
eyes. Italian. She hoped he wasn’t one of these crooners who’d ended up with horses
heads in their beds. What was it he’d sung? She used to hear it on the radio on the old
BBC Light Programme, and she’d joined in as she dusted the ornaments. Clever little
song.

What did Delaware, boys? What did Delaware?

She wore a brand New Jersey.

She wore a brand new jersey…

It was the thing she remembered about him, the man in the kitchen with George.

She’d come in from shopping one day and there he was. Wearing a brand new pale
blue v-neck jersey over a white shirt. Matched his eyes, the jersey, not the shirt. He
was good looking, shock of messy fair hair, pleasant, sudden, dimpled smile. She’d
known George had not expected her back from the shops so soon. However he’d
recovered quickly, and asked her to join them at the little kitchen table. Conversation
over teacups and tablet had been light and polite and unreal. They talked about all
sorts but she still recalled the sudden shock, at something said at one particular point
in the conversation, she couldn’t remember what, but it had hit her with the force of a
truck.

They’d known each other for years.

He had a name, Colin, and after that strange little meeting he’d appear on occasion.
No explanations, usually only briefly. They would be on their way out. Colin’s place,
she presumed. When a few months later she’d brought home Tony from the Citizens
George had been equally pleasant and accommodating. And again later in later years
with Stuart, the avid antiques collector. Yes, she and George had enjoyed a polite,

18
discreet unspoken arrangement, so she supposed things had worked out pretty well
for them in the end.

I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.

Colin had been a lost and forlorn, almost ghostly presence at the funeral. She went up
to him where he stood, silent, a little apart. His hair had turned to silver grey, his face
old, etched deep with grief, and she’d grasped his hands tight, hugged him briefly but
firmly, and gave him a little kiss on the cheek.

If her family wondered at the nice little sum George had left Colin in his will, they
didn’t say.

After a while her niece had stopped bringing her computer round to the house on
visits. The trail had gone cold and Hope was trailing quietly away, casting occasional
derisive glances over her shoulder.

Then two weeks later.

“I’ve found him!”

Her niece had yelled it down the telephone.

Charles Frederick Waverley. Still in New Jersey.

She wondered absently if they called him Chuck. She couldn’t quite imagine having a
son called Chuck. She’d chosen the name Charles when he’d been born, and she was
glad that they’d kept it, but she had always been her Charlie.

Her Charlie!

Then two days later – the hammer blow.

Her niece had sat her down quietly and had held her hands as she explained eyes
bright with barely suppressed tears, that her beloved son didn’t want to see her. His
adoptive mother was still alive but frail. He felt it would be a betrayal; he couldn’t
and wouldn’t hurt her. The thing that crushed her most was the realisation that her
own son thought of her as a stranger from a far off land, making waves in a still pond,
disturbing the pattern of their lives.

Seemingly an aunt had called her niece a day or two later warning her off in a pretty
nasty way. It all got very messy and fraught.

Pandora’s box.

They’d given up and Hope was gone, as expected, slamming the door shut behind
her.

Then just three weeks ago her niece had telephoned excitedly about an email she’d
received from Fred, Charles’s son. He was bringing his family over to Europe on

19
vacation and would really like to find his relations, discover his Scottish roots, meet
Grandma.

She’d wondered at the sound of a name for herself that she’d never ever expected to
hear.
Grandma.

She said it out loud to herself as if trying it on for size.

Now people were tumbling out into the arrivals hall. She felt engulfed, almost
suffocated, slightly panicked by the sudden mass of humanity. Many laden with bags
with names from dreams, Macy’s, Bloomingdale’s, Tiffany she recognised, although
there were many others she didn’t. Scottish people hopping over to New York to take
advantage of a two dollar pound. Groups of men in polo shirts and checked caps
trailing golf clubs, on their way to St Andrews, the ‘Home of Golf’ presumably,
business men in slightly crumpled suits, and sticky shirts, walking fast, places to be.

Families. Americans arriving in Scotland for the first time, looking around, uncertain.
A pleasant couple trailing four little blond children and copious amounts of luggage,
a family of giants, mother, father, two teenage boys. She wondered in passing how
tall the boys would be when they stopped growing as they’d had already almost
reached their father.

An African American family, side by side, mother grasping a toddler, his soft face
streaked with the tracks of recent tears, stubbornly barefoot. Slightly fraught mother,
clutching small yellow socks and blue shoes in the hand that held him, resignedly
hauling the rest of his toddler luggage over her free shoulder, looking about. Beside
them, the tall good-looking dad pushing an empty stroller, two little girls walking
smartly, sometimes half skipping beside him, so alike they could be twins. Wearing
citrus sundresses, perfect against their dark skin, one lime, one orange, matching
ribbons in their black curls. She hoped they’d brought something warmer for the
evening; early summer nights in May could be cold in Glasgow.

Each girl carried airline colouring books and crayons, one a dishevelled doll and a
well-thumbed storybook, the other a large furry, honey coloured teddy.

The happy detritus of childhood.

The place was so crowded she lost sight of them as a ginger haired man and his small
dark haired wife came right up to her then veered away.

The African American family suddenly hove into view again. She half raised herself
from her seat to see everything better. They were close now coming towards her,
arms beginning to stretch out.

Then as if in response to some silent signal they all drew aside.

There he stood.

20
Tall, upright, and broad shouldered, looking fit and vigorous in late middle age. Some
natural black flecking the iron grey of his hair. His dark handsome features etched in
a fine boned dignity, his gaze steady. Slightly questioning.

Silence.

The thronging concourse was suddenly, impossibly hushed, muffled as a snowy

village in the dawn.

She wondered at the silence. How could it be?

Then she felt the sun come out as she realised what it was.

The screaming had stopped.

His face.

She looked at his face as if she could never get enough of looking, deep tawny
shades, chiselled dark tones, soft full lips.

Like his father.

Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,

Till I come marching home.

Her niece helping her up, beaming through tears, her new family encouraging her
with friendly, welcoming faces.

And his eyes, deep, liquid, melting chocolate brown.

Eyes the colour of Tuesday.

She moved towards him as he stepped towards her, her love, her joy, her life.

“Mom?”

***

2. The Year of Living Dangerously

21
She drove the short distance home to the large red sandstone townhouse, part of an
elegant West End terrace.

Kensington Gate, Glasgow.

Even at this hour the low sun shining from a glorious blood-red sky dappled through
the black dancing leaves on the line of trees on the other side of the road, sighing,
singing, rustling in the gentle breeze in brief reminder of another time, another place,
another life. She let herself into the long hallway of the house that was far too big for
her now. She should have sold it she knew and moved somewhere smaller, more
practical, less draining on finances, she’d just not quite got round to it yet. Anyway
she knew the girls felt comforted by cosy childhood reminders when they came home
on vacation, even if they would never admit to it.

This evening the spacious, shaded, high-ceilinged drawing room with its elegant
cornices and matching ceiling rose felt gloomy and oppressive. The pale cream
curtains hung languidly at the tall Victorian windows of the south facing room
reflecting the mood. The house had a tangible weight to it and she felt not for the first
time that it was much more than mere stone and brick and wood and slate and plaster.
It was, she was certain, a living, breathing, sentient organism, and tonight it was as if
it was straining to support the weight of its hundred years of history.

The evening had been euphoric. A rarely used word, yet an apt one. For her little
group of relatives, old and new the future would never be quite the same. That it had
in large part been down to her effort and dogged determination was quite something
to contemplate. She’d celebrated with them, shared in their joy and wonder at the turn
of events, played the part expected of her, the jolly gregarious niece, happy for them
and with them. Now she’d returned to the echoing loneliness of home she felt the
inevitable post-euphoria depression set in. The accompanying guilt that she should
feel this way didn’t help to lighten her mood.

I have supped full with - happiness.

She knew she was being foolish and self indulgent, but the mood persisted. She
raided the fridge for comfort food, regrettably for her expanding menopausal
waistline the only answer at such times. She moved back to the drawing room,
opened a bottle of red wine, then carefully pouring a glass she placed it on a coaster
on the solid oak coffee table. She stretched her length out on the couch in the gloom,
settled into the cushions until she was comfortable and, Haagen Dazs and spoon in
her lap she finally let the torpor take her.

She drifted back… twenty - four years.

Lotus Eaters!

Wind chimes in the porch. Heady hot spring day.

Smiling in memory at the simple beginnings.

“Shut the door and keep the heat out!” they all called out to the children in reflex as

22
they’d come thundering in like a herd of baby elephants for the umpteenth time. They
didn’t listen of course and were soon thundering out again, slamming the door,
oblivious to the adults who simply did not exist in their childhood world of play.

It should have been an Orwellian nightmare. 1984. Gadaffi’s Libya during the worst
of that regime’s excesses. And yet it wasn’t. Her memories now were of dazzling
white wide beaches, windsurfing, barbeques, parties. Frankie goes to Hollywood and
Jane Fonda’s workout.

Can you feel it, can you feel it, can you feel it?

Even now these words, followed by the anticipatory pause and then the familiar beat
would invoke a Pavlovian response every time she heard them.

It had been almost like Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Every action has an equal and
opposite reaction. The more the state clamped down on freedom the wilder and more
hedonistic their lives became.

Sod you totalitarianism, we’re going to have fun!

She and her husband had arrived in the early spring of that year, young, naïve and
ready for adventure, her own burgeoning career on hold to accommodate his.

The Year of Living Dangerously

They’d even watched the video in Libya, one hot summer’s night. Mel Gibson before
he’d become American, or on one disastrous occasion, ersatz Scottish.

Rookie expats.

She recalled her bemused encounter with a seasoned member of that ilk on the day
she arrived.

The woman stood framed in the doorway that first evening, elegant white understated
summer dress draping her bony frame. String of simple pearls, diamond earrings
matching engagement ring. The carefully applied powder mixed with perspiration
only served to emphasise the criss-cross of fine lines on the crepe paper skin.

“Darling, it’s just awful here,” she exclaimed, dark eyes widening, as she paused for
effect, “ No servants!”

They’d arrived in late afternoon at the little compound of dirty off-white

prefabricated bungalows that would be their home for a year. A metal and concrete
fence separating the Europeans, both East and West she was to discover, from the
natives. They’d passed some tennis courts close to the entrance and she’d noted just
outside the perimeter a luxury hotel, complete with swimming pool and sun loungers,
a pleasing facsimile of Western luxury and comfort, which she was to discover, was
almost always empty.

A façade.

23
She found it impossible to imagine ever being able to call this place ‘home’. The 100
mile journey east along the brand new coast road from the airport at Tripoli that
afternoon felt like the hazy remnant of a slightly disturbing dream.

A slide show of images played through her head; countryside, sandy, but also greener
than she’d expected, serried ranks of olive trees as far as the eye could see, tall
swaying palm trees, sandy villages gone in a flash, substantial, single or two storey
concrete villas, partially hidden behind high walls, with ornate but forbidding
wrought iron gates, geometric patterns. Huddles of men dressed in white robes,
women similarly attired but with heads and faces covered by the hijab. Occasional
clutches of teenage soldiers in desert fatigues, casually caressing the automatic
weapons slung over their shoulders, as if placating capricious lovers. Nearly all the
vehicles seemed to be white too, including the ubiquitous pick up trucks, usually
driven by the head of the household, one arm stretched out of the driver’s window
languidly trailing a cigarette, while wife, unnumbered offspring, and the occasional
goat, huddled together in the back, exposed to the hot, grimy elements like
inconsequential cargo.

Slowly in the days and weeks that followed she’d adjusted to her new situation. She
got used to the ridiculously exotic view of the tall date palms from her kitchen
window and the animated biblical tableau that greeted her every evening as she
prepared dinner. The scene washed in throat-catching oranges, blood-reds and
elongated shadow. Dishevelled goats in a mixture of tones, cream, brown and black,
bleating in caprine musical round to the accompaniment of tinny dissonant bells. The
goatherd clad in white robes, shepherd’s crook in one hand, uttering occasional
guttural commands as he urged them home before sundown.

And there was no greater reminder of place and the culture in which she found herself
than the evocative call to prayer as it echoed through the town, haunting, as if the cry
of a ghost from ages past, yet at once so much in the present, and so regular, that you
could set your watch by it.

The cry of the muezzin,

“Allaaaaahu Akbrrr”, pause for two beats, “Allaaaaahu Akbrrr!”

She adored the taste bud tingling smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the
bakery next door, laughed each morning, as her young husband would return juggling
a piping hot baguette for breakfast.

They’d been married almost three years and he was a civil engineer. A good looking
fair-haired meat and potatoes kind of guy, practical, who didn’t say much unless it
was about work, or sport, which fortunately she also enjoyed. They’d married
ridiculously young, of course, but if their relationship had flaws she’d been too naive
at that stage to recognise the emerging fault lines. She loved him, or looking back
with mature hindsight, had been at least in love with the idea of being in love. He was
the kind of man she believed she ought to be in love with. She lived in Voltaire’s ‘best
of all possible worlds” and was not experienced enough in life to realise that the best
of all possible worlds would turn out in the end to be distinctly average.

24
The British company he worked for offered their expertise to the town government,
and were known as the Technical Support Team , or T.S.T. She met more of her expat
neighbours, fortunately none of them in any way like the brittle caricature of that first
evening’s encounter. In fact, thank goodness, “I’ve been everywhere ma’am”, as she
was known, left for parts unknown the very next week, somewhere presumably with
servants.

She was to make some lasting friendships among the expat wives, very few of whom
worked in this male-dominated country. A number were English. She’d had to cross
the usual barrier with one or two who inevitably asked what part of England she came
from. She would watch that oh-so-familiar flicker of irritation cross their faces as she
corrected them – “Scotland”. She knew they thought she was been typically Scottish,
over sensitive and uber patriotic, when she was merely pointing out simple fact. After
all they would have been baffled if she asked which part of Wales they were from.
Once that perennial hurdle was negotiated they got on fine. Many of the families
were from the Irish Republic. No one felt like suggesting that the proportionately
high number of Irish families was in anyway connected with Gadaffi’s overt support
for the IRA, and anyway she found the Irish open and easy going and friendly and
good fun. She settled into a routine of coffee mornings and ‘going for the burn’ with
Jane Fonda. Every time she saw ‘that woman’ in the present day she would first envy
her bone structure and good looks, inherited from her father, and then would blame
Jane entirely for the horrible state of her middle-aged knees.

The majority of the other women were older than her and had children. She’d faced
the usual questions about whether she intended to produce. “We’re not in any rush,”
she would lie. Couldn’t they tell she was from the planet Zog just by looking at her?
She indeed felt alien, forcing a jaw-cramping smile during inevitable conversations
about the best month to give birth or the optimum gap between offspring.

They played tennis and everyone soon discovered that she’d played the sport to a
high level. This led to her being called into service as unofficial tennis coach. Word
spread and her clientele soon included, Turks, Germans and Bulgarians as well as
Irish and English.

Friday was the Muslim day of rest so it stood to reason that Thursday night was party
night.

That first party.

“Here you are darling. Welcome to Libya, dry as the Sahara!”

A skinny guy, mid forties, greying at the temples, attired in pink t-shirt, RELAX
emblazoned across it in large black elongated letters, and excruciatingly tight jeans
painted on to drainpipe legs, shoved the small glass containing clear liquid and ice
into her hand with an encouraging smile. It looked like straight vodka or gin or even
water. Not wanting to appear rude she took a bigger gulp than she’d intended, and
immediately gagged embarrassingly.

What was the stuff?

25
She was to learn that it was called ‘Flash’, lovingly home distilled and with virtually
lethal alcohol content. She felt obliged to drain the glass. He watched like an
expectant puppy as she swallowed each searing mouthful.

Before long the room was spinning and fading – she lurched to the front door, in
urgent and absolute need of fresh air, gasped as the cold clear night hit her lungs
depriving her temporarily of breath.

Somehow she found the strength to haul open the compound’s heavy steel entrance
gate. Then she staggered blindly - she hoped not permanently - along quiet dust and
sand back roads trying to walk off the effects of the alcohol. Of course, she was in no
state to remember the curfew that was always in place for God knows what reason.
Control she supposed.

Then without warning she tripped, crying out in shock as she landed heavily on –
something. It was solid and lukewarm. She moved her limbs gingerly, momentarily
relieved that she appeared uninjured, in the way of drunks, just a little numb.

She felt a soft furry texture brush her mouth almost lovingly.

She tried to focus.

A gleaming blank lifeless eye stared back at her in the moonlight.

Filling up with unspeakable gut churning horror, gagging and retching, as it dawned
on her that she was sprawled across a large and very dead dog. Her piercing scream
ripped through the clear sharp night. Living relatives of the deceased creature
responded in kind, their mournful howls echoing back at her in tragic chorus. Without
conscious thought she jumped to her feet, bounded back along the dusty road, head
turning wildly this way and that, trying desperately to get her bearings. She whirled
round a corner, gasping with renewed shock as she collided with a solid shape in
white robes.

“Shinu fe hinna!”

The old man caught her in his arms, his kindly smile morphing ever so slowly into a
leering toothless grin as she felt his bony hands caress slowly and deliberately over
her breasts. She tugged at the thin arms, struggled to escape, finally shaking him off
in disgust. She stumbled off in panic, the old haj’s pleading guttural patois slowly
fading into the dark places of the night.

Eventually she found her way back to the correct bungalow, easy to pick out, and
entered the room struggling for breath, heart pounding alarmingly. By now the party
was in full swing, a heaving mass of noisy humanity, music booming, incessant.

No one was in any state to notice she’d been gone.

“Karma, Karma, Karma, Karma Chameleon. You come and go, you come and
goooo,” segued seamlessly into the throbbing, pounding anthem that would always

26
take her right back every time she heard it.

Relax don't do it
When you want to go to it
Relax don’t do it
When you wanna come…
You gotta live those dreams
Scheme those schemes
Got to hit me
Hit me
Hit me with those laser beams…

She collapsed utterly spent on some cushions scattered Libyan style in a corner of the
room, the only space available, as a tall glass of lethal fruit punch was thrust into her
hand.

Life fell into a pretty pleasant, easy routine. The worst thing about Libya in the ‘dark
days’ of the eighties was the lack of shops. In the year before they’d arrived all the
little shops, the lifeblood of any town, providing colour and variety and social focus
had been unceremoniously closed down. She would pass rows of boarded up,
shuttered premises, a haunting echo of an entirely different place that she tried to
imagine but would never know. Civilisation for locals and Europeans was on hold.

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.

Some edict of the Leader of the Great First of September Revolution.

Shopping for essentials meant scouring the bland, poorly stocked state owned
supermarkets. You could get milk, eggs, couscous, rice, pasta, chickpeas, tins of
powdered spicy harissa, or butter and yoghurt past their use-by dates. Rice and sugar
and flour came in large sacks and had to be sieved carefully for a surprising variety of
creepy crawlies before use. One essential item that was always in plentiful supply
was a product called Bio Malt – a dark yeasty, molasses-like tonic for infants, which
came in large tins. If the state appointed managers of the premises wondered at its
popularity they never said, just ordered more. It was of course the basic ingredient of
a pretty foul home brewed beer, known to the expat community as ‘Pepsi’, for
obvious reasons.

For luxuries; chocolate, biscuits, ketchup, toilet roll, Tampax, all you could do was
bring supplies with you, or order them from anyone going home, or to other parts of
Europe on vacation. There was one oasis of local colour, the vegetable market, or Veg
Souk as it was affectionately known. Here she found a proper glimpse of ancient
North African tradition, and a plentiful supply of seasonal vegetables and fruits.
Local suppliers with wizened broken-toothed grins would sit cross-legged and be
robed on the ground and present their wares, in a timeless fashion that had replayed
in a loop over and over throughout the centuries. She and her new friends would play
at haggling in minimal Arabic, although it was not really required.

“Salam-alaikum”

27
“Araba’ah?”

“Hamsah!”

“Hamsah?”

“Aiwa”

“Shukran.!” “Ma'asalam”

Looking back she realised that the result of all this deprivation was a pretty healthy
diet, and the added bonus of a new creativity to her cooking that would last evermore.
To this day she invented dishes with the ingredients available without the need for
recipes.

The working day began early in Libya and was over by two, which meant that
another favourite expat pastime could be indulged on a regular basis.

The Beach

It was vast, empty, of fine almost pure white sand, and entirely unspoilt, Backed by
rolling dunes. A throwback to Mediterranean beaches before the package holiday
boom. Here you could live the hedonistic western life, in skimpy bikinis and Speedos
without interference from the local community. Well, occasionally she would glimpse
some local youths leering from the sand dunes, but it was clear that everyone had
made an unspoken decision to remain oblivious and she meekly acquiesced in the
‘omerta’. The happy band of multi-national expats would sit around in little groups,
working on their perma tans, gossiping, putting the world to rights, or gently flirting,
as they enjoyed bottles of ‘Pepsi’ or other fruit flavoured sodas, often fortified with a
little ‘Flash’. The only ‘stain’ on the idyll the occasional jet globule of stubborn oil
sticking to flip flops or bare feet, courtesy of the leviathan oil tankers on the horizon,
a permanent reminder of Libya’s oil wealth. A wealth that somehow didn’t filter
down to the people, although she’d heard that virtually every family now had a home
and a car, a vast improvement on the past.

It was not all lotus eating. The sport of choice was windsurfing, at least among the
men. Her husband bought second hand equipment not long after they arrived and was
soon proficient. She watched partly amused, partly annoyed as he unconsciously
preened himself in front of the gorgeous golden Danish girls. She started to show an
interest in the sport, edging her way between her husband and the Scandinavians –
why did they have to wear the tiniest bikinis – and got him to teach her the technical
basics. Then one day she heard a troglodyte utter the words, making sure he said it
loud enough for her to hear,

“ No way! They can’t windsurf. Women? I’ve been here two years. Never seen one of
them master it yet. Don’t have the strength.”

A red rag to a bull.

When her husband had finished her lesson and was sprawled on the beach with his

28
friends as they played card games with the girls – was she imagining the men’s
tongues actually hanging out? - she would drag the board and the sail out to sea.
Then, having first mastered the tricky skill of climbing on to the bobbling board and
somehow remaining upright, she would lean back as a counter balance and haul the
tall mast and sail out of the water with a long rope that left livid burns on her palms
and fingers, heaving at the rough knotted hemp with every ounce of strength until her
arms were numb, fighting against the solid weight of water.

She would try to anticipate that precise tipping point when the mast finally emerged
from the sea, and the sail became suddenly feather-light and flapping in the breeze. At
that moment she would have to quickly have to grab the boom, adjust her balance and
stance and point the mast at the correct angle to catch the wind. The wind that would
fill the sail and make it rigid, giving her forward momentum.

Time after time after time she got it wrong, plunging backwards (and sometimes
more alarmingly catapulted forwards) into the churning surf, gagging on the salty
water that stung her eyes and surged painfully up her nose. But she never gave up.
She tried not to panic; fighting claustrophobia, when on occasion she found herself
trapped under the large sail and had to hold her breath for an excruciating length of
time while she swam underwater to safety.

Then one day she mastered it!

Oh the thrill, the exhilaration of ploughing through the water, with a surprising speed
to the shore, in control and with a new found confidence, as each wave slapped
against the board in watery applause. A little knot of her friends gathered on the
beach to congratulate her.

Take that troglodyte!

He actually had the decency to apologise and, she sheepishly admitted to herself, she
enjoyed the little moment immensely.

Every so often they would arrange an impromptu beach barbeque.

Surreptitious booze, fresh fish, vegetables, fruit, beach volleyball - and minced meat
produced from somewhere, black market, its animal of origin dubious, possibly –
whisper it – camel. How many people, she wondered, could say they’d enjoyed flame
grilled camel burgers?

One day, around a month after they’d arrived it was barbeque time again.

A new member of the Technical Support Team had recently arrived and she’d yet to
meet him. This party was in his honour, to introduce him to the gang.

They’d turned up a little late and the party was already in full swing, music pounding,
boisterous game of volleyball on the go.

He was part of the little group of men by the barbeque, helping to serve.

29
Her very first memory of him was of a collection of limbs, clad in fashionably short
shorts. He turned round, and she could only stare as deep dark doe eyes and
impossibly long dark silky lashes gazed back. Everything went into slow motion –
damn it! He greeted her with a cheerful hello and she mumbled back something
incoherent, painfully aware of her burning cheeks.

“Oh God, how embarrassing!” She closed her gaping jaw with an effort.

She’d had a weakness for the slim and doe-eyed for almost as long as she could
recall. Remembered telling her sister how much she loved any boy in a children’s
novel immediately he was described as ‘wiry’. Her sister had scoffed. In her sister’s
view ‘wiry’ meant, feeble and soft and too thin. But in her childish imagination she
saw a light, quick, lithe boy, slim and attractive with a hidden easy strength and
graceful agility that was far more beguiling. God she thought - was she in love with
Peter Pan? Put that in your pipe and smoke it psychologists. Well maybe just in lust,
because ultimately even at a tender age Peter Pan’s refusal to grow up and face reality
had irritated her immensely.

She barely needed the fingers of one hand to count the number of times a man had
made her forget to breathe. They were a rare breed. There had been that blond dark-
eyed Greek at Athens airport, on her honeymoon of all places, an Italian waiter in a
restaurant in Cambridge and in younger days that French crooner who’d won the
Eurovision Song Contest with a ballad of unrequited love. There had been many
attractive men, who’d caught her eye, including her own husband of course, but only
a tiny few of the drop dead gorgeous.

He introduced himself to all as he handed out plates of food. She noticed he was
having a similar effect on all the girls including the Scandinavian sirens, who were in
reality very nice people; she’d had to admit it to herself through metaphorically
clenched teeth.

She took her laden plate carefully back to the blanket she was sharing with her
husband, joined in the easy chat and laughter with friends. Every so often she felt her
eyes drift unbidden to the right, surreptitious glances at a dream. He’d been
commandeered by the delicious Danes - they weren’t actually feeding him pieces of
food, she knew- she was just picturing it. Perfect golden blonde sirens and dark
Adonis.

Trouble was, she was eventually going to have to converse, even socialise with this
particular Adonis, somewhat trickier than drooling from afar.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Only she hadn’t expected to have to get over that particular hurdle quite so soon.

He was suddenly standing over her, which meant she had to look up the full length of
his beautiful body to converse with him.

“Looking for me?” she gushed stupidly, feeling sixteen again. She felt the beetroot
flush surge from her neck right to the roots of her hair as she tried desperately to keep

30
her eyes from following her mind.

“Yeah, I’ve been told you’re a tennis coach. Always promised myself I’d learn to play
properly one day. What do you think? Could you fit me in?”

As she looked up at him she hopelessly attempted to recall the report she’d overheard
on the BBC World Service that morning about pork belly futures.

She found herself somehow arranging to meet up with him the very next morning and
for the rest of the day she hugged that glorious knowledge to herself like a silly
schoolgirl.

The business of teaching him to play tennis gave her something else to concentrate
on, take her mind off his stunning beauty, but even then every so often he’d give her a
quizzical sideways glance or move his body in a certain way that would make her
stomach lurch. She knew she laughed far too much whenever he said anything even
remotely amusing, but by and large she got by. He wasn’t a natural. He held the
racket like a frying pan no matter how often she tried to show him the correct grip,
but what he lacked in ability he made up for in enthusiasm.

Afterwards they went for coffee in the only place in town. Men with lined leather
faces and squinting bleary raisin eyes sat outside in the shade intent on hookah pipes.
As she entered she could feel their black eyes boring into her back, an uncovered
Western woman brazenly entering an all male establishment. She hesitated, but he’d
urged her on, even touching her back lightly, impersonally, in encouragement.

Over tiny cups of treacly black coffee they got talking. She loved the way he looked
at her with a direct intensity when talking about his passions, his innate certainty of
the truth he was speaking. Her heart would do silly things when she looked at him,
but at least now she had her feelings under enough control to engage in fairly normal
conversation, well most of the time. It helped that he had interesting things to say.

He was politically to the left of centre, like her, liberal with socialist leanings in the
Western European democratic definition of that word. He had an intense hatred of
injustice, man’s inhumanity to man in all its political manifestations, which she
thought endearing and noble. He hated America’s ties to the military industrial
complex, it’s need to retain tension with the Eastern Bloc. And he’d read
Solzhenitsyn – “The Gulag Archipelago” and urged her to so the same. Soviet
Communism in 1984 was in its last throws, as represented by relics of a dying era,
literally in the case of Andropov and Chernenko, though nobody knew it then. This
was the year of the TV movie “The Day After Tomorrow”, and the threat of nuclear
war was still very real. No one had yet heard of Gorbachev or glasnost and
perestroika. Frankie goes to Hollywood would sing about it in their next hit single.

“When two tribes go to war…”

They found themselves in deep and animated conversation. He had a way of

articulating thoughts that she had only half formed. She was aware of that uniquely
satisfying sensation you get in earnest discussion with someone with whom you are
in absolute agreement, a powerful feeling as if together you would have the strength

31
to take on the world and prove to it the error of its ways.

His other passion was history and he was enthusiastic about Libya’s rich Roman
heritage. He had plans to visit the cities of Lepcis Magna and Sabratha, which
rivalled anything in Italy, as soon as humanly possible.

“Then of course there are the fortified farms at Ghriza”.

She hadn’t heard of them. She’d read all about Lepcis Magna and was keen to visit
herself but the name Ghirza was unknown to her.

“I’ve a book all about it. I’ll bring it to tomorrow’s tennis lesson. You can have a
look. See what you think.”

“Hey”, he said, his eyes dancing happily. “Wanna see some Roman ruins right now?”

She’d hardly had time to nod in agreement before he’d grabbed her hand, dropped
some US dollars on the café table -he knew how to keep the owners onside – and
rushed her outside. They got into his battered old car and within minutes had reached
the sandy track to the beach. There was a knack to driving on it without getting stuck
in mounds of soft sand that appeared in the path every so often without warning, an
insidious threat to tyres and suspension, and although a newcomer, he’d already
mastered this essential skill.

Soon they were by the dunes above the beach, a little farther west than the usual hang
out. He took her to a clearing a little way off the track above the dunes. He crouched
down, and started to scrape fastidiously at the sand. The ground was hard underneath
the fairly thin layer of sand. She watched his deft golden hands at work, aware of all
the little hairs on the backs of them. He had beautiful hands she decided. Then he
hesitated, dug his fingers deeper into the dust, delving into the small spaces in the
stone just beneath the surface. Finally after some effort he eased out something small
and indistinguishable that had been jammed there, grasping it carefully between
forefinger and thumb, triumphant look on his face, dark eyes dancing.

“This is yours,” he announced with an attempt at solemnity as he gazed into her eyes,
“your own personal Roman relic”, but she could see the sparkle there that made you
feel that laughter was never far away. She felt herself drawn to him and time briefly
stopped.

It was as if they had become an essential part of the environment in which they found
themselves. The waves crashing on the shore, the warm salty air, the rush of the wind
that played with his hair, tousling it sweetly, the knot of exquisite pain in her chest,
the look in his deep dark eyes all became one. Something elemental, deeper than
mere physical attraction and more ancient, bound them in the moment. They had
always been here and always would be, in this place without time.

With an effort she turned her attention to the little object as he placed it carefully in
her hand. It was made up of tiny squares of black, white and grey marble. Mosaic, a
tiny part of the floor or wall of a Roman villa that had stood undisturbed on this spot
for centuries, he told her. He’d heard a rumour from a local man and had discovered

32
some of its hidden treasures for himself just a few days before. Anywhere else this
item would have been catalogued and recorded and stored. Here it was treasure trove,
finders keepers. She thrilled at the thought of this secret place that was in some way
their very own, that the last hands to touch the mosaic apart from hers – and his – had
probably been Roman.

Later he dropped her off at her bungalow, reminding her to think about the trip to
Ghirza. She entered to find her husband listening to the football results on the BBC
World Service, the usual Saturday afternoon ritual. He looked over and she went to sit
beside him on the couch.

She realised she hadn’t thought of him once all day.

“Partick Thistle lost”.

Well, it wasn’t surprising news, but she was suddenly aware of how like a little boy
he looked as he said it. He’d probably being uttering that phrase ever since childhood
too, she thought. Then she was engulfed in a heavy sickening guilt that gnawed at her
gut, although she had done absolutely nothing wrong. He put an arm round her, more
to comfort himself. She looked at him anew. The thick shock of fair hair atop an open
pleasant face, archetypal good looks, well defined straight eyebrows on a prominent
brow that shaded deep-set green eyes, tall, strong, broad shoulders. Her friends
envied her, she knew. She’d been starting to take him for granted she admitted to
herself and suddenly felt a powerful need to do something to win him back, although
she hadn’t lost him.

She entered the kitchen and raided the large fridge and the vivid orange painted
cupboards for provisions. Then she laid each item carefully and deliberately on the
counter, spacing them evenly as if in preparation for some obscure religious ritual.

She looked at the result of her efforts.

Sweet peppers from the Veg Souk, an enormous knobbly potato, no selection by size
and shape here, a dented tin of tomatoes, jar of dried oregano, well squeezed tube of
tomato puree, brought from home. Cheese, spicy harissa, milk, flour, butter, whole-
wheat pasta sheets. She’d make a sweet pepper and potato lasagne. Lasagne was his
favourite. Even sieving the flour for weevils somehow became a labour of love and
perhaps of atonement for her mental infidelity.

When it was ready she presented the piping hot dish with a flourish and he tucked in
straight away, with gusto, too distracted by the evening football match to say
anything bar a mumbled thanks. The howls of the far away crowd faded in, suddenly
booming, then out again to almost a whisper on the weak signal, accompanied by
jarring whines and whistles like some avant-garde symphony. She could see he was
enjoying the meal, somewhere appreciated the effort she’d made. She really didn’t
need to hear the words.

Next day she didn’t linger after the tennis lesson, ignored the twist in her stomach at
Adonis’s sudden dimpled smile. He’d handed her the book on the “Treasures of
Tripolitania”, the page on the fortified farms of Ghirza marked by a careful little fold

33
in the top corner, and she’d promised to read it. She went home in time to listen to the
Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race with her husband. They’d sat in the porch in
anticipation, wind chimes singing in the ever-present breeze, and listened to the
voices from England set the scene on the Thames, far away. Her husband was
supporting Cambridge. The Light Blues’ boat managed to crash into the starter’s
barge and sink before the race even began. She hoped it wasn’t some kind of omen.

The trip to Ghirza began to take a coherent shape. A number of people were
interested in taking part in the excursion and the event entered the planning stage.

Then one morning something happened that ripped the flimsy fabric of their
cocooned lives, a jolting reminder of the precariousness of their easy existence in a
very foreign land.

Clipped BBC tones from the World Service newsreader.

“A policewoman has been shot and killed during a demonstration outside the Libyan
People’s Bureau in St James’s Square, London.”

She found it impossible to drag herself away from the radio. Couldn’t get enough of
the news, even when in these first hours there was virtually nothing to report, the
same words repeated ad nauseam until she knew all of them by heart. She found
herself perversely dependent on the instrument that brought the news that might tear
her happy world apart. She had become its creature and could not escape. She
decided that it was like battered wife syndrome, as she clung with hopeless neediness
to the very thing that brought her pain. She would carry the radio with her
everywhere. Looking out of the kitchen window, even the familiar palm trees
opposite, swaying in the strong wind today, seemed somehow alien, threatening as
they tossed and bent impatiently. The World Service News theme tune, Lilliburlero,
would erupt on the hour, every hour, silly jaunty jig contrasting absurdly with the
alarming events.

One hour since the shooting of the policewoman, two hours, three…

The facts were, as far as they could be ascertained, that a demonstration of Libyan
dissidents had taken place that morning outside the Libyan Embassy, recently
renamed with inadvertent revolutionary irony, The Libyan People’s Bureau. At some
point shots had been fired directly at the crowd, from the embassy it was reported. A
number had been injured and tragically a policewoman on crowd control duty, caught
in the crossfire, had been killed. It was unclear exactly what had happened, and
Kennedyesque conspiracy theories would abound about who fired the shots and
exactly from where. There would still be debate twenty-four years later.

Over the next week and a half normal life was on hold as they waited for news. Yet,
outwardly there was no ostensible change. No signs of soldiers or guns. In those early
days, she’d lain awake in bed, half waiting for a knock at the door. Imagined sinister
Gestapo-like disappearances in the night. Yet, the only difference she discerned was a
tendency of the local Libyans to be warmer and friendlier to the Brits than ever. The
men reported that as they worked surveying the land for new roads, the locals would
come out more often with glasses of strong tea.

34
Brittani quois - Brits good!

Then an ominous new statement started to appear on the hourly news bulletins,
repeated hour after hour, day after day, like a mantra.

“There are fears for the safety of the 8,000 British citizens resident in Libya.”

She could imagine the reaction of her mother at home when she heard that.

Yet, it didn’t fit at all with what they were seeing on the ground.

Later on she decided that a ‘quote’ had been elicited from someone in officialdom.
The news anchor would have asked, “Are the British inhabitants of Libya in any
danger, can you tell us?” and he or she would have felt obliged to concede that their
situation might be a little precarious. This had morphed Rashomon-like into stark
warning.

It soon became apparent that, as with the initial tragedy, the epicentre of the ensuing
drama was London, thousands of miles away, and not Libya. Their little world had not
been touched.

A siege of the People’s Bureau ensued and it lasted eleven days until the British
Government controversially agreed that all the occupants of the building could claim
diplomatic immunity and leave. They were escorted from the country forthwith.

Then early on the evening of that same day the BBC announced with great solemnity,

“There follows a message for all British citizens currently residing in the Socialist
People’s Libyan Arab Jamahariya . There will be an important announcement from
the Foreign and Commonwealth Office to be broadcast at 8pm British Summer
Time”.

Stunning to hear the BBC World Service speaking to them directly. The message was
repeated regularly over the next few hours allowing more than adequate time for wild
speculation. Then at ten pm Libyan time, everyone sat by their radios, agog.

Her feelings about the whole situation had evolved in the eleven days since it’s start.
She became slowly aware of a new ill-defined sensation growing within her. Suddenly
she realised what it was. Despite the very real fear and uncertainty, this was utterly
thrilling.

The announcement.

“The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland will cut off diplomatic
relations with Libya at midnight tonight. British citizens of the Socialist People’s
Libyan Arab Jamahariya are advised to consider their position.”

Unsure of exactly what this meant she followed her husband, who went outside
immediately. Would they have to leave – perhaps tonight? Where would they go and

35
how would they get there? So many questions. Others were emerging from
bungalows, joining them, talking, discussing. There was an absolute necessity to be
with other people, to group together as some sort of instinctive defence against an
unseen and unimaginable menace. Form the wagons in a circle.

She felt as if the ground was slipping away beneath her feet, no solidity, nothing to
hold on to. She hugged herself, shivered uncontrollably with something that, yes, she
knew for sure was fear, but within it too, a little seed of excitement growing. She
wondered if any of the others felt the same, or if it was just her? It was very immature
of her, she knew, but she felt more than anything that they were starring in their very
own movie. That nothing was real. That she was invincible. Was her reaction just
some kind of primeval defence mechanism in the face of a clear and present danger?

Adrenalin. Fight or flight?

Did heroes feel the same way just before they rushed headlong into acts of foolhardy
derring do, she wondered? Was that all it was? Some chemicals in the brain roused by
ancient memory? Or was it just that her only experience was of a life so bedded in
security, with no inkling of real terror or knowledge of tragedy, that she was unable to
grasp the reality of it? Everything would work out in the end because it always had so
far. After all she’d always been taught and believed without question that she would
be cared for in times of trouble by a beneficent God. She had yet to subscribe to the
view that God or no God, she stood on a tiny planet spinning out of control in the
vastness of space, in a life that could change utterly, or even be snuffed out on a
capricious whim.

She found herself staring at the diamond stars that pierced the cloudless night sky,
then at the deep blackness surrounding them. She was a child again as she tried to
imagine, convince herself, that the inky velvet darkness was softly, cosily, cushioning
the stars, protecting them and holding them secure, as if in loving arms. She searched
for the texture and mass that her brain told her must be there, daring to look deeper
and deeper into the blackness until her stomach lurched as the truth became
inescapable. She was peering into a void.

Nothingness.

She suddenly felt very far from home.

Then the leader of the British section of the Technical Support Team urged everyone
into his bungalow. He told them the stark news. Earlier that day he told them earnestly
he had withdrawn all the company money from the bank in town. He asked everyone
to pack; absolute essentials only, fill up their cars with petrol and await further
instructions. If the call came they would immediately form a convoy of cars and make
for the Tunisian border, several hours drive away. Strangely, as she looked at his
kindly, solemn face, she had to fight the urge burst into uncontrollable, utterly
inappropriate fits of giggles.

That night as her husband snored peacefully beside her she lay wide awake, thoughts
galloping.

36
She tried to imagine driving to Tunisia in the dead of night. Would there be
roadblocks? Would men with guns threaten them? Arrest them perhaps? Toss them
into some stinking, fetid prison, to be forgotten or bargained for. Or would they make
it safely over the border? If they were not allowed to take their Libyan cars across the
border, would they have to march to safety on foot? Would she feel the urge to sing
“Climb Every Mountain” like some wildly inaccurate desert-based incarnation of
Julie Andrews? She felt hysteria rising again.

Then she thought, soberly, that it would be particularly difficult for the families with
kids.

Her ears strained, all senses heightened, at full alert, in anticipation of the knock at the
door that would tell them it was time to leave.

It never came.

The next day dawned bright and clear and the wind had subsided to a dusty swirling
breeze.

Her husband had gone off to work as normal and she spent the morning either pacing
the floor or checking for the umpteenth time that they had packed all the essentials.
The phone lines were temporarily down, which meant it was impossible to contact
anxious relatives at home to reassure them. She knew guiltily that it was far worse for
them. It had been impossible to find the words to convince them, to make them
understand or believe that so far they were ok, and not about to by lynched by the
local populace.

She waited, counting the minutes, then the hours, for her husband to return. Finally
she heard his key in the lock at the usual time, around half past two. She was aware of
a strong steady pulsing in her throat.

“We’re staying,” he announced a little flatly. Had he been hoping somewhere for the
“Escape to Tunisia” adventure too, she wondered?

“Why? What happened? Don’t we have to leave?”

It turned out the Libyan bosses in the town council (Baladiya) had gathered the men
together in a room that morning for a special meeting. The atmosphere amongst the
British workers was tense, and filled with uncertainty. These Libyans were different
from the people she saw in her daily life. They were Westernised, smooth, wore
business suits. From what she’d heard they attended a lot of meetings, talked for hours
on the phone and drank a lot of tea, ostensibly in charge, while the foreign workers
got on with things. But they had smiled and offered all the Brits glasses of the usual
pungent cloying sweet tea and then asked them simply to stay. The quarrel was
between governments not the people. The people were their friends. They were
completely safe.

End of story.

So was that it? Was the drama over? She realised guiltily that it felt like an anti

37
climax. The big adventure that wasn’t.

Everyone was edgy and nobody felt like staying home or sitting still. There was a
need to let off steam, so they did, and how. The result was the infamous “Day we cut
of Diplomatic Relations” party. It started on the beach. Lots of photos were taken to
show relatives at home the hell they were living under. White sand, beach volleyball,
windsurfing, loud music, illegal alcohol, the pungent unmistakable odour of pot
mingling in the air with the salty sea breeze. After all it was North Africa. The other
nationalities were only too happy to join in as honorary British citizens for the day.

Somehow she had the feeling this type of event was not the sort of item that would
turn up on British news reports.

It was as if both sides in the dispute had an agreed script, both equally complicit in
corroborating the quasi-fiction. There was a certain view of the world that the benign
but innately prejudiced majority of the people back home expected and understood,
and it was the purpose of the news media to confirm, uphold and perpetuate that view.
Nobody seemed to care that yet again truth was the first casualty of war, or in this
case cold war.

It was at this time that her unshakeable belief in the grand old dependable Beeb, as the
BBC was affectionately known, began to falter.

After all she had the proof.

A few days earlier foreign correspondents had reported the dramatic news that the
British Embassy in Tripoli had been surrounded by troops. Quite sinister stuff, until
friends who lived there explained the reality. The troops had indeed surrounded the
Embassy while the cameras were rolling, but pretty much as soon as the reporters left
the troops departed, leaving a couple of bored guys smoking by the gates. You could
say it made her cynical, but from that day on she took every news report with a very
large pinch of salt. A few days after the severing of diplomatic ties, and after the
wives of the British diplomats had been filmed defiantly singing “Land of Hope and
Glory”, as they were marched up to the plane at Tripoli Airport – that was shown on
the news - the Technical Support Team would receive an interesting letter from the
Foreign and Commonwealth Office which, when translated from government-speak
stated, “We will need to act as expected and make public statements decrying the
Libyan regime, but in the meantime you are perfectly safe, so could you all be good
chaps and carry on earning export dollars for Blighty.”

The beach party morphed seamlessly into a house party. In a semi-stoned fit of
generosity she’d asked everyone back to their place. It turned out to be one of the
wildest, most hedonistic there would be, at least the parts of it she could remember.

The doctors’ surgery in town was run by Eastern Europeans who notoriously over
prescribed. She would find this out for herself some months later when she suffered
from a kidney infection and was sent away with enough painkillers to fell a small
horse. The result of this generosity was an unlimited supply of spare pills for
recreational use. They became a welcome addition at parties.

38
The events of that night would become a series of blurred images. A fight broke out at
one point and she remembered foolishly getting between the burly protagonists,
pleading with them to stop. She distinctly remembered some people leaving by the
tiny bathroom window for some unfathomable reason, which presumably made
perfect sense at the time. Later, or was it earlier, a rugby ball had appeared from
somewhere and there had been an impromptu indoor match, in which she’d briefly
participated, until the fashionable large round paper shade in the living room was
ripped to shreds and the light bulb smashed. The pills mixed with Flash made lots of
people really ill. Both bedrooms were in almost total darkness, give or take little
shafts of moonlight leering through the slats in the blinds, revealing the ever-changing
stream of dubious couplings. She’d stumbled in there drunkenly a number of times in
search of respite, only to withdraw immediately in haste.

And, oh my God, at some point he had arrived – her Adonis. He lived in an apartment
in town, rather than in a bungalow in the compound. He’d not been at the beach, but
when he’d turned up at the door, stunningly beautiful as ever, her heart had leapt and
she’d welcomed him with open arms, literally and a little too loudly. She remembered
making a sterling effort to sober up; her urgent need to remain classy in his eyes.

Some point during the night she’d danced with him. Just a friendly gesture on his part,
she was sure. Yet, next day she could recall the feeling of his cool hands gently resting
on her back, only the thin fabric of her white blouse between him and her skin, the
touch of his fingers as he brushed stray strands of hair from her face. The look on his
face as he gazed briefly but directly at her, liquid eyes seeming to melt into hers for a
moment. Finally wrapped in each other’s arms, her head on his shoulder, the feel of
his heartbeat, strong against her breast. She remembered that.

Lionel Ritchie sang.

I've been alone with you inside my mind

And in my dreams I've kissed your lips, a thousand times
I sometimes see you pass outside my door
Hello, is it me you're looking for?

His behaviour had been affectionate and warm, but entirely seemly and decent, and
he’d gone off home soon after. Oh yes, she would have remembered if it had been
otherwise. His gentlemanly conduct and inherent refusal to take advantage of her
drunken vulnerability cleaved her to him even more. Perhaps too, he guessed the
complications that might have arisen had he stayed. At least, she secretly hugged the
hope of that to her heart.

Oh God, she had it bad. She’d reached the stage where all the songs, especially the
cheesy ones, had meaning.

Within a couple of days Ghirza was back on the agenda.

“ Sixteen of us. Dave’s coming too – and Helen. They got a baby sitter.”

“It’s no trip for kids.”

39
“We’ll go in four cars. Hamid, d’you know him? He said he’ll be our translator.
Could be roadblocks. That guy could talk his way out of a paper bag.”

They were in the café again and he held her gaze intently, his eyes suggesting that
merest hint of amusement in the way they always did, as he chatted happily about the
trip, only two days away now. She was caught up in his sheer enthusiasm for the place
they were about to visit.

She’d read all about Ghriza. 150 miles south east of Tripoli, and around 50 miles from
their little home from home. In the 4th century Tripolitania took in all of Libya and
some of southern Tunisia and was still part of the Roman Empire. The fortified farms
were the biggest and best-preserved sites of their type. The soldier farmers were
native Libyans, prosperous Berbers, who’d happily assimilated the Roman way of
life, even taking partial Roman names. They’d farmed the barren scrub of the ‘pre
desert’, carefully utilising the meagre flow from two wadis, always prepared for the
ever present threat of attack from tribesmen from the south.

Ghirza was an astounding place he’d enthused. She could see him picturing it in his
mind as he told her, eyes alight and gut wrenchingly beautiful. Southernmost outpost
of the Roman Empire. Around thirty-eight buildings give or take, set in the middle of
nowhere, some of them over 7 metres high, wooden door lintels still survived on some
buildings. And as for the tombs, he was looking forward to seeing those most of all.
Preserved virtually intact in the arid conditions, in a way she’d have to see to believe.
Classical style, clean lines in the Greco-Roman tradition. No reconstruction here like
you got in Pompeii or Herculaneum. It truly would be like going back in time. He
particularly wanted to visit the tomb of Marchius Chullam. It was beautiful he
explained eyes dancing. He was gonna go in there and say hi.

She found herself somehow all at once caught up in the beauty of him and the
excitement of the trip into the desert. Her heart suddenly soared. She felt light as a
feather as if she could leave the café and glide off into the air, over the dusty road and
the houses and the olive trees without any effort. Was this the reason she suddenly
grasped hold of his hand?

He didn’t let go.

He dropped his gaze to where their hands lay; locked together on the chipped
turquoise Formica table, fly buzzing lazily around them, the scene mottled by shafts
of intermittent sunlight that squeezed through the twisted Venetian blinds. Then
slowly he raised his eyes to meet hers, entirely serious for once. They sat like that for
God knows how long. Looking at him like that, eyes locked, gaze never wavering, it
hit her with sudden certainty that she knew him like no other, not her parents or her
siblings, not her best friends, not even, God help her, her husband, sitting at home
contented and oblivious, listening to the cricket.

His face almost entirely in shade now, brown eyes gleaming black in the low light.
She saw the long silky lashes framing them exquisitely. “Windows to the soul” an
over used expression, but entirely appropriate now, at this moment, for she could see
his soul and knew that it was her soul too.

40
“What are we going to do about this?” He was first to break the thick heavy silence.

“I..I don’t know.”

When she got home her husband was waiting for her impatiently, so she had no time
to feel guilty. He had news to impart.

“Tom’s asked us up to Tripoli on Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“There’s a football match. You know, against those Libyan guys I told you about, the
pilots who trained in Perthshire? Well, the Brits want me as striker. Tom practically
begged me. It’s a big deal for them. And remember it’s Seona’s party after, her
thirtieth. I couldn’t say no, could I?”

“I said you’d be coming too,” he added before she could interrupt.

He moved up close to her in that way she recognised so well, arms encircling her,
little boy look that always got to her, brushing his lips over her ear, kissing her cheek,
expecting her to concede as she usually did.

She pushed him away, felt the usual annoying tears, too readily pricking at her eyes,
stinging them. She made a sterling effort to hold them back, not wanting to appear
weak or needy.

“It’s the Ghirza trip on Friday.” She cringed inwardly at the bleating plea in her
voice.

“We can go there another time. Look, it’s been there all these centuries. It’s not going
to go away, is it?”

He was being patronising, making her feel small and stupid. Yet somewhere she also
knew though he’d never admit it that he did need her to be there with him, cheering
from the sidelines. Wasn’t that her duty as his wife? It was what he seemed to be
inferring, and she wondered guiltily if he was right.

Why was he incapable of understanding just how important this trip was to her? She
knew he thought it was just a pile of old stones in the desert. At that moment it felt to
her like the most important thing she would ever do in her life. And oh God, she
thought with sudden gut-wrenching guilt, it wasn’t really about the desert and the
buildings and the tombs at all, much as she longed to see them.

“Ok, I told Jeff too, we’re both coming to Tripoli,” he stated with calm finality.

It was as if the scales had been removed from her eyes, and she was furious. She saw
the accumulation of his many little acts of casual thoughtlessness, his innate
selfishness, his absolute expectance of her acquiescence.

She could feel that oh so familiar sudden surging flash of anger that she wished she

41
could learn to control. Her next words were a stream of tearful invective and stinging
barbs, so engulfed was she by a sense of injustice.

Then, as her hot anger discharged then subsided and died, as it always did pretty
quickly, a little thought then echoed back at her. In her heightened emotional state was
she instinctively manipulating the situation?

Why couldn’t she just calmly tell him she was obliged to go on the Ghriza trip? Have
a rational, civilised conversation with him. He hardly ever raised his voice; chances
were if she’d kept calm he’d have acquiesced relatively easily. Was she unconsciously
forcing disharmony, moving all the blame on him, making him out to be the bad guy,
in attempt to assuage her guilt when, after all he couldn’t possibly be aware of the
undercurrents? She knew him well enough, had argued with him often enough to
know he genuinely thought he was being perfectly logical and reasonable. But, oh his
patronising certainty and unthinking lack of understanding of her needs and interests
sometimes did annoy her so.

With her next words she made the utmost effort to keep her voice level. Her selfish
side needed to get back on the front foot. Her fair, rational self knew the importance
of reverting to civility, to keep emotion in check, to salvage some vestige of dignity.
She was not sure that she succeeded.

“Well, you’ll just have to go on your own, I’ve promised Helen and…everyone. I .. I
can’t change my mind at the last minute. That would be unreasonable. Anyway, I’ve
already spoken to Seona about her birthday. She’s completely cool with it. She
understands,” she added pointedly, oh God, unable to help the jibe.

“I’m going to Ghirza!”

She pushed her hands behind her back as, to her annoyance, they’d started to shake.

***

Beneath a piercing azure canopy, the landscape was entirely flat, the two lane road a
black line stretching off into the shimmering haze; arrow straight, for all the world as
if someone had drawn it with a ruler, which, when she thought about it they probably
had, behind some shaded window in town. No need to curve and wind it around hills
and mountains as they did back home. As she watched it fade and melt in the distance
she whimsically imagined them coming to a sticky halt when they finally reached the
tarry liquid mess on the horizon. A mirage; reminding her that they would soon be
driving in actual desert.

She sat in the passenger seat of the final car in the convoy. He was driving, her
Adonis, and in the back were throwback hippies, Dave and Helen, jovial and joking as
ever. Pleasant travelling companions, although of course she wished it could have
been just him.

She felt excitement yet also a deep contentment in each moment, as they passed quiet
villages, dusty hamlets, populated more by scruffy goats it seemed than people, where
the heavy silence of a rare still morning was broken only by the sudden staccato call

42
to prayer resonating from a tall minaret. In between little groves of date palms
bordered the road at irregular intervals providing a welcome respite from the
interminable regimented rows of olive trees.

Eventually all signs of human existence petered out as the landscape slowly turned to
dust and sparse scrub, dwarf bushes clinging stubbornly, and occasional boulders and
outcrops of rock. This was the farthest she’d ever been from the coast and before long
she realised the arid sandy landscape spread around them for miles in all directions,
the liquorice road the only sign of man’s intervention in this lonely land. This was she
presumed what the guidebooks meant by ‘pre desert’. It certainly wasn’t the desert of
her imagination, Lawrence of Arabia galloping past high dunes of soft fine sand. It
reminded her more than anything of the first colour pictures she’d seen a few years
earlier of a Martian landscape.

Then the tarmac road stopped.

Dead.

There was nothing around them, literally nothing, but desert. The convoy of assorted
cars ground to a halt. Even the guide Hamid in the lead car, who’d got them through
the one road block they’d encountered just out of town with aplomb, was stumped.
They consulted the map, which showed a thin dotted line from where they’d stopped
all the way to Wadi Zem Zem and Ghirza, but they could see no trace of even a rough
track in the real world. They’d counted on there being one.

A couple of the guys walked onto the hard sandy ground and strode out for about fifty
yards or so, then returned. They reported seeing tyre tracks, but they were criss-
crossed in so many directions that there was no indication of the correct way to go.
No one had thought to bring a compass. To set out blindly into the desert as they
approached the hottest time of the day would be suicide. Was that it? Had all their
plans come to nothing? She could have wept.

Everyone had got out of the cars, as if somehow they needed to make a show of doing
something. Her companion put a comforting arm around her, just briefly, consolingly.
She stood close beside him as they leaned on dusty car sipping at bottles of water,
while their back seat passengers wandered back off down the road revealing signs of
an unexpected impatience given their normally laidback outlook.

They heard Dave shout out something indistinguishable. Then followed where he was
pointing to a tiny dot on the shimmering horizon back along the road they’d just
travelled. Maybe this was an actual mirage? No, it was getting closer and very
gradually but progressively bigger. She was immediately reminded of that famous
scene with Cary Grant in Hitchcock’s ‘North by North West’, when he’s waiting by
the lonely Midwest highway for the elusive George Kaplan and watches as a car
approaches slowly from the distance, in real time. But there was no cornfield to run
into here, if the occupants of the vehicle turned out to be unfriendly. They were totally
exposed in this barren flat landscape.

They all watched transfixed as the car got nearer, listening to the buzz-saw of its
ancient engine roar ever louder as it approached their little group. Finally the car

43
stopped to the harsh sound of the handbrake being pulled a little too firmly. Then they
witnessed a surreal little scene as it played out in front of them.

Two men in western business attire got out, the desert backdrop as their set. One was
the driver who was shaking hands with the passenger, then hugging him as if in
farewell. The passenger was a dapper little man, dressed in a neat short grey raincoat
over a clean white shirt and black tie, perspiring only slightly in the growing heat of
the morning sun. He carried a small battered brown suit case.

She felt for all the world as if she was watching experimental theatre, and was too
obtuse to grasp the deeply significant message the director was attempting to convey.

It turned out this quiet spoken little man was to be their saviour.

He was a Bedouin, on the way back to his home – in the desert – of course. He had a
short and urgent conversation in Arabic with Hamid, who then turned to the group,
now all agog. The Bedouin had agreed to show them the way to Wadi Zem Zem in
return for a lift. If they could just drop him off at home, that would be very kind. It
would save his brother the trip.

So, hardly able to believe the strange turn of events, they all piled into the cars again,
started up engines and headed into the desert. Before setting off her particular driver
gave her a secret little half smile in anticipation of the adventure to come that made
her heart turn over.

It turned out it wasn’t nearly as tricky to navigate as they’d thought. The Bedouin had
pointed out a black oil drum away on the horizon. All you had to do he’d explained
was follow the oil drums. From then on the journey was fun, for the human
adventurers if not for the cars, old battered two-wheel drives that creaked and
squeaked over the bumps no matter how careful the driver. Still she thrilled at the
thought of heading into the unknown, travelling in an utterly alien landscape. Her
heart was thumping and she had to admit she didn’t feel entirely safe until she glanced
at the driver, his face frowningly intent on the road ahead, and she realised with a jolt
that had nothing to do with the bumpy terrain. A truth; that no matter how far from the
familiar she found herself she would always be at home with him.

Before long they saw the outline of something dark on the horizon that wasn’t an oil
drum. It was the larger asymmetric shape of a grove of date palms. As they
approached Wadi Zem Zem, as well as the palm trees they could see more evidence of
greenery and growth. They’d found a sweet, welcoming little oasis. They parked the
cars up beside the river valley, no water in the wadi of course, but the evidence of it’s
beneficence was all around them displayed in all its glorious greenery. The Bedouin
took his leave, shaking everyone’s hand in formal Arabic style. At first she was
perplexed. Where on earth was he going? Then she looked further along the valley to
the north a saw a huddled row of roomy black tents, dromedaries tethered outside.

He was home.

They decided as one, without the need for discussion, not to approach the tents, all
feeling instinctively, despite their new friend’s western attire, that it would be

44
inappropriate and in poor taste to approach in decadent shorts and tee shirts. She felt
herself that to do so would sully and somehow dilute an ancient culture. Just as he left
them, having accepted their profuse thanks and some very welcome US dollars, which
he said he would spend on his family, the Bedouin pointed to a large rocky outcrop.

“Shuf!”

She was uncertain what he meant, but they all set off round the rocks, her companion
grasping her hand and briefly squeezing it as they did so.

There it was, better than she could ever have pictured it – Ghirza.

Her first impression was of a solid rambling village. In fact it looked a far more
suitable place of habitation to her Western eyes than a row of tents. She half expected
people to come out and greet them with glasses of strong tea, so well preserved and in
the now did everything look.

And beyond the village to the south, nothing but Sahara for hundreds of miles.

The thought of it brought a catch to her throat. She glanced at her dear companion and
the kindred look of wonder she would always remember seeing in his face made her
heart soar still, as she recalled the moment across the years. Her older self wondered
if it was then that she first became aware of the direct link between his happiness and
hers.

As they moved closer she realised that the village wasn’t quite as habitable as she’d
first believed. Some of the fortified farm buildings were tumbling into ruin, partial
roofs, parts of walls missing, piles of strangely modern looking rust coloured bricks in
their stead. But in general it remained remarkably preserved. What excited her most
as he’d predicted, was the cemetery. Here they came across the spectacular
monumental temple tombs. They were entirely intact, just as people had left them
centuries back. According to the guidebook, Ghirza had been abandoned in the
Middle Ages and left to the desert and no one had thought to disturb it. No signs of
looting.

She adored these pleasing square classical, columned structures as he had said she
would, despite their association with death. Rather they seemed a celebration of life.
In particular she loved the friezes round the tops of the temples, relief sculpture that
was as charming as it was naïve. They sweetly depicted daily life for the late
inhabitants of Ghirza. Her Adonis happily pointed out some of the friezes they’d
studied in the guidebook. Farmers driving ploughs, carrying the fruits of their labours,
someone handing a gift to a friend, another comforting a child, a man plunging a
spear into a wild animal of unclear origin and yes, some warlike images were also on
view. Farmers determined to protect their livelihoods and their families.

Above all she felt the reality of these people. It was as if the barriers had broken down
and she saw time for the fiction that it was. She felt she could almost reach out and
touch the late inhabitants of Ghirza. These were not remote unbelievable iconic
representatives of an ancient civilisation. In life they had been solid, real souls,
prosperous and successful yes, able to afford grand burial grounds, but they were also

45
frail, vulnerable fellow human beings, clinging to the planet as precariously as the rest
of us, in a way she was just beginning to comprehend, and she felt a kinship with
them that she knew he shared without the need for words.

They hadn’t yet discovered the temple belonging to Marchius Chullam. It was now
time for a picnic lunch back at the oasis and a welcome rest from the harsh yellow
early afternoon sun. Afterwards a handful of people wandered off in little groups to
explore. She watched as they returned a short while later. Most were content to remain
in the shade during the hottest part of the day, dozing, reading or smoking.

It was around then that he asked her to come with him to look properly for the tomb
of Marchius Chullam. She followed him willingly. He had gone a little ahead up to
the rocks and she walked behind them, forgetting to breathe for a moment or two, as
she watched the exquisite way he moved, slim hipped and lithe and easy and relaxed.
She caught up with him and they rounded the outcrop. Once he knew they were out of
sight of the others he took her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it softly, almost
shyly.

As they walked past the deserted village in the heat she found it easy to imagine that
they were the only people in a world out of time. No such thing as responsibility or
worry or guilt.

It took some time, then he found it, the tomb he’d come to see, Marchius’s name
inscribed in the stone lintel. The examined the external frieze for a while, a poignant
timeline of Marchius’s life, and then he let go of her hand and entered the dark
interior. He turned to her just before doing so.

“Come and say hi to Marchius”, he invited her, and the look he gave her as he said it
made her melt.

She let him enter alone.

She stared at the threshold of the dark mausoleum, in reality for a few brief seconds,
but it felt like a lifetime; heart thumping in her throat, certain in the knowledge that
the thin dividing line between inside and out was her own personal Rubicon. A vast
surging river in full spate. The opposite bank hazy, its reality impossible to
distinguish. To this side in the searing sun was safety, security, boredom, yearning and
disappointment. On the other side, what? Dare she take to the flimsy raft, grasp the
paddle and attempt to row across. She didn’t know whether to praise or blame the
classical education that allowed those rambling metaphors to spring so easily to mind.

Ok, there was not a lot that could happen physically in that small dark area. After all
they could be disturbed at any moment. It was what it represented. Symbolism was
all. For now they could ascribe to the fiction that this was just a mutual crush, fun,
frivolous and a little silly, although deep down they both knew it had moved way
beyond and far deeper than that. But to take those few small steps would mean
everything would change utterly, no chance of going back, ever. She would be guilty
in deed as well as thought. Would it even spoil the tentative beautiful thing that was
growing between them if it became mired in secrecy and deceit?

46
She felt that the world had frozen in the moment. Some higher power had set the
pause button, in an effort to give her more time to decide. She looked down at her
Roman sandals. Stared at them as if she didn’t know what they were. Alien creatures
no part of her. Then she watched detached as they started to move slowly forwards,
some unseen primeval force pulling her feet towards the threshold and she knew then
she had no will left to refuse them. They were in control, she merely following and for
what purpose? Lust? Passion? Or true love without preset boundaries or limits or
compromise? Then again, maybe he did just want to show her the inside of
Marchius’s tomb? But no, the look on his face just before he entered had been
unequivocal and unambiguous. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him.

She entered.

“There you are,” he said, the hint of laughter in his voice as ever, but when she looked
into the dark eyes she could see he was serious. He tentatively touched her cheek and
she put a finger to his lips. He took it and kissed it, then brushed her hair from her
face, continuing to move his hand softly through her hair. Suddenly they were in each
other’s arms holding tight as if afraid to ever let go. She felt all the contours of his
beautiful body crushed against hers. Oh, it was beyond wonderful! They kissed with a
passion and a joy she had never felt before, and she imagined them rising up as the
world disappeared. It was as if at last in that ancient holy place, they had followed
Marchius to paradise.

The phone suddenly rang, harsh and dissonant, in the world of early summer 2008
breaking the spell. Her heart was pounding in shock, so engrossed had she been in
memory. She struggled to her feet in the near darkness and stumbled over to answer it
before it went to the machine. One knee cracked ominously. Thanks Jane!

It was her elder daughter calling from England, where she was about to graduate from
university. Of course she wanted to know how things had gone today with her great
aunt. All the magical details. It took some time to relate. Then she had a list of items
she wanted her mother to bring when she came down.

It was some time before she was able to lie back on the couch again, and return to her
reverie.

The battered old Audi swerved to avoid the deep gash in the ground, screeched and
groaned as the handsome young driver braked sharply, found second gear, rammed his
foot on the gas and the car roared, seemed to rear up then surged on again. They were
on the journey back to the tarmac road, following the trail of oil drum way markers,
this time no thought of care as the cars bounced and dipped over the semi-desert, that
had now become their vast personal playground. Stones pinged up on the underside of
the vehicle and every so often they would skid on a softer stretch of sand. She giggled
helplessly like a child, as the car leapt over the bumps and pot holes that scarred the
terrain. Couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so free, so damn happy.

The convoy was no longer a convoy but had spread out across the dust in a wide arc,
as they raced each other, the next black oil drum a substitute chequered flag. Often
their car would get perilously close to the vehicle beside them. One time she rolled
down the window and started tossing stale pieces of crust at the dark blue car just a

47
few feet from her. The occupants of the Fiat returned fire with pieces of orange and
other indistinguishable fruits. Dave and Helen in the back joined in the food fight and
till everyone was doubled up, weak with laughter, including, worryingly, the driver.
She hoped that hardy wandering desert creatures encountering the strange scattered
crumbs would enjoy the surprise bounty.

The driver flashed a warm, secret smile at her, so sudden and so beautiful that she
imagined herself blasted back by the physical force of it. She returned the smile in
kind, and knew she was in paradise.

She felt like singing out loud in sheer delight. No thought of tomorrow or yesterday
because, you know, for now they didn’t exist. All that mattered was this time and this
place and oh, it was wonderful! She took a deep breath and warbled the first familiar
notes of an old favourite. Soon they were all joining in a very loud, joyful cat’s chorus
parody of Don MacLean’s iconic “American Pie”…

…drove my Audi to the wadi but the wadi was dry

Them good ole boys are drinkin’ Pepsi and chai
And singing this’ll be the day that I die,
This’ll be the day that I die

The car bounced and squealed in accompaniment.

Eventually everyone quietened down. She sat back content, absorbing the atmosphere
and the remains of the day, determined to drink in the last minutes in the desert,
knowing they would soon be at the tarmac road again. The car didn’t have air
conditioning and the late afternoon was heavy and hot. When she glanced up at the
sun she noticed it was partially obscured now by a yellow haze. In fact, she realised a
little alarmed, the sky had darkened considerably. Here and there the dust was
forming devilish little whirling clouds, dotting the landscape surrounding them, the
view ahead turning increasingly to dirty dark yellow-orange fog. The wind seemed to
be strengthening by the second until the sand was swirling fiercely, angrily around the
car.

Ghibli!

She always thought if someone had bothered to give a wind a name then you knew it
meant business.

Sirocco, Meltemi, Mistral.

To go to the trouble of naming it meant that human kind were awe of that wind,
respected its force, feared it, revered it and worshipped it like some vengeful pagan
god, quick to anger, who could beat them down, extinguish their puny existence at
will.

Ghibli was the Libyan name for the Sirocco, the hot wind from the Sahara that blew
up quickly and unexpectedly. She’d experienced a few that spring, but always from
within the comfort of the bungalow. You just didn’t venture out in a Ghibli.

48
Yet here they were at the mercy of the open desert, about to be ravaged by one of the
Sahara’s legendary sandstorms. The cars formed into close convoy again as best they
could, afraid to lose sight of each other in the gathering gloom. That phrase “you
couldn’t see your hand in front of your face” sprang to mind. She felt every muscle in
her body tense and strain, her jaw locked tight, teeth grinding as she prayed for the
tarmac road. They reached it within a few minutes, but of course it was a false
comfort, it’s solidity and precision a façade, in reality a symbol of frail humankind’s
futile attempt to tame the wilderness. For they were surrounded by desert still, on all
sides, several miles from the nearest human settlement, the first hope of sanctuary or
succour, utterly exposed and at the mercy of Nature.

Then came the hailstones. Sudden and fierce and angry, bigger than any she’d ever
seen. She’d heard stories of them killing goats. The drivers had no choice but to halt
and switch off engines. She grabbed his hand, held it tight on her thigh, then he put an
arm round her shoulder and hugged her to him as the wind howled and roared
banshee-like and the ice stones thundered on the windscreen and roof of the car,
hammering like some multi-fisted malign spirit demanding entry. She shut her eyes,
burying her face in his chest, and experienced a rare raw fear, praying for salvation as
the car rocked ferociously, clinging to him for solace. Oh God please don’t let the
words of ‘American Pie' turn out to be prophecy. How bizarre that what she had so
recently thought paradise should turn so quickly and unequivocally into hell. How
much worse it would have been if he hadn’t been there, her love. How she clung to
the hope of him.

There followed a long slow terrifying half hour until, thankfully the hailstones
stopped pounding the car, and the wind died down to a swirling gale. They could at
last see the road ahead of them for about 20 yards or so, give or take. The driver of the
lead car got out, staggering back at first as the force of the gale hit him, then he
stumbled to each driver in turn, a towel wrapped around his head and face Keffiyeh-
like for protection. It was time to move on. Had the engines survived the storm? There
was a real danger that would have become clogged with destructive devouring
abrasive sand. Miracle of miracles each engine fired up and they started off again,
tentatively, staying in close formation, prepared for the return of the storm at any
time.

They made it safely to the first hamlet, no more than a scattering of dwellings rising
naturally from the scrub, scarred with blown sand from the recent storm. They were
shaken and a little subdued but otherwise ok, and kept moving on, gaining in
confidence as the wind died to no more than a petulant breeze. She would glance over
at him from time to time, her eyes drawn to his mouth. She would look at the strong
straight line of his bottom lip and be filled with an overwhelming urge to kiss it.

They drove on for several miles until they were stopped at the roadblock they had first
encountered that morning. It felt to her like several lifetimes ago. As they drew to a
halt Hamid was already out of the lead car talking to the elder of the two soldiers on
duty. The men dipped their heads at each car in turn, checking on passengers.

Their car was next.

49
The ever-willing Hamid quickly translated the guttural North African dialect.

“You!” Pointing at their driver. “Why do have three women in the car?”

Three women?

Her beautiful driver shook his head and looked perplexed. The soldier pointed at the
back of the car, speaking in strongly accented English this time.

“Three women.”

She had to stifle a guffaw as she realised the mistake. The soldier had mistaken hippy
boy Dave lurking in the shadows in the back, long blond hair draping his shoulders,
for a woman. Helen nudged him in sly delight. Dave tossed back his blond locks, then
slouched further into his seat, throwing his wife a mock peeved look.

Hamid tried to explain. But the soldier was not finished yet. He told them all to get
out of the car. The laughter died. The boy soldier stood to one side, weapon slung over
his shoulder in the usual way. She watched surreptitiously as he took hold of it, still
casual, but with one hand clearly on the trigger. She’d never come across this before.

She was suddenly overwhelmed by a perverse compulsion to run, knowing that if she
did so she would be raked with reflex bullets. It was a kind of OCD thing that she’d
felt before when she became acutely aware that death was a hair’s breadth away and
within her grasp. She used to get the same way on the narrow platform of the
Glasgow subway, sensing an almost overwhelming urge to throw herself in front of
the oncoming train. A strange, heightened awareness of the sudden stark choice of life
or death. A kind of hysteria she supposed.

Then again in English from the older soldier.

“Is this your wife?”

“Pardon?”

“It is a simple question, my friend. Is this your wife?" The soldier jabbed a stubby
finger in her direction for all the world as if she were a prize goat.

“Yes,” he replied quickly and quietly. She was shocked to hear him say the words. He
had obviously decided to take the path of least resistance.

“She is your wife.” It was a statement.

“Yes”, he repeated the word, calm and confident this time.

“Where are you’re papers? I need to see your papers. Papers please!”

She felt the wash of physical fear as it surged through her body.

She had her passport stamped with the Libyan entry visa in the handbag hanging over

50
her shoulder. She could feel the edge of it digging into her side, nudging her,
needlessly reminding her of its presence. The truth would be revealed. He was with a
woman not his wife. He had lied to the authorities. She could feel the bile rising to her
throat.

Hamid spoke urgently into the soldier’s ear, guttural Arabic. What was that? What
was he saying? She watched the boy soldier stroke his weapon unconsciously, faintest
of smiles playing at his lips.

She tried to look casual, a difficult thing to do as her breathing became shallow and
too fast, making her head spin.

For a moment the scene froze.

A strange tableau the little group made, desert and scrub backdrop, dusty restless wind
moaning once more in discontent as it played with clothes and hair. She could hear the
seconds of their lives ticking as they passed.

Tick tick tick.

Then she saw some US dollars pass between the men, quickly and discreetly. The
older soldier smiled suddenly and incongruously, a wide grin that didn’t quite reach
his eyes, revealing the usual dubious dental work. He urged them quickly into the car
again, almost shoving them in. They were only too happy to oblige.

Engines fired up thankfully and the convoy drove off. No one dared to look back.

The rest of the journey passed without mishap.

Soon they were back in town and everyone hugged in farewell.

Her husband was staying in Tripoli that night and would not return until the next
evening.

“Come back to my place.”

He said it so softly with an expression on his face that was impossible to resist.

Truth be told, after the events of the day she was afraid to be alone tonight.

She needed him and oh how she wanted him.

Then she paused, the earlier scene flitting through her mind.

“Is she your wife?”

“Yes.”

The first lie.

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And when her husband got back there would be the second lie, and then a waterfall of
lies cascading down drenching and ruining a beautiful tentative thing. Her thoughts
were in turmoil.

She thought back to the marriage vows she’d made just over three years ago. She’d
meant them with all her heart and they were vows after all, solemn promises made
before God and the law, not something to be carelessly discarded the moment you
found something better.

“Forsaking all others”

No she didn’t have it in her to break these, no matter how great the temptation, no
matter how right she knew they were for each other.

“Take me home.”

She breathed out the words on a long sigh, voice cracking on the last. He looked
momentarily puzzled and a little hurt, but she knew that somewhere he understood,
for they always understood each other. Words were a mere embellishment.

He stopped the car outside her bungalow, pulled on the handbrake. He got out and
walked round to the passenger side and opened the door for her as if to emphasise the
gentleman that he was.

“I can’t do this. It’s not how I want us to be.” She dragged the words out from deep
within her.

He gazed directly into her eyes for an age as if searching into her heart, saying more
to her than words ever could, and then they hugged fiercely, crushing each other,
burying their heads, clinging as if to a raft on a boiling sea without hope of rescue. At
last she let him go, turned on her heel, not daring to look back and let herself in by the
front door, her shaking hand struggling with the key in the lock. She heard the car’s
engine roar into sudden life, then pull away quieter now, tyres scuffing slightly on the
gravel surface, listened to the sound of it disappear in the night, straining to hear the
drone, quieter and quieter until it became a gentle purr, then softer still until she had
to admit to herself that all she could hear anymore was the blood hissing mournfully
in her ears.

The Rubicon turned out to be a tame little babbling brook after all.

He was gone.

And he could never come back. Because she knew she would not have the strength to
refuse him a second time.

Her husband returned the next day, face aglow, with tales of footballing triumph. She
did her best to get caught up in his enthusiasm, be the supportive wife, the role she’d
chosen after all, but she couldn’t shake the leaden weight of sadness and lethargy. It
manifested itself as a physical knot in the pit of her stomach that stayed with her
constantly. The nearest she could describe it was a feeling of homesickness, which

52
when she thought about it made sense. For the next few weeks and into heavy high
summer everything seemed to be shrouded in a veil of grey despite the blazing skies.

She announced to all that she was stopping the tennis lessons, citing the recurrence of
an old ankle injury. She continued with the coffee mornings with friends but avoided
Jane Fonda. They started a backgammon league. Of course she was acting a part and
the strain inevitably took its toll. Her mental torment transferred perhaps inevitably
into physical ailment as she went down with a kidney infection and retired to bed for a
week.

She avoided him and he avoided her.

He was no longer part of their social group. People missed his cheerful presence and
mentioned the fact from time to time. Someone said he’d taken up with some of the
local Libyans.

Then one day she began to draw

It was something she hadn’t done since childhood. She’d stumbled upon an
assortment of grubby pastel crayons and a couple of soft leaded pencils along with a
fresh drawing pad jammed at the back of a dusty unused drawer, abandoned, she
presumed, by a prior occupant. She’d made a noise of disgust at first, saw them as a
nasty mess to be cleared away, had been about to toss them into the wastebasket. Then
she’d changed her mind at the last minute. Eventually she found herself
experimenting with them, tentatively at first, absentmindedly, distractedly, then more
boldly. She came to realise with delight how versatile the crayons could be, the
wonderful variations of tone and texture she could achieve simply by pressing harder
or lighter on the thick parchment, by mixing colours, or by using different parts of
each crayon. Some of her drawings were in pencil too, works of smudged contrast in
shade and light.

Her subject matter was the world surrounding her. The flowers in the tiny garden, the
house, the furniture, still life, fruit and vegetables, even the army of ants that lived in a
hill in the flowerbed. Eventually teaching herself about perspective as she attempted
landscapes of geometric houses and olive groves and swaying date palms and
skyscapes of scudding clouds and glorious sunsets. She became utterly lost in the
detail of the objects she drew, achieving something close to a trance like state, so deep
was her concentration. Looking further and deeper than ever before, and seeing with a
new precision and clarity and truth. The rest of the world would fade and disappear
and would be deprived for a while of it’s power to taunt or tease or disappoint. Tiny
nuances of shadow and texture and light became her world, her focus, her escape. In
unthinking deference to the culture in which she found herself she avoided any human
representation, although she did make an impressionistic attempt at the goatherd and
the goats.

Sometimes though she would drift off into little daydreams, thoughts meandering
aimlessly, and when eventually she looked down at her drawing pad, she’d find she’d
made little doodles of a face, side view, three quarters or full, the curve of a cheek,
tousled dark hair, a jaw line and deep dark eyes sparkling with flecks of light, always
framed by long thick silky lashes. Then she’d tear out the paper roughly and toss it

53
away.

Life for the Brits in Libya continued easy and soft despite the severing of diplomatic
relations. The same could not be said for the Libyan dissidents. For some reason they
had sensed, wrongly as it turned out, that their moment had come and they became
daily bolder and more vociferous. Excitement swelled just for a day or two as reports
emerged of an attempted coup in Tripoli. Expat returners reported extra restrictions at
the airport and a trebling of roadblocks on the journey down from Tripoli. Then it
subsided. Before long, however, there were sotto voce rumours of disappearances
among the local Libyan population, and even, unspeakably, hangings.

In August she went off on holiday with her husband to Malta, just a short plane hop
away. She even managed to enjoy this temporary sojourn in civilisation. It would have
made her life choices so much simpler if her husband had been a thoughtless,
uncaring man. But he wasn’t. He had done nothing wrong, and he cared for her and
above all he loved her. Yes, he was human, he had failings, but all in all he was easier
to live with than most. It was not his fault that she had in later time met a kindred soul
who’d stolen her sleeping and waking thoughts as well as her heart.

They’d enjoyed the walled city of Valetta; it’s narrow back streets, the overhanging
wooden balconies. They’d gone shopping and behaved like kids in a toyshop at the
sight of Western abundance and luxury. She bought three summer dresses, two
handbags and several pairs of shoes, oh, and some earrings that caught her eye, and
needless to say the matching necklace. He even followed her fairly willingly around
the silent city of Mdina, acquiescing tolerantly to her shiny-eyed assertion that
everyone must feel in the very air that they breathed a tangible connection to its late
inhabitants. Although she knew he would never ever get the mystery and the magic.
She marvelled with him at the classic fifties cars that filled the streets, remarkably
preserved throwbacks of muted paint, running boards and gleaming chrome. They
came home to Libya laden with bounty, luxuries and Western essentials for
themselves and their friends.

A few days later her husband was called to London on business. He would be away
for two weeks. She entered into her life of coffee mornings and backgammon with
gregarious gusto. Her friends were good fun.

And she continued to draw.

One night she was fast asleep in bed. Her husband had been away for around three
days and she had taken the opportunity to sprawl diagonally across the bed. She woke
suddenly. What was that? She listened, straining to hear above the insistent hum of the
air conditioning unit and the rhythmic chirruping of the crickets. There it was again. A
soft insistent tap tap sound. It hadn’t been a dream. She held her breath, ears straining.
The tapping continued. She climbed carefully out of bed in the dark, putting each foot
tentatively in front of the other, afraid of treading on one of the cockroaches that lived
in the dark corners of the room. She kept her mouth closed too, remembering that day
when she’d realised with horror that they could fly. She reached the window silently
and turned her head to the left, straining to see. It was a rare overcast night. Starless.
She could just make out the outline of two people, men. She was alone in the house
and utterly terrified. She opened the window an inch, tremulous fingers fumbling with

54
the catch, heart pounding.

“Who is it? What do you want?” Adding hopelessly, “Go away!” Her anxious words
pierced the night and seemed to briefly hang there.

“Shhhh! It’s me!”

The reply was urgent yet soft.

“Please let us in – quickly!”

It was a voice from her dreams, but with a strange note she’d never heard before,
compelling, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

She drew her dressing gown tightly about her, tied the belt and rushed barefoot to the
front door. The two men stepped in closing the door quickly and quietly behind them.
She moved to the lamp on the coffee table.

“No!”

It was a command,

“No light!”

Their conversation continued in no more than harsh whispers. Even in these utterly
bizarre circumstances she found herself momentarily thrilling to be near him again.

He explained that his friend, Hussein, was a colleague of some Libyan dissidents
who’d been peripherally involved in the recent unsuccessful coup attempt. Hussein
was entirely innocent, he knew that beyond all shadow of a doubt, but somehow the
local police had got hold of his name and were gathering fabricated evidence in an
attempt to prove to the authorities in Tripoli their determination to root out terrorists.

He put his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. In the near total
darkness they looked like black chips of coal. He told her quickly and quietly that
Hussein’s apartment was being watched and probably his own too. He said that he
hated to mix her up in any of this, but that she the one person he could trust in all the
world. He was going to drive Hussein over the Tunisian border that night and please,
could he borrow her car?

“ I daren’t use my own. If anyone stops us and traces the car back to you, I’ll say I hot
wired it and stole it.”

“But…”.

“No one knows of any real connection between you and me,” he continued, oblivious
to her tentative interjection. “ We’ve not been seen together for weeks. Everyone’s
suspicious of me now, because of my connections, even the Brits.

I’ll have it back with you by tomorrow evening. I’m so sorry to involve you. It’s just

55
that – we’re desperate.”

Her thoughts were in turmoil, not about lending him what was actually her husband’s
company car, but because of the danger into which he was about to place himself. Of
course her husband was unlikely to be implicated for he was out of the country. She
believed his story without question, because it was him, and she believed in the
innocence of his friend too, simply and purely because he did.

When it came right down to it, fearful, terrified as she was for him she knew had no
choice. He would not be diverted from his path and she had no right to make the
attempt.

She could not leave an innocent man to face imprisonment and possibly death any
more than he could.

She said quietly, “Take the car.”

She went over to retrieve her handbag and rummaged deep down for the keys with
trembling hands.

She handed them to him and he pocketed them immediately.

Hussein, who’d been standing there, fearful, shivering and silent shook her hand
strongly and thanked her profusely.

She turned back to her love and they stood there together in the darkness for a few
moments, silence all that was required. Then he enveloped her in his arms and hugged
her to him with a comforting strength. He kissed her hard on the mouth.

“Come back to me.” she whispered in his ear.

“I love you”, he whispered back.

Then they were gone.

For the rest of the night she paced the floor in the darkness, too anxious to go to bed,
too terrified to turn on a light. She had no idea how far it was to the Tunisian border,
how long it would take to get there and return, how many roadblocks there might be?
These questions, along with some other unthinkably awful ones churned through her
mind. Thoughts whirled through her consciousness in gyroscopic repetition. She felt
like a hamster on a wheel, running round and round, no hope of answer, no hope of
salvation or respite until he came back through the door. She didn’t dare imagine that
moment. It seemed unlucky to begin to think of it as even a remote possibility. This
was real life, harsh and brutal and cruel and unfair.

She became hyper sensitive to all the night sounds, normally a comfort to her. Now
each squeak and screech and creak and moan and scutter and distant howl threatened
danger. There was a strange fast ticking sound just on the edge of her hearing that
she’d never noticed before, but which drove her to distraction. She had never felt so
entirely alone.

56
Once it was light enough to read she rummaged in the bottom drawer of the dark
wood and glass wall cabinet and pulled out a well-worn map of North Africa. She laid
it out on the dining table, flattening it out as best she could, taking care especially
where it was ripped along its folds. She tried to work out the mileage to the Tunisian
border, mentally adding the numbers marked on the map on the sections of road
between each town, getting it hopelessly wrong several times and having to start all
over again. Eventually she decided that it would take around four hours to get there
give or take. There was never much traffic at any time of the day, or night.

He could be back in a few hours. For a moment her heart leapt in her chest in the hope
of it, but she strangled the dangerous beguiling thought at birth. Of course that would
be without stops or other delays. She guessed he would wait to make sure Hussein
made it safely to Tunisia and had no idea how long that might take.

Her only task that morning, indeed all that day, was to worry, and she did so with
dedication.

At around 10am she heard the familiar jolly voices of her friends approach her
bungalow. The echo of a happy carefree world she could barely remember, although
she herself had lived in it just a few short hours before. The doorbell sounded. She
knew it would be impossible to speak to anyone without betraying the fear and
tension in her. She drew her body deep into the shadows of the living room.
Surprisingly they didn’t try the bell a second time and were soon walking away,
chatting happily. She felt perversely disappointed and annoyed with them; a desperate
need for the human comfort she knew was forbidden to her. Then she realised why
they’d left so readily. The car always sat parked at the front of the bungalow. Her
friends had noticed it was gone and had logically surmised that she’d gone out.

Time ticked on into the afternoon. All was silence, save for the creaks of the house as
it occasionally stretched itself painfully on this hot and languid day, for once not even
the hint of a breeze. No one else approached her door. Her ears pricked up at the rare
sound of a car engine but none ever approached her bungalow. She began to cling to
the old adage.

No news is good news.

It was without question the most terrifying day of her short life.

Around 7.00pm she suddenly realised that she’d had nothing to eat all day, save a half
hearted gnaw at a slice of yesterday’s bread at first light, and of course she’d had little
more than two hours sleep the night before. She found it impossible to sit still and had
been pacing and fretting for hours. Now she felt light-headed, lethargic and semi-
detached. Concentration had become difficult. She realised with a start that she’d had
very little to drink too, surprising when she considered the number of nervous trips
she’d made to the bathroom. Had there been alcohol in the house she might well have
been tempted, but the home brewed beer bubbling away satisfyingly in the spare
bedroom would not be even half drinkable for at least two more days. The air
conditioning kept the bungalow at a steady 21 degrees Celsius, but she was
undoubtedly well on her way to dehydration.

57
This would never do.

Slowly and deliberately she drew herself up to her full height, drew back her
shoulders, then tried to relax them, shaking her arms loosely by her sides. She took a
long, deep, only slightly ragged breath, and solemnly resolved from that point on to
be Brave. It was all that was left for her to do. The alternative, collapsing to the floor
a shivering, drooling, useless wreck was not an option.

Somehow the conscious decision to do something rallied her, gave her focus and
purpose. She retrieved a Pepsi from the fridge – an actual Pepsi - rummaged in the
cutlery drawer for a bottle opener and, tilting back the familiar shaped glass bottle, let
the ice-cold fizz sear the back of her throat. It revived her a little and as ever took her
right back to the youthful memory of that glorious first draft of Coke from the
dispenser, mingled with the old wood and polish smell of the clubhouse, after a sticky
summer’s tennis match.

The next step was to set herself a task. It required to be something of practical benefit.
That ruled out drawing. She needed to lose herself in an activity that was austere and
disciplined. Her thoughts turned to cooking, initially dismissing it out of hand. It
ticked the first box, practical benefit, for sure. But cooking was for her above all a
comforting, tactile, sensuous activity. No, to be of any use, to be in any way cathartic
and or at least diverting, this cooking would have to be different. She believed she had
the answer. She would draw on early experience.

School days.

She’d been taught by a dragon woman whose main purpose, it appeared to her
youthful charges, had been to terrify, to hack down and destroy any tentative shoots of
adolescent confidence and self-esteem. Imagination and flair were anathema to her.
But the benighted woman had also brought to the process military planning, strict
discipline, and an absolute requirement for precision and order and efficiency.

She would prepare a pot of vegetable soup. First she found a traditional cookery book
from home and turned to the correct page. Yes, she had all the required ingredients,
although rice would have to replace lentils. None of the usual cavalier ‘making it up
as you go along’, my girl! She weighed and measured all the ingredients carefully and
set about chopping, French chopping, as taught at school, the only way anyone should
ever be allowed to chop, right hand grasping the handle of the knife, thumb and
forefinger of the left hand on top of the blade, that must never at any point leave the
surface of the chopping board. She concentrated on dicing each vegetable to within an
inch of its life, no room for any thoughts other than the task in hand.

It worked.

She finished the task drenched in rich tones of dreamy golden sunset, produced by a
celestial director utterly oblivious to the prevailing mood. By the time the rice and
vegetables had come to the boil and been set to a gentle simmer, night had returned.

The task was done.

58
Only then did her resolve fail her. Repressed thoughts inundated her mind, like a dam
burst, gushing, sweeping her away, choking her with anxiety until it hurt her lungs to
breathe. Oh my God! It was sheer agony.

WHERE WAS HE?

Then as if in answer to a near blasphemous prayer, she heard the noise of a

handbrake. She hadn’t heard the car approach. In her memory now she was opening
the front door on the next beat, no idea of how she got there.

There he was. Pale and drawn beneath the tan, exhausted, sticky, sweaty, dishevelled.

Alive!

He fell into her arms in a fierce embrace right there on the threshold. She pulled him
in and shut the door with her foot, clinging on, unable to take in the reality of him,
terrified to let him go, even for a second. He was kissing her face all over, her neck,
her shoulders then trailing back to her mouth like a man in the desert slaking a fiery
thirst. She responded in full.

She led him to her bed. They undressed each other on the way, fumbling and
awkward, leaving a trail of garments, no thought of anything but each other, the need
for comfort and succour, and to celebrate the joy, the delightful surprise of being
alive.

She lay awake wrapped in his arms in the wee small hours of the morning, in their
shared little private heaven. She clung to him, never wanting to let go. Couldn’t help a
smile as she looked beyond him to the table by the window. She could just make out
the outline of two discarded unwashed bowls, spoons jutting at different angles. She’d
remembered eventually to feed him the thick, hearty soup that had just begun to stick
to the bottom of the pot by the time she rescued it. She realised then that she’d been
making it for him all along, and in a whimsical corner of her mind she felt as if by
doing so she had somehow played a pivotal role in ensuring his safe return.

As she watched him sleep feelings of deep contentment and boundless love surged
through her. He had been a passionate yet tender lover, as she had always known he
would be since the first time she’d looked into his dark liquid eyes. He was unselfish
too, intuitively responding to her desires. He was an irresistible mix of loving and
giving and wanting and needing. And she responded to those wants and needs in a
way she had never dared before. In him she’d found that rarity, someone with whom
she could completely be herself. Their physical union felt like an entirely natural
progression, an ecstatic expression of the deep love she felt for him and she knew he
felt for her.

He stirred in his sleep, mumbled. She was aware of him opening his eyes, rubbing
them, forcing himself awake. He stared at her in the dark for some moments, as if
scarcely able to believe she was there. Then he nibbled gently at her ear, brought his
lips to her face and then her mouth kissing it hard, and they tumbled into ecstasy once
more.

59
There followed four days of madness. She pushed any thoughts of guilt right back,
squeezed them into the farthest recesses of her consciousness. This was so right and
too good and true to ever be wrong. Above all so connected to the knowledge of the
fragility, capriciousness and absolute privilege of life, the need to seize each chance in
the certain knowledge that it could just be your last.

He stayed with her at the bungalow the next day, the time spent mainly in bed, only
partly because it made them feel safer, talking about anything and everything,
laughing, joking, finding renewed joy in each other.

The day after that they dared to return to his apartment. Fortunately, they were never
disturbed by the authorities. They began to believe that he’d got away with it. In little
mini chapters he’d told her his story. The journey out to Tunisia had been surprisingly
easy, the checks at three roadblocks fortunately cursory. Their story of an early
morning business meeting in a frontier town had been believed in this land of long
lazy afternoons.

When they’d reached the border in the dawn they had been forced to abandon the car,
for insurance reasons, weirdly. He’d always intended going through the frontier post
with Hussein, his mission to see him safely on his onward journey on the other side.
He’d insisted on it, deaf to the Libyan’s protestations. They passed the Libyan
checkpoint first. He didn’t say much about it but she fully understood that this had
been a terrifying moment for both men. Thankfully Hussein’s name had not yet been
placed on any proscribed list and they’d been allowed through.

"Yes, short business trip followed by some R and R on Djerba."

Djerba, she mused, momentarily distracted from his tale by the irony. The Tunisian
island haven of the Lotus Eaters of legend.

Their passports had been stamped with a flourish by the guard and he'd returned them
without looking up.

Speed had been their game plan and thank God, it had worked. The alternative, taking
the time to somehow acquire false ID would have been twice as foolhardy. Even so, it
had remained a huge and potentially suicidal gamble. He described walking across the
barren scrub of no man’s land, glancing back at an enormous smiling picture of the
Leader of the Great September 1st Revolution waving to them, as if in cheerful
farewell.

The Tunisian border guard had been surprised to see a British man enter from Libya.
He formed his thumb and forefinger into a gun and pretended to fire, point blank,
casting his eyes back in the direction of Libya and peering quizzically at the crazy
Englishman, his expression rendered almost comic by a wandering lazy right eye.
They’d eventually made it through to the border village of Ben Gardane and found a
taxi driver. French was the second language here. He finally agreed to take Hussein all
the way to Sousse. Not for the first time or the last hard currency, in the preferred
form of US dollars, had smoothed the way. With Hussein safely on his way he’d
intended to rest somewhere for an hour or two before attempting to return to Libya.

60
Shelter was hard to come by in this flat sandy border land, but he did find a semi-
ruined wooden shack which smelt strongly of goats and snatched some brief but
welcome oblivion on the pungent hay.

On the way back across the border things hadn’t been so simple. The Libyan border
guard examined the exit stamp on his passport and passed it to his unsmiling assistant.
The men were unable to comprehend why he had stayed such a short time in Tunisia
and he’d been questioned for several hours. They took exception to the small Rucanor
sports bag he carried, containing his battery operated shaver, bottles of water, a towel,
some toilet roll and a change of underwear. Its logo was a squat five-pointed star,
nothing like the six points of the Star of David, no conceivable connection to the
pariah state of Israel, so abhorred that it was blanked out of maps in the TV news, but
they’d used it as a flimsy excuse to detain him. Eventually, well into the sweaty fly-
ridden afternoon they’d agreed to let him go, but only after a telephone call to the
Technical Support Team in the Baladiya confirmed that he was who he said he was.

He’d arrived back at the car exhausted, steeling himself for the four-hour drive, only
to find that the near side rear tire had sustained a puncture. Further dust and grime and
delay. Then on the way back he discovered that roadblocks had sprouted in the hours
since he’d last made the journey. At one he’d been stopped by one of the ubiquitous
semi-automatic wielding boy soldiers. The near child had hardly been able to contain
his glee as he retrieved some highly suspicious powder from the car boot, waving his
weapon around carelessly as he questioned him in a mixture of Arabic and Pidgin
English. She couldn’t understand what on earth the substance might be until he
explained that it was a tub of curry powder. Oh God! Part of the bounty from Malta,
abandoned and forgotten.

They had not begun to consider the consequences and repercussions of their days
together. They were living in a world of their own choosing, pretty much detached
from reality, lost in each other. Reprieved from danger and anxiety it felt, to both of
them she knew, as if real world rules no longer applied. On the third day they got a
message from Hussein, via a family member, that he had reached Sousse safely and
would be forever in their debt.

Then on Friday reality returned like an unwelcome relative. He’d been summoned to
meet with the leader of the British section of the Technical Support Team in his neat
bungalow. Word had spread of his unsanctioned trip over the border and awkward
telephone conversations between town council officials and border guards. The kindly
middle-aged man was deeply concerned. After all he was responsible for the tricky
and essential task of maintaining good relations with their Libyan masters, but above
and way beyond that, the safety of all British staff. In addition he’d lately heard an
alarming tale from a colleague based in Tripoli. The man had been waiting for
someone in the lobby of the Al Kebir, the Grand Hotel, and had quite literally bumped
into Kate Adie, ace BBC reporter, and a woman with a nose for the world’s next
trouble spot. There were as yet unsubstantiated rumours that a number of British
businessmen had been stopped at Tripoli Airport and detained. He could very easily
have found himself one of their number.

He was asked to leave.

61
Then she got a note that her husband was returning to Libya earlier than expected, the
day after tomorrow. She was washed in equal quantities of guilt and sorrow, tossed
about in the rinse cycle. Truth be told of course there was no question that she would
do anything other than remain with her husband. She was a woman in a very foreign
land in an alien culture, thousands of miles from home. Decisions about her future
could not be based on a few days of heavenly insanity. They had met simply at the
wrong time and in the wrong place. For the past few days the world had been painted
in brighter colours, sounds were shaper, smells keener, life full of hope and freedom.
A high impossible to sustain she knew in the drab, ordinary, frustrating, repetitive
mundanity of every day life. In a disinterested world their lives had touched,
connected and separated again. It was as simple and as dreary as that. An infinitesimal
blip in the fabric of a vast universe.

One last day together.

Without discussion or declaration they both knew they should do everything to make
this day natural and fun, as if when it was over they would see each other again,
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

They visited their café, moving quietly past the wary black-eyed Arab men and their
hookah pipes They drank thick black coffee from tiny white cups and watched the
flies zig-zag lazily over the chipped turquoise Formica, and gazed at each other,
hardly daring to blink, fingers entwined. He drove her in his battered white car to the
beach, a little further west than usual. As he navigated the track, expertly avoiding the
soft sandy potholes that could ruin tyres and suspension on a whim, she looked at him
in shaded profile, observing deeply, as if in preparation for drawing him from
memory. The high cheekbone, the familiar curve of his cheek, the faint dark stubble,
the line of his jaw, the edge of his lip. As she watched him frown in concentration she
felt something grip her stomach, twist it and squeeze it tight. Longing, homesickness.
And she knew that she mourned him although he hadn’t yet left her. She shook the
feeling off, determined to enjoy the day, make it a good thing to remember.

He parked the car. The wind swirled this way and that, uncertain, as if almost
embarrassed by its presence today, like a third wheel, unsure if it should be allowed to
witness this most private of occasions. They walked a short distance until they
reached the flat, dusty clearing and the remains of the Roman villa, that place out of
time where they would always be together. He held her in his arms and brushed back
the playful strands of hair from her face. His deep dark eyes looked into hers in that
direct, oh so familiar way.

If you miss me come back here in your mind. I’ll be waiting.

He was saying it without words. The actual sound of them would have been
superfluous, even intrusive. Then he kissed her softly and sweetly and she kissed him
back, clinging to him. She had no recollection of how long they stood there in each
other’s arms, a few minutes, a lifetime? How could she begin to guess in that timeless
place? Momentarily she was a child again, reading a beloved novel for the umpteenth
time, ‘Tom’s Midnight Garden’, and the inscription on the clock.

‘Time no longer’.

62
She only knew that they did eventually return to the car to collect blanket and food
and drink and mini barbeque. They laughed and teased as they prepared lunch. After a
meal of grilled fish and fruit and ‘Pepsi’ they lay on a blanket together on the beach
for a while, no sound or space between them. Then the mood changed. He jumped up
grabbing her hands and hauling her towards him. His eyes danced in that delightful
way that they did. They pulled off their sandals and dashed down to the sea, chasing
each other along the shoreline, dodging the surf, sometimes not succeeding, laughing
hopelessly as the waves splashed over shins, knees, clothes. They met no one, as if on
this special day the place had been loaned to them exclusively; the salty wind, the
sand, the surf, the sky; rent-free. Finally he dragged her in fake protest up the beach
and into the dunes. He fell back, pulling her down on top, and for a while they lost
themselves in each other as the sun set over the deep soft sand and long wispy sea
grass.

They went back to his place, showered together for fun and to remove sand that had
found its way into the most awkward places. She spent the night in his bed. In the
morning he dropped her off in a hurry, on his way to work to clear his desk. Their
goodbye was short but very sweet and very sad.

He was gone from her life.

Two days later he left Libya for the last time, the manner of his leaving branded in her
memory. Dusk was just about to descend in its usual rush. Everyone stood in an
awkward, uneven semi-circle in the open area in the centre of their section of the
compound, surrounded on all sides by the slightly grubby, sand scarred off-white
bungalows, swaying palm trees a backdrop, dusty breeze moaning fretfully, carrying
with it the occasional goat bleat or distant shriek of brakes. He passed each person
slowly, shaking hands in turn, formally in the Arab tradition that had spilled over to
the expats. Eventually he reached her as she stood by her husband. He shook her hand
politely, but with just a secret little press of the thumb into her palm as a little token
reminder of their special connection, of their love. The look in his eyes as he gazed at
her directly for the very last time was careful and guarded. It said nothing. It said
everything. It lingered imperceptibly. She felt her face burning and she was sure
others would notice. She expected there would be talk about them somewhere. Did it
ever reach her husband? If it did he never said. The two men shook hands pleasantly,
perfunctorily. A surreal, frozen little moment.

He carried on round, saying goodbye, promising to keep in touch.

Then he hopped into his car in his usual lithe and graceful way, turned round, his eyes
brushing hers briefly, gave a wave and was gone.

In her head she was Celia Johnston at Milford Junction, Rachmaninov Piano
Concerto Number Two, in C minor, first movement swelling through the evening air.
She could have sworn she heard the shriek of the express train.

For several days she sunk into a black melancholia that nothing could shake off.
Everything felt insipid, drained of colour. Nothing could lighten her mood, but
somehow she carried on, an automaton, playing her part as written. And in the

63
presence of her husband she was bathed in murky, grimy guilt that nothing could
wash off.

Out, damn'd spot! Out…

As she currently had no alternative she picked up the pieces of their marriage and did
what she could to salvage things, but it would never be the same.

Once her love was gone she discovered that most people became semi-complicit in
rewriting the recent facts. They’d all liked him of course, he’d been fun, and on my
God, gorgeous, but he was a bit, well, impulsive, wild, egocentric? Her husband saw
him as a maverick, foolhardy. Oh yes, her husband was never other than eminently
sensible. She listened to these tales, almost forced herself to believe them, as if in
search of armour and a means of accepting that he had gone from her life for good. It
would never have lasted, would it? The affair had been madness, separate from the
solid world of responsibility and honour and duty. Their love, their deep friendship
had been strange and wild and exotic befitting its setting. She clung to this fiction for
survival as a lost mariner to a raft for survival, but she knew, would always know, that
she’d found her kindred soul, and she’d lost him.

No she never met him again.

He wrote once from Dubai where he’d found work, but it was a friendly chatty letter
to both of them. He didn’t dare send anything else. In her jealous heart she imagined
he’d found someone new, someone who could make him forget her. Then she would
almost immediately dismiss it. He loved her. She knew that. One day her friends told
her excitedly about the Roman villa and how a friend of a friend had discovered it.
They all set off one afternoon for a visit. She pleaded a headache. Tears pricked at her
eyes. Silly she knew because it was inevitable others would find it, had found it
before, but she couldn’t stand to think of it trivialised and sullied. No, she never went
there again, well not in reality. The version she visited was theirs and theirs alone. She
returned to that place again and again to be with him.

Time no longer.

Life carried on, as it tends to, until in early December it was time for them to go
home. By that time there were other distractions in her life. Something that forced her
to look forward and not back. Miracle of miracles someone had freed her from her
stinking lonely dungeon on the planet Zog.

She was pregnant.

She thought of everything that meant; new life, love, fear, responsibility, belief in the
future, hope. She was beyond delighted, even the near constant sickness a reminder
that at last she’d been awarded full membership of the human race, had been allowed
join in the game with the other kids in the playground. She managed to push doubts
and worries down to the murky depths every time they tried to swim to the surface.
Her husband was on top of the world and it did make her smile from behind the guilt.
She forced her self to think it. The baby might not be his. She feared it and
somewhere deep down secretly hoped it too.

64
“It must have happened while we were in Malta!” he enthused.

They left their little bungalow home for the last time, shaking hands with all their
friends, promising to keep in touch, meaning it. She took in every little scene,
committing it to memory. Friends shouting and waving in farewell, some it tears,
running after their car, hands slapping on the paintwork, knocking on windows, trying
to keep up, then finally giving up and continuing to wave as it gained speed. She
looked back at them gesticulating in return, and then over at the date palms across the
road. They passed the tennis courts. The luxury hotel that nobody visited. They turned
up the familiar dusty track to the main road, then around the roundabout with the
smiling picture of the Great Leader in military garb and sunglasses in the middle, on
past the next junction, the road on the right leading to the beach.

For a while they became stuck behind a pick up truck, two camels tethered in the back
on their knees, tragic-comic, but staring at them with an air of supercilious wisdom in
their eyes, as if the keepers of a deep truth that humankind would never comprehend.
In fact, she mused, it was entirely the other way round because she knew something
they didn’t. They were on their way to the abattoir. Then again maybe they did know
better. After all, weren’t we all just on our way to the abattoir, hoping for some
purpose to punctuate the mundanity? Perhaps some fun, the occasional memorable
experience. Hopefully friendship and love, mutual support, caring. Certainly tragedy,
but also moments of joy along the way? Even somewhere making a difference?

At the airport they joked with the security guards who saw they were travelling to
London. No, no, they insisted, not English. Scottish! They both laughed merrily in
agreement when one of the guards joked, his hand a gun, “English, bang bang!”
Anything to get safely through to the plane home!

They arrived home to discover that horrible things had been happening to the south
and east of them that year. Bob Geldof and friends never tired of reminding her as she
tried to settle back home that strange cold December that ‘there won’t be snow in
Africa this Christmas time’. They would ask pointedly, ‘Do they know it’s Christmas
time at all?’

Dreadful that the words should resonate with her when the biblical famine in Ethiopia
was a tragedy on a scale so epic that she could never even begin to comprehend it.
The hedonistic life of expats in one of the richer countries of that benighted continent
was exposed for the shallow decadent sham it had always been, her worries and joys
as insignificant as the flies that used to buzz over turquoise chipped Formica table
tops. But she knew for certain that somewhere in Dubai a drop dead gorgeous young
man, with amused liquid eyes and an easy grace was doing what he could to rally
support for Bob’s cause.

Her daughter was born in late spring as the last of the blossom still clung to the trees,
fair haired and pale skinned, more like her husband than anyone else, though not even
much like him. But even as a tiny baby she would gaze at her with eyes that were
going to turn dark and had a hint of sparkling amusement in them that made her seem
wise beyond her years.

65
In those days before DNA testing she didn’t take it any further, never tried to contact
him, too many boats would be rocked, and anyway they could never be certain. Deep
inside she guiltily hugged the knowledge of it to herself.

And just like buses another baby girl came along the next year, chestnut hair like her
mother this time and light eyes like her father.

She went back to her career as a lawyer when the girls were still toddlers and
flourished in family law, became pretty celebrated in a local way for her caring,
thoughtful and fair approach to marital disputes. She eventually rose to be partner of a
venerated firm. They moved into the solid Victorian house in Kensington Gate.

In the end the marriage lasted fifteen years. If it hadn’t been for the girls it might have
withered sooner and died a natural death. He was a good man and a wonderful father
to the girls on whom he doted, just as she did. After all, surely everyone could see,
they were the most beautiful, accomplished, funny, wise, amazing children in the
whole world?

But there was always something lacking. It was as if they just didn’t quite meet in the
middle. Why did the marriage last so long? Fear, laziness, perhaps, and yes there was
always love, a love grown of years of shared experience, a wish for security for
themselves, but especially for the children. It wasn’t a stormy marriage; it wasn’t hell
for the kids. Friends continued to think they were one of the success stories.

Eventually they just passed each other by, ran out of things to say. It was an old and
very familiar story. The only part of their lives they shared was as parents. Once the
girls were older, less in need of full time attention, and it was the time to rediscover
each other, they both realised there was nothing left to salvage. The separation and
eventual divorce were civilised and amicable and very sad. A couple of years later he
met someone else and she hoped this one was his kindred. She had several
relationships of her own, which were fine, albeit temporary. Trouble was she had to
compare everyone else to the very best.

One Thursday night in early May 1997 she sat alone watching television. Her husband
had gone to collect the girls who were out extra late with the guides, visiting a
mosque, strangely. It was to be a night of hope and glory and a certain amount of
schadenfreude, watching as famous faces lost deposits. She guessed then of course
that wild expectation would never quite match up to reality, but that didn’t take away
anything from the enjoyment of a glorious night.

Suddenly there he was - on the screen in front of her!

Oh the shock and the surprise of seeing him so unexpectedly. She gave a little gasp.
The Earth seemed to lurch, slow down for a moment. Her head was spinning and her
heart thumped alarmingly. She was glad that she was alone. She sat riveted to the
screen for the few minutes he was on, scarcely daring to blink.

Unmistakably him, in early middle age, looking older than her memory of him, but
not old, eyes a little crinkled round the edges, but still liquid and amused and, tonight,

66
sparkling in triumph. He’d gained a little weight but it looked good on him. He was
still slim and so handsome, charismatic too; she could see that now as she watched
him from a new perspective. He raised his arms in acknowledgment of the ecstatic
applause from his supporters. Then he hugged the petite blonde woman by his side,
his wife according to the voice over. She felt a stab of jealousy as she looked at this
woman who was nothing like her.

After that she’d quietly followed his career, his successes, his failures as they were
reported in the media. She would stop short, momentarily forgetting to breathe, on the
chance occasion she heard his voice, saw his face, on the news, or in a discussion
programme, time briefly falling away. Two years ago she heard his wife had cancer.
The prognosis wasn’t hopeful. According to reports he nursed her at the end, stepping
back from public life for the duration.

She sat bolt upright, as if waking suddenly from an unnerving dream. She cautiously
manoeuvred her neck. She’d been lying with her head at an awkward angle and it had
become unpleasantly stiff. The drawing room was in darkness, save for the yellow
white beam of a street light though the window. She’d never got round to closing the
curtains. Had she been asleep? What was the time? She stretched over to the lamp. Oh
God, she groaned out loud, 4.50 am! She had intended to be up bright and early too.
So much to do, so much to plan.

Next morning, having managed little more than four hours sleep in her comfortable
bed she found herself pacing the house like a caged tiger. From the kitchen to the hall,
back into the dining room, she prowled, to the family room, really it should be
renamed the permanent junk room, back down the long hallway and into the kitchen
once more. She had her phone in her hand. She could feel it’s weight and it’s heat, its
impatience as it waited for her decision. Finally she started dialling before she could
change her mind again.

“House of Commons. How may I help you?”

The day after that she sat at her desk, nursing her suddenly painful right knee and
wrote a long and very carefully worded letter.

***
The others had gone off to explore the prestigious college, the stunning chapel, the
Harry Potter dining hall, its four hundred years of history, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the
grand honey Cotswold stone frontage. In the end she’d invited everyone down to the
ancient university town for the graduation. Her daughter had insisted on it, and her
new American relations leapt at the chance to see the world famous dreaming spires
from the inside track, so to speak. They’d all gone down by train, piling onto the
Bournemouth train, piling out again around an hour or so south of Birmingham.

She stood beside her beautiful daughter in the quad, knowing that she’d never in her
life felt more proud. She found herself looking at the willowy girl anew, as she stood
in gown and mortar board, clutching her degree scroll, the cobalt blue of the dress
underneath only serving to emphasise her deep dark eyes, dancing today in delight.

Something made her turn round. She wasn’t sure what. A sudden rush of wind flitted

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like a ghost through the ancient trees in a copse beyond the far end of the quad.

He stood on the path at the opposite side of the manicured lawn. Then, mindful of the
‘Keep off the Grass’ sign he walked round with a lithe easy relaxed stride until he
reached them. She had time to take in his appearance as she watched him approach,
observing closely, seeing him in person for the first time in nearly twenty-four years.
Older yes, a little crumpled, careworn, knocked about by life, but still retaining
unmistakable essence of the boy who’d held her that last day at the Roman villa all
those years ago.

Her heart thumped steadily in her throat as he came right up to her and shook her
hand formally, impersonally, like the politician he was. He looked into her eyes in that
direct open way of his, and she could see the hint of amusement in the liquid gaze that
was never far away, and the warmth, and today something deeper beyond that –
forgiveness.

Rachmaninov Piano Concerto Number 2, in C minor, first movement, began to play

in her head, quietly at first, then slowly rising to crescendo until for a few moments
she could hear nothing else.

She turned her body a little to indicate her daughter who stood behind her, friendly
and a little curious.

“I’d like you to meet Flora.”

A little later they were walking to a famous old English pub, late haunt of the
Inklings, where they’d agreed to meet up with her aunt and the American relatives.
They’d been in raptures when her daughter had suggested it.

Her younger daughter had joined them now and the two girls were walking a little
ahead, joking and laughing, oblivious for now.

She caught a whiff of light-hearted gossip on the summer breeze.

“Yes, didn’t you know, he’s an old friend of Mum and Dad’s from Libya.”

“Libya – YAWWWN!” Both girls chorused loudly in unison then giggled.

“So,” he paused, all dimpled smile. Dark eyes, defined and somehow enhanced by the
attractive fine lines and little folds of skin surrounding them, dancing wickedly now
as he took in the hallowed surroundings. He indicated with an elegant flourish.
“You’ve turned into a champagne socialist, I see.”

“It was my entirely my daughter’s own decision to apply to come here”, she replied,
in mock indignation, adding with a smile, “ She has a thing for history.”

“Anyway, you’re one to talk!” she continued as she felt a comfortable old familiar
sensation seep through her, as if she was warm for the first time in years, “ I couldn’t
believe it the day I heard you’d sold out to New Labour!”

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He moved closer to her as they walked and took her arm companionably, giving her a
secret little liquid smile that made her heart turn over.

“I know you’re going to love meeting my aunt.” she continued, “ and her son. You’ll
never believe the tale she has to tell.”

Epilogue

There was another paragraph at least, she could see, but it was impossible to make out
any of it. The old sepia stain, nothing worse than coffee she hoped, had seen to that,
and anyway the bottom of that final page was ripped half way across its width. The
faded by-line on the ragged bottom left hand corner confirmation that the story had
ended. There was no time left. The house clearers had finished the job and it was time
to leave. She gathered up the abandoned dog-eared manuscript and placed it carefully
in her attaché case, along with a couple of mementos that they’d all failed to notice
over the last few weeks.

She stood on the threshold. The rain had given up for now and the sun was out. The
familiar bittersweet after-the-deluge smell drenched her senses as it lingered in the
warm, water-laden air, and on the ground. The bedraggled vegetation in the little front
garden seemed to sigh, replete, satiated. She imagined she could hear the chatter of
the weeds as they squeezed determinedly, up through the sodden clay soil, gleefully
choking the roots of their legitimate brethren on their journey to the light. Finally she
turned and looked inside, pausing just for a moment. She closed the door, turned the
key, pulling on the handle to make sure she’d locked it properly. How many times, she
wondered, had she stood on this spot, done the same thing?

That was the last time.

Echoes of fifty years of birthday parties and Christmas laughter, of exits and
entrances, of fun and feasts and fights and forgiveness followed her to her car. She got
in and drove off without looking back.

She would drop the keys off tomorrow.

She checked the scans. Good, she was allowed to drive this afternoon, and the power
wouldn’t go off until 7pm. Plenty of time. She drove on.

Eventually she turned the car left, through the familiar tall stone-pillared entrance
way, down the long straight drive, tyres crunching on the still wet gravel, passing the
lawns and the flower beds; overgrown with weeds she couldn’t help but notice as she
killed her speed over the bumps. They’d had to dismiss the gardener, she’d heard.
Cuts.

She showed her the bunch of papers, careful to keep them just out of reach of the
gnarled grasping hands. “It’s yours,” she said. “In the house, your house… I found it.”

“Found it.” She echoed the last words with a sweet smile.

And again. “Fffoooouuun dit.”

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Then she laughed out loud, tickled pink, at the sound of the mundane phrase, the feel
of it a new and wondrous thing. The texture of the ‘F’ sound as it tickled her bottom
lip, the sensation and tone of the rounded vowels as they rolled over her tongue, the
“dit” a staccato post script, amusing, inconsequential, frivolous, cheerily pointless.

Like a small child, and yet nothing like a small child. A child with a hidden hoard of
lifetime experiences, thoughts and wishes and longings and regrets, packed in her
mind somewhere still. So guarded, so protected by firewalls that not even she was
allowed to know of their existence. Little lucid snippets emerging from time to time,
surprising her less than those around her, sometimes delighting her, sometimes
distressing her. Living in a dreamlike state of half-thought, fitful image, and sensation,
already a wandering soul, yet still clinging tenaciously to this world.

She watched her mother, taking her in as she was now, living a future she knew she
would have hated, toothless, propped in her wheelchair, legs she no longer had any
use for covered in a blanket, head lolling slightly. She smiled back at the old lady
encouragingly, then laughed out loud, pretending to share the joke, realising at once
that she’d responded too late. Her companion’s smile had already frozen in place and
was slowly fading, in slight embarrassment, to be replaced at the last by an expression
of deep bafflement as she wondered what on earth had been so funny?

She considered not for the first time the nature of happiness. Who could say for
certain that her mother, the utterly changed version of her mother sitting in front of
her, was not happy? Of course no one could be happy all the time, too strong a word,
too elusive an emotion, and she had often watched her change abruptly to temporary
fear or even anger, but generally speaking she did appear content? The tormented
banshee through the wall an unsettling reminder that her mother was more fortunate
than most. She laughed easily, had a keen sense of the absurd. No thought of
tomorrow or yesterday, each and every sensation new and in the moment. And of
course she was entirely natural, freed at last from the bonds of convention, of the
requirement to present an image of herself to the world.

She delighted in the simple things, that busier minds passed by or dismissed. She was
fascinated by every day objects, a tiny cloth button, a ragged fingernail, and would
look at them, wonder at them for an age. Life in microcosm. She’d always been
interested in the detail, of course. Just look at her drawings. Faces, sounds and now
especially music engaged her and gave her pleasure in a new and apparently profound
way. She would sway to the Mozart, sometimes with tears in her eyes, jig in place to
jaunty popular tunes, having fun for as long as the music lasted, even if she
immediately forgot it. Melody and rhythm clearly had the power to bypass exanimate
synapses and sweep directly to the soul. Had she perhaps found in the pleasing notes a
hidden extra layer unattainable to sound minds, or was it just that in a mind empty of
distraction the music achieved an exquisite purity?

We all would come to the end of our lives by some means. Was it better to collapse
suddenly and unexpectedly of a heart attack, to die in agony or doped up, our bodies
riddled with disease, or to just peter out, oblivious and content, at the end of a long
life lived full and well, but still alive and able to feel, able to love? Perhaps, she
wondered on a whim, her mother really was now in that place without time?

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Her ebullience and positivity was temporary of course, and built on feeble
foundations. Her mother would have hated this. The helplessness, the indignity, the
dependency. The forgetting. Would have taken the quick exit had she been given the
choice. Her memory was everything to her and it was so connected to her profound
sense of time and place. It was a fate too cruel. It hurt so much that she had been
diagnosed just too late for the cure to have any efficacy. Well at least now she’d
retrieved some of her life for her. No-one was left who could possibly be hurt by this.
She would give her her voice back. She would publish her mother’s words as a last
act of love.

The manuscript.

It was a good read; engaging, well paced, if a bit wordy. After all her mother had
always found it difficult to shut up, she thought with an inward chuckle. Smiled at the
lack of names, bit of a clunking nod to the much loved Rebecca, she suspected, which
had managed, she noted, to make a cameo appearance. Cliché ridden in places, but
that was part of its naïve charm. Maybe she was being unfair. What was love after all
if not a cliché? Mum always did say her mind was a dustbin of associations.

She’d captured her reserved, enigmatic, theatre loving great aunt well she thought, a
difficult thing to do. In the course of their cosy fireside chats in her final years had
obviously wheedled out of her many, although she suspected by no means all, of the
dignified woman’s carefully preserved secrets, in what she found herself calling
chapter one. She wondered if her mother had intended it to be chapter one, or a
separate story? Mum had always talked about wanting to write and be published, and
wanting to paint and sing and play the piano and she’d never taken her particularly
seriously. The desire to write must have been strong enough after all, and the gene, if
that was what it was, had been passed on to her. She’d just sent her eighth novel to her
publishers, yesterday, right on the deadline. Another Flora Jensen would soon hit the
bookstores. She gave an involuntary nervous little shiver at the thought.

And most poignantly there was the essence of her father, not her beloved Dad, the
kind, misjudged and misunderstood man, she’d grown up with, but her biological
father. Charming, energetic, caring, engrossed with life, and people, past and present,
and opportunity and fairness and justice for all. Capricious and thoughtless too. You
could see it all there in her mother’s tale despite love’s blindness. They’d been
ridiculously happy together for twenty-five years until his death.

I have to go now Mum, she said eventually. I’m going home to read your story again.
“It’s about Libya - and Auntie Agnes”. “Libya”, she repeated, hoping against hope to
stir something in the broken mind.

I love you Mum.

She hugged her mother tightly in farewell and the dear old soul clung on, deeply
affectionate. At times like this she was certain she knew still who she was. She stood
up and made for the door. Tomorrow she would make a start on her painstaking
labour of love.

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“Libya” the old lady repeated, rolling her tongue round the “L” in exaggeration and
laughing.

The End.

Louise Angus – June 2009

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