Malik looks young and frightened. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.
I sit on a bench. My heart is hammering. ‘Bit shaken. How about you?’
‘Unnerved, actually. It’s not like this in Bradford.’
We grin at each other. What I would really like to do is curl up on the floor in a blanket and sleep. After what seems a long time Sergei comes back.
‘I’m afraid we are going to be stuck here all night. It is the safest option. Karachi is virtually under curfew. I’ve ordered a vehicle to come and pick us up at first light. The officers here are bringing us tea and blankets …’
His face is creased with tiredness. He looks at me and Malik and smiles. ‘I’m sorry … it’s not always like this.’
‘Good newspaper story, though,’ Malik says.
‘We’re safe,’ I say. ‘Because of a kind ranger.’
Sergei smiles. ‘We are, Gabriella. We are.’
Tea and biscuits come. Sergei finds me a washroom. When I return there are bright cotton blankets like tablecloths. I wrap my dupatta around my head and lie curled in a corner of the room and close my eyes. They feel dry and my whole body feels parched. I am almost beyond sleep. When my stomach rumbles I think, You don’t even know the meaning of hunger, or days and days of gnawing emptiness.
I half sleep, dream and float. Vivid images rush and thread their way through my head. I think about Will and Matteo and Dominique. I dream of Mike.
I feel Sergei lie down beside me at some point and I lean comfortingly against his back. Then it is dawn and he is shaking me. I go and wash my face. When I come back there is tea. We drink it quickly and when we go outside we find Mamoon, Sergei’s red-bearded driver, waiting for us by the big four-by-four.
‘Asalaam-o-alaikum, boss.’ He beams. It is so obvious we are all delighted to see him.
It is still half light but the sky is flushed on the horizon ahead. I have no idea which area of Sindh we are travelling in or how far we are from Karachi. It is too early to talk. As the sun comes up I see we are still surrounded by the swollen Indus with its burst banks flooding the hinterland of Karachi in every direction. Trees stand stark against flooded buildings. As the sun rises it filters through the reed beds and the floodwaters look almost colourless, a dull dishwater, but slowly, as I watch, they change to a pearly crystal grey that ripples like diamonds catching the light.
I lean closer to the window, a memory catching painfully in my throat as the sun floods the day with light like the suddenness of a birth. The river catches fire, it ripples and flickers, jumps with red flames that seem to consume and blind the true meaning of what lies beneath the power of water.
I am a child again canoeing along the estuary in the evening with Papa. Past the dam, past the ‘mango’ swamp that I used to pretend was full of crocodiles. A still dark place of the river where we paddled under leafy bridges of trees, their branches covered in frilly grey lichen, where water boatmen bobbed on the scummy surface and the banks of the river rustled with wildlife.
Suddenly, as we emerged from under the dark trees into a sunset, it seemed as if the river was on fire and had caught the ripples of water so they blazed with life. We were going to float into those flames, into a real flickering fire. I heard my father’s intake of breath as we dipped our oars and gazed at the awesome beauty of the river alight. As the water turned from red to gold, and was reflected in the sky, Papa whispered, ‘Let’s always remember this, my darling, the day the river caught fire …’
Suddenly, I know with absolute certainty that Papa had taken his boat out into that storm and gone on sailing into that last sunset.
Sergei touches my hand and I realize I’m crying. He too is watching the river on fire as a new day comes. Our fingers, curled together, are icy. It is as if for a second we glimpse our own end.
I lift my face to the light that is already fading and changing to just another day in Pakistan. Sergei smiles and lets my hand go.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Karachi, September 2010
The weeks are flying by in a blur. A lot of my time is spent at Sergei’s office computer, working with Sergei or his staff on appeals, updating websites and photographs of the disaster, editing copy and shifting endless bits of paper. Emily would have a field day organizing this rather chaotic office. It is hard work and not glamorous.
I understand why Sergei took Malik and me out with him that first day. He wanted us to see the scale of the disaster; understand who we were helping, and why we are here, because much of the work is routine and relentless.
Sergei has never taken me so far afield again, but we drive with his NGOs into the smaller refugee camps IDARA is setting up, and every time the scale of devastated lives hits me anew. Dr Baruni is right; I see many Samias and Usamas. But I will never forget the tiny child in the yellow dress opening her arms to me, or her mother begging me to take her.
Massima, Afia and Raif made an amazingly poignant video appeal from footage recorded in the refugee camps. It is slick and clever with a heartrending musical score. It made us all cry.
Pakistan is struggling to cope with so many disasters, it is going to be years before it can recover from the terrible effects of the floods. The refugee camps are a breeding ground for militants and these children will form the next rich recruiting ground if we can’t give them education or hope.
I am beginning to see that Sergei is a bit of a maverick. He does not keep strictly to the rules, but he get results and is universally popular, so people turn a blind eye.
He will disappear for days but when he is home he likes to socialize. He loves to bring people together round his huge table. NGOs, visiting journalists, local people involved or supporting IDARA. Massima, Afia, Birjees and Shahid bring clothes and cooking utensils and little packs of treats for the children in the camps.
I love being part of this chaotic house in Karachi. I watch Sergei and my friends, all with a common sense of purpose, fuelled by an energy that is contagious. Tonight there are just a few close friends to supper. I listen to their plans and feel adrift. It seems to me that I have spent half my life sleepwalking. I have never had the courage to pursue a side of myself that I knew was there. I played safe. I built a successful career I loved. I concentrated on being a perfect wife and mother, but I never dared to stop and ask myself: Is this the life you want?
Somewhere along the way, I forgot I was Gabby Nancarrow. Someone who took a dinghy out in rough weather, who swam in forbidden coves on a running tide, took risks, sneered at Maman for always deferring to Papa, when she was far more qualified to make a decision. Like a chameleon, I camouflaged my life to fit seamlessly into the man I loved, and that cowardice and passivity is not Mike’s fault, it is mine.
I look up and find Sergei watching me; he has picked up my sadness and if he were close enough he would touch me. In a packed room he always seems to know exactly where I am. I have never experienced this before.
It is late and there is only Shahid, Birjees and Massima left at the table. They are watching me too.
‘You are very quiet, Gabby,’ Massima says.
‘You are sad,’ Birjees says.
I try to smile. ‘Yes. I want to stay here with all of you. I don’t want to leave, but I must. I left a life unfinished. I’ve been living in a bubble for weeks, ignoring emails, hoping it will all go away, but it is not going to. I have to go back. People depend on me and I have two boys.’
Shahid’s voice is gentle. ‘But, my dear Gabby, unfinished things can be finished. Who is to say you will not return many times to Pakistan?’
‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘But it is hard to leave you all now.’
‘Because your heart is with us in Pakistan,’ Massima says.
‘It is.’
‘So,’ says Birjees firmly. ‘We will keep it safe for your return.’
Sergei has, uncharacteristically, not said a word.
Shahid, Birjees and Massima get up from the table, thank him for supper, hug me
and are gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Karachi, 2010
Herata and Badhir come to clear the table. Sergei says, ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Gabby, you look tired. I will be up shortly. I have to see Mamoon about tomorrow.’
The house is relatively empty tonight and there is, blissfully, still water for a shower. I get into bed and curl on my side, feeling miserable. I should have spoken to Sergei first, not blurted it all out at the table like that.
Sergei comes up and goes into the shower. I switch the bedside light on and sit up and wait. He comes into the room, shuts the door and leans on it, smiling at me in the way he always does.
‘Sergei,’ I say, relieved. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know I was going to say what I did at supper, it just came out …’
‘Gabriella, I know this. Did you think I was annoyed with you?’
‘Well, you were so quiet …’
‘It was too hard to speak.’
Sergei moves from the door to a small cupboard and takes out a bottle and two tiny glasses, pouring a slug into each glass. He wears a sarong of batik cotton around his waist and I can see the tenseness in his shoulders.
He comes to the bed and hands me the glass then sits facing me with his back to the end of the bed. We stare at each other for a long time. I want to launch myself at him.
‘Sergei, I want to stay and go on helping you. I don’t want to leave Pakistan.’
Sergei throws his head back and knocks back his drink.
‘I am torn by what I should say and what I want to say to you, so I am going to say both …’
He dips his head as if he is still wearing his glasses and looks at me.
‘Just stay at that end of the bed while I talk or I will be undone.’
I laugh and he says, ‘That’s better. I will say what I should not say and then what I must say. You remember when I first saw you at the house of the British Consul with the curly slippers?’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘You looked at me with your eyes full of laughter and I knew I must wrest you away from your husband for the evening.’
‘Well, that wasn’t hard.’
‘Luckily, no.’ Sergei looks down at his hands. ‘I suppose, I talked to you for no more than an hour and a half, but for me it was like a punch to the heart. If you had not been married to Michael I would have carried you away there and then …’
He looks at me. ‘I loved you in a second and I love you now. Nothing is going to change that, Gabriella …’ He holds his hand up. ‘No … stay there, I have not finished …’
‘I was only going to say …’
‘Do not say anything. You must listen; really listen. I think the attraction between us was instantaneous but you would never have acted upon it if your marriage had not come to an end. I happened to be there on the plane when you were sad and frightened. I cared. I made you feel safe. You have found a cause in IDARA. You bring skills and common sense and empathy, but in your heart you know you have taken a diversion to avoid facing, as you say, your unfinished life …
‘Gabriella, that life is not here with me. I will not be an escape route for you. You have to go back and sort out your divorce. You have to go and face what happened to your sister and your father and talk to her. If you bury this, it will fester, believe me. Your future, your sons and your life are back in London … mine will always be here in Pakistan …
‘Please do not cry.’ His voice is gentle.
‘I am crying because I love you, Sergei. Whatever you say.’
Sergei smiles. ‘You think you do, but you will come to see that it is not real. You are leaving a long, and I think once happy, marriage. You need to grieve for that and the end of your family life …’
He leans forward and takes my hand and smooths it between his palms. ‘Now, I am going to say what I should not, but life is fragile, the future uncertain and I want you to know … In my heart, I want to beg you to stay, to be with me, help me in my work, be the comfort you are to me, to be always at my side. What we must settle for is less, but it can still be good. I hope you will come out to Pakistan to help me each year and we will spend a few weeks together and they will be precious …’
I move towards him. I kiss his sensuous mouth and eyelids.
‘You’re right. It is the wrong time and the wrong place. I do have responsibilities … I do have to sort out the mess of my life,’ I say, as I kiss his mouth over and over. ‘But, Sergei, I know what love is. I had almost forgotten what closeness and kindness and longing and the warmth of another human being felt like, and if that isn’t love, I will settle for it every time …’
Sergei pulls me to him. ‘Come here … Oh no, I am the wrong end of the bed, I will come to you …’
We collapse laughing. How can he do this, always make me laugh, despite everything?
Two days later Sergei sees me off at Karachi Airport.
‘My darling Gabriella,’ he says.
‘Stay safe, Sergei. I don’t want a world without you in it.’
We stare at each other carefully in case we have to imprint each other’s face to memory. Life is violent and unpredictable.
Love hovers in the shadows of our eyes. Sergei presses the inside of my palm to his lips.
‘Inshallah, you return soon.’
‘Inshallah,’ I whisper.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
London, September 2010
When I get home to London Dominique is back in Paris. She is full of her girls and totally in love with her tiny granddaughter.
‘But, I’ve been worrying about you, Gabby, I need to know what’s going on. Let’s take that break you wanted. Let’s go back to Cornwall together.’
My heart lifts just hearing her voice. I tell her I will go online and book somewhere particularly lovely for us to stay.
I ring my sons. Will sounds stressed and I can’t get hold of Matteo.
I make an appointment with my solicitor. I put my signature on divorce documents. I email Mike. I help Emily negotiate a book deal. I make supper for Kate and Hugh and in everything I do I hear Sergei’s voice and miss his warmth at night.
Two weeks later I am waiting for Dominique at Paddington Station. The Eurostar from Paris is late and she is frantically texting me from a taxi. I see her from a distance, hurrying towards me, waving frantically. I laugh with relief and run and hug her.
My sister looks different. Slimmer, glossier and rested. We both make a dash for Platform 7 as the last call for the Cornish Riviera to Penzance is announced.
‘Lord, that was close,’ Dominique says when we have collapsed into our seats. ‘Don’t move. I can’t wait for the trolley. I’m going to get us both a coffee.’
When she returns she looks at me closely.
‘Oh, Gabby, you are so thin. What on earth has been happening to you?’
‘I don’t know where to begin.’
‘We have five and a half hours …’
‘I think I’m too tired, Dom …’
But being with Dominique again loosens something inside me. As the train thunders through Reading and heads west, it all comes tumbling out in a great incoherent mass. I tell her about Zakia, the threats to Mike, our abrupt exit from Karachi, Will and Matteo’s shock at the sudden end of our marriage and, last, the unexpected crisis with Matteo.
When I got home from Karachi I found Matteo had been threatening to drop out of his art course. Will thought it was over some girl. Matteo had been missing lectures and Will suspected he was lying about in his room in a fug of self-pity, smoking pot. I wanted to fly up to Glasgow but Will was adamant I should stay away.
‘You’re too soft. I’ll deal with it, Mum. Matt needs to grow up … He won a scholarship and I’m bloody not going to let him throw it away …’
A furious Will hot-footed it to Glasgow and whatever he said to Matteo seemed to have an effect. When I spoke to him, he sounded low, but there was no more talk of dropping out.
‘I’ve
been riddled with guilt for being away when Matt needed me …’ I tell Dominique.
‘Gabby, for God’s sake,’ my sister says, ‘it isn’t you who should be feeling guilty. Mike is unbelievable. How dare he get you out to Pakistan, have an affair under your nose and put you in danger. I’m furious. I always knew he was a selfish, self-absorbed bastard, but this takes some beating …’
I smile at her consistency. ‘Well, to be fair to Mike, as soon as I told him about Matteo threatening to drop out of uni he was on the first plane to Glasgow to talk to him.’
Dominique sniffs. ‘How did that go? Were the boys pleased to see him?’
‘They are fiercely loyal, but I think they were secretly pleased to see him, especially Matteo. Will and Mike were at least united in wanting me to stay away so they could do the tough love bit with Matt …’
That had been hard, but I knew they were right. Life can be cruel and my youngest son has to deal with setbacks without resorting to drugs.
‘Is Mike still with them?’ Dominique asks.
‘He booked a cottage near Edinburgh so they can all go off walking this weekend. Will has exams coming up next week, but Mike is going to stay on with Matteo for another week.’
Dominique says, ‘Pff! I find your ability to let Mike just waltz back into your sons’ lives remarkable.’
I look out of the window at terraced houses with cluttered gardens flashing past; tiny glimpses of unseen lives. Light rain makes teardrops on the windows. Outside, white clouds scud across a pale blue sky. Does my own selfishness make me more charitable? Does my guilt make me kinder?
Dominique’s voice comes in soporific waves over the noise of the train. ‘It’s hard to understand what held you in such thrall in Pakistan, Gabby. Why on earth would you want to go back to a place that caused you pain and ended badly, even for a good cause? It seems as if you are almost sadder about leaving Karachi than you are about losing your husband.’
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