OK. Give my love to Farai and Rose. Tell them I’m thinking of them.
Will do.
Another pause. A crackle of static. Miss you, he’d said. Get away with you, man.
Those were the roles they played, he affectionate and demonstrative, she dismissive of his sentimentality. They enjoyed the banter and performed their parts with enthusiasm. Their friends and family found it amusing. But today, the scale of the calamity still only partly digested, it just seems foolish, a thousand missed opportunities. Through the fog of confused wretchedness she feels the first twinges of guilt and regret.
She remembers the airline representative and his comments about the news breaking and scrambles to switch on the television in the lounge. She channel-hops between news stations, transfixed by the rolling headline subtitles.
It’s not enough, she’s impatient for detail, so she logs onto the computer too, navigating her way onto the BBC website. Numbed with shock, she spots the headline as the lead story but struggles to take in the information in the text below it, recognises only after several attempts at reading that the site has as few concrete details as she does.
She tries to concentrate, to pull herself together, but the awareness that her private life is being played out in public is too surreal, renders her dizzy and enfeebled. She transfers her attention back to the TV, brings down a radio from her bedroom, listens to the alternating bulletins. They too describe the incident in only the vaguest detail. The only additional information that she gathers concerns speculation over the cause of the crash. Unconfirmed reports suggest that it may be an act of terrorism rather than an accident.
She wanders from lounge to kitchen and begins tidying up the breakfast things, an unconscious attempt to alleviate the pain, to find distraction through activity. And standing there in front of the sink, washing-up brush in one hand, porridge bowl in the other, it’s suddenly too much, the dam is breached, and she surrenders to her self-pity, to her fear. Her face crumples, salty tears stream over flushed cheeks, her sobs break the silence of an empty house. She wipes at her puffy, reddened eyes with her sleeve, brush still in hand, angry at her weakness, in control enough to know that the school pick-up is looming, that she needs to put a lid on these emotions.
She commands herself back into composure and finishes the kitchen chores, letting the sink tap run cold. She splashes water on her face until it is numb. Drying herself with a clean dishcloth, she checks her appearance in the bathroom mirror. The eyes are still puffy, her cheeks ruddy, but otherwise she looks quite normal. She wanders back into the kitchen. The wall clock tells her it is time to collect the children. I am strong, she tells herself. I will be strong.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of childcare. Unable to contemplate sharing her news with the children, terrified that a news bulletin may reveal the tragedy to them, Nuala disconnects the satellite cable. She tells them that the TV is not working properly and suggests a DVD as an alternative.
Both Sammy and Beth have remembered that daddy is due home so Nuala is forced to explain his absence. She tells them the plane has had a problem and that they are waiting for news. The children accept this unhesitatingly as nothing more than an inconvenient delay. Beth has written a poem for his return, Sammy’s built a Lego monster in his honour. They’re both momentarily annoyed that the handover ceremony has been postponed but are soon distracted by a squabble over which DVD to watch.
The eye of the storm has moved on, she’s now slipped into the After era.
A sleepless night. Nuala lies in bed and makes plans. It’s only when the school run has been completed the next morning that she can begin to put them into action. She phones her favourite sister, Andrea, the one who has the fewest ties at home, explains her intentions, obtains from her an assurance that she can come without notice and take over the running of the household. Then she phones the information line she’s been given and runs through the same security details to confirm her identity. This time the male voice is officious and impersonal, though the information is essentially the same. Reconnaissance planes have been sent to look for the aircraft, its location identified through the ELT signalling beacon. Unfortunately the crash site looks to be in the middle of a highly sensitive, extremely dangerous area of territory. This accounts for the delay in carrying out a thorough search for survivors. The British government is working in cooperation with the local authorities and will keep all relatives informed as soon as there are any developments.
Through the numbing shock she’s felt since she first heard the news, Nuala experiences a gnawing anger. She interrupts the man’s drone and tells him she’d like to make arrangements to fly out to the crash site as soon as possible. She has prepared a pen and pad before making the call and sits poised to note down details of what she will need to organise. She has expected cooperation and encouragement. Instead she hears hesitancy, awkwardness. Surely they must be expecting this, she thinks. The man recovers his poise and begins to repeat his last statement, the promise to inform Nuala of any developments. He checks her landline and mobile numbers, offers a smooth assurance that they’ll have some news very soon. In her raw, exposed state, Nuala finds herself allowing the conversation to end.
She paces the house, her fury growing. She cannot wait for the promised updates, her impatience dragging her upstairs to her bedroom where she begins to pack a suitcase. She decides to call every hour until she receives the go-ahead to journey to the crash site. In the meantime, there’s a phone call every twenty minutes or so, the electronic tone setting Nuala’s nerves jangling, a sense of dread every time she picks up the handset, but it’s always a friend or relative. Hours pass. The telephone, with its capacity for relief or ruin, becomes a toying instrument of torture.
***
Anger, along with guilt, becomes an essential component of Nuala’s emotional development over the coming weeks. After the initial anesthetising shock comes a restless vacillation in her behaviour, a world rendered meaningless, a suspension of the logical, the rational. The only consistency in Nuala’s behaviour is its lack thereof.
And how can it be otherwise? When she receives confirmation, sometime in the spotted blur of the next few days, that the first medical and salvage team has reached the wreckage of the plane at last, she listens but struggles to understand the information that follows. That there are no known survivors. That many of the bodies salvaged are identifiable only by dental records and DNA tests. That there are signs of looting at the site, located in an inhospitable region currently plagued by warring factions. That it is too dangerous to contemplate allowing visits by the victims’ families. That it seems almost certain the crash was caused by an explosion on board.
And finally, that Greg’s body, like a number of others, has so far not been identified. The police officer who visits to break the news in person, his manner gentle yet firm, is solemnly adamant: Greg should be presumed dead.
Presumed dead? Nuala seethes at the ease of surrender. If her neighbour’s car is not parked outside his house, she might presume that he has gone off to work. If the family cat is not prowling around its food bowl, she might presume that it has escaped into the garden. But to presume the death of her husband just because a first scouting at the crash site does not produce his corpse seems the height of irresponsibility, of insanity, a perversion of logic. At this stage, there is no ambiguity for Nuala. Despite the policeman’s insistence, the absence of Greg’s body is conclusive evidence of his continuing existence.
***
Nuala wakes every morning from the anxieties of her sleep world. Often it’s the Fran-at-the-door dream but sometimes there are others. At university in Cork Nuala took part in two charity-raising parachute jumps. The first passed without event, the second with slightly more drama, her friend falling awkwardly and suffering a serious leg break. The jumps occurred during that time in her life when she thought herself invulnerable, and she hasn’t consi
dered these experiences in years. Now she dreams she’s jumping again, the adrenalin squeeze as she leaps from the plane, the liberation of freefall, but then the realisation that she has forgotten the parachute, that she’s plunging to certain death, and she wakes up breathless and panicky.
And then, when there are no nightmares, there’s still the waking, the few seconds of calm before the vicious kick is delivered, and she remembers.
***
When she’s not deliberately avoiding her situation, she thinks about loss. Her older brother had died just after Beth’s birth, killed in a motorway pileup just outside Dublin on his way to a job interview. She remembers the violence of her reaction, the paroxysm of pain, the mental and physical distress. But looking back she sees few similarities between her feelings now and those at the time. Of course there was an initial sense of denial, but there had been a wake, a body to mourn.
Dwelling on her brother’s death, Nuala recalls, above all, its unambiguity, its absolute black-and-whiteness. She pictures the fateful car journey, her brother behind the wheel, a living breathing being, all pumping organs and zapping synapses. And then, an instant later, from white to black, the heart has stopped, the pulse and brain functions have ceased, and all that remains is the cold, still cadaver in the hospital morgue. And Nuala feels again that her present experience is unique, for in her mind the loss of Greg is the most ambiguous possible, neither dead nor alive, an absolute grey.
***
In the days that follow, there is no self-scrutiny, only raw, naked experience. Nuala does not yet understand the crucial role that her own children will play in helping her to deal with such emotional upheaval, their status as both bane and boon. All she feels is that there are moments where she resents them deeply, their endless demands, when in fact she craves the opportunity to focus on her own emotional needs. And that at other times she feels grateful for their presence, the very relentlessness of their requirements, as desperate diversions distracting her from her thoughts, a bulwark propping up her fragile state of mind, a barricade between herself and complete mental meltdown.
During the first few days Nuala breaks the news of the air crash gently but continues to maintain to the children that Greg is temporarily missing rather than permanently gone. In their minds, she hopes, he has lost his way. He is wandering around the African bush and will re-appear at some future time, dusty and tanned, with thrilling tales of wild beast encounters.
And as the days pass, the questions about the timing of his return grow less frequent as they accept the length of its delay, and his absence becomes woven into the fabric of their existence. Routines are put on hold ‘until daddy gets back’. Plans are made for after his homecoming.
Of course there are moments when emotions erupt, usually close to bedtime when tempers are frayed and the spirit exhausted, when they cry that they miss him, that they want him back. But then Nuala lays aside her own hurting and focuses on restoring morale, first on establishing in their minds a daddy en route home, then on distractions and promises and plans. And it works and the children believe what they are told, what they want to believe, and life goes on.
***
Another visit from a government official, a Mr Cartmel, to update Nuala on developments. Again, the insistence that there can be no survivors. She listens politely, then informs him of her plans to travel to Africa. She’s already dug out her passport. She has planned in her mind the trip to London for a visa, the purchase of a ticket. She’ll make the rest up as she goes along once she’s in-country.
Cartmel looks at her, wondering if she’s heard correctly what he has just told her about presuming her husband’s death. He contemplates repeating himself. There’s a steely determination in her flinty eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. When she’d first opened the door, she’d worn a look of startled raw vulnerability. It was a look he’d seen before in people facing great mental distress, like a movie-goer emerging from a matinee performance into bright afternoon sunshine, something naked and bewildered, momentarily caught off guard.
He hesitates, then explains that he can’t comment about the possibility of travel, that she’ll need to talk to his superiors. He promises that someone will get back to her soon.
She waits for a day but having received no call, she phones the information line again. She explains her plans and is put through to a supervisor. By now she’s angry, a cold fury that stems from her growing belief that she’s being fobbed off. She’s aware that her voice is raised. The woman is telling her that political sensitivities make travel to the country difficult. She listens in disbelief. There must be many of us, friends and relatives of the victims, who want to make this journey, she thinks. She interrupts the woman and tells her she’ll go to the newspapers if she doesn’t receive the necessary cooperation from the authorities. After a long delay she’s put through to a third person.
This time the man’s voice is placatory, a little oily even. He reiterates how difficult travel would be at the present time. He reassures her that the Foreign Office is nevertheless in delicate negotiations with its counterpart, and that Nuala and the other bereaved (his word, not hers) would be the first to be notified of any progress. He’s smooth and persuasive, but Nuala’s calm rage fuels her persistence. No, she says, that’s not good enough. She wants to fly out to the capital as soon as possible. She will apply for the necessary visa tomorrow. If she does not receive the government’s full cooperation, then she’ll go to the press.
There’s a moment’s pause. She can almost hear the man’s brain processing her words, calculating his next move. When he speaks his voice has lost some of its sympathetic tone. He will speak to his superior at once, will call back before the end of the day.
The final call of the day is short and to the point. The man introduces himself as a senior something-or-other in the Foreign Office. He invites her to a meeting in London the next day, a briefing on the situation that they are offering to all those directly affected by the incident. She takes down the address and asks him to repeat his name: Rafferty.
Nuala, restless, wanders around the house. Everywhere she looks she sees Greg’s ghostly presence. Outside in the back garden is the shed that he constructed, the barbeque pit he built, the fencing he patched up. At the front of the house she strokes the garden gate he’d replaced a fortnight before his departure, had primed but never got round to painting. She looks up at the brickwork and the sprawling wisteria, noting the branch hanging limply across the front bay window. It has always been Greg’s job to tie it back.
But it’s not only his handiwork that Nuala notices.
Since she first learned of the crash, she has seen and heard Greg at every turn. When the phone rings, day or night, her first thought is that it must be him. The doorbell heralds his entrance, the creak of a floorboard signals his proximity. Every tap on the window, every moan of the wind sets her heart racing.
And outside, too, she sees him everywhere. Greg’s favourite coat is a brown zip-up jacket and she only has to catch sight of someone wearing something vaguely similar to feel a stab of expectation. Their car is a particular shade of pale blue and no matter how many times she encounters a similar one on the road, she cannot suppress the immediate detonation of hope followed by grim deflation, even when she’s driving the very car at the time. Worst of all is the flash of the back of a man’s head in a crowded street, the same cut, same shade of hair, a moment of belief she wishes she could stifle.
The following day Nuala ventures outside again and manoeuvres her car out onto the ring road. She remembers little of the drive into London. She parks at a friend’s house in Ealing and catches the tube into town. The room she’s led into is airy and cold, with white walls, a couple of gold-framed oil paintings and a conference table with steel chairs. There are three men present including Rafferty. She’s expecting other victims’ relatives to be present but she’s alone. The briefings must be individual
, she supposes, and wonders whether that’s an attempt to keep the families apart.
Rafferty introduces the other men but Nuala scarcely takes in the details. One of them launches straight into a political analysis of the region where Greg has gone missing. He explains about the country’s current government, the distance from capital to crash site, the plane brought down in an area of fierce conflict between militia armed by the government and local groups fighting for autonomy. He explains about the roots of the conflict – a fight for land, for ethnic superiority, for natural resources – and its exacerbation by outside interests. He mentions neighbouring countries, names rival warlords, refers to the world price of certain valuable minerals. Nuala can see that he’s enjoying the opportunity to lecture on his area of expertise.
The man talks about the foreign government. He mentions its refusal to admit to its role in the conflict or to accept that its faraway province has become a battlefield. He explains that Britain has joined many other countries in applying pressure on the government to end the violence. It has accused the country of genocide, called for international sanctions, and this has made relations between the two countries extremely frosty. It has become almost impossible to get a visa from their embassy, he concludes. As such, travel to and from this country is almost impossible.
Look, I understand exactly how you feel, says Rafferty when the man has finished. If it was me, I’d definitely want to get out there, see the site, pay my respects. It’s important for closure, I’m sure. He smiles at Nuala, looking pleased with the sensitivity of his words. She gazes back at him and burns inside with a wrath she doesn’t know she is capable of. Closure? She focuses on her right hand resting on her lap and concentrates on controlling its shaking. She doesn’t want an outburst. She still hopes to convince them to assist her in her travel plans.
Divinity Road Page 13
