In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Sara MacDonald

  Your friend,

  Massima

  I close my laptop. I could have been still there, in the hotel in Karachi. I could have offered my help to Sergei. I could have done something.

  In the early hours of the morning my laptop pings again. I sit up in bed and peer at the screen.

  Orlov@IDARA.com

  Gabby, I am at IDARA headquarters in Essex for emergency conference. I fly back to Karachi tomorrow night. Is possible to see you before I leave?

  I smile and email straight back.

  Sergei, come to the house as soon as you get to London. I will cook lunch for you.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  London, 2010

  Sergei arrives on my doorstep looking tired and crumpled. He beams down at me and kisses both my cheeks. I sit him at the kitchen table and make coffee, conscious of his amused eyes watching me. Will comes into the kitchen yawning. I introduce Sergei and explain to Will that we had met in Karachi and Sergei had been on my flight home to London. All true.

  To my surprise Will stares at him and says, ‘I think you came up to Edinburgh and gave a lecture on IDARA during my first year. You were encouraging medical students to do voluntary work for the charity and gain valuable experience …’

  Sergei is equally surprised. ‘You are a medical student at the University of Edinburgh?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I promise I will not try to recruit you over lunch.’

  Will laughs and plonks himself at the table, intrigued. They begin to talk about medicine and IDARA as I prepare a salad. It feels a bit Alice in Wonderland.

  I note Will’s slight deference, but Sergei is easy and comfortable, interested in what Will is saying but not trying too hard to engage. I learn Sergei could have left Pakistan after one tour but chose not to. I learn that Will is interested in calcium deficiency that restricts the bone development of malnourished children.

  When the doorbell goes, Will jumps up. ‘Oh, Mum, I invited Cassie over to meet you. She’s passing through London on her way back to Edinburgh … Do you think she could stay for lunch?’

  Amazed, I close my mouth. ‘Of course she can.’

  Will grins. ‘It was a surprise. I knew you’d make a fuss if I warned you she was coming.’

  ‘It is a surprise. Go and open the door to the poor girl …’

  Sergei stands up. ‘Gabriella, I will go, this is family time …’

  I laugh. ‘Sergei, I know my son. He wants his girlfriend to stay for lunch because you are here …’

  I pull my hands through my hair, trying to tame it. I wish Will had given me some warning.

  Sergei says softly, ‘You look lovely, Gabriella …’ Our eyes meet and I am, shockingly, back in bed with him.

  I turn quickly away as Will comes in with a small, dark girl with very blue eyes. He is uncharacteristically nervous. Does he think I might not like her?

  I go to shake Cassie’s hand but hug her instead. Her smile lights up her face and when she speaks she has a soft Highland accent. The result is captivating. I love her on sight. Will, who is watching me, winks in relief. Somehow, I know, early as this is, young as Will is, Cassie is going to be the one.

  Cassie too remembers Dr Orlov. Lunch is an odd triumph, helped by Mike’s fast-diminishing wine store, Sergei’s sense of humour and Cassie and Will’s sheer joy in being together. If I have a sense of watching myself, it is not unpleasant, just strange.

  Sergei holds his glass up to me. ‘Thank you, for this beautiful lunch, Gabriella. It makes flying back to poor Pakistan much easier …’

  We raise our glasses to him. Cassie says, ‘We’ll try to drum up donations, Dr Orlov. We’ll start a little campaign for the flood victims …’

  Will nods. ‘We’ll follow your website, as you suggested …’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sergei says. He smiles at Will. ‘I was about to recruit your mama when she was in Karachi … I was hoping she would come and help IDARA out with her language and editing skills. Publicity is everything …’

  I look at Sergei, suddenly suspicious of this visit, but he does not meet my eyes. Will looks surprised but before he can say anything Cassie suddenly jumps up and says, ‘Will! My train. I need to go or I’ll miss it …’

  They are gone in a blur of thanks and panic and I am left with Sergei.

  ‘Gabriella,’ he says. ‘I too must leave for the airport. Will you call me a taxi?’

  I ring for one. ‘Five minutes,’ I say. It is quite stupid of me not to want him to leave.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he repeats. We stand looking at each other, yards apart.

  Then he opens his arms. Once enfolded, I hold onto him for the few minutes we have.

  ‘I am sorry, you are left with the washing up …’ Sergei says, looking over my shoulder and we both start to laugh.

  Outside in the road the taxi sounds its horn. Sergei says, into my hair, ‘If I think it is safe, would you consider coming out to help me with this latest catastrophe in Pakistan, Gabriella?’

  I don’t hesitate. ‘Like a shot.’

  He plants a kiss on my mouth and is gone.

  I stand in the empty house feeling it settle around me. I think of Mike and the quick divorce he wants. I think of the end of summer and the boys back in Scotland. I think of Dominique far away in America. I think of going to Cornwall on my own. It feels as if I have been thrown a possible, if unlikely, life-line.

  Will goes off to Shetland with Cassie and although I miss him it is a relief not to have to be constantly cheerful and upbeat. I slump around and sleep for two days. Then, with a great effort of will, I pull myself together. Kate finds me a divorce solicitor and Emily asks if she can move back in. Co-habiting with her boyfriend is driving her mad. I tell her it’s fine. I have not moved back into the main bedroom and don’t want to. I would rather move to the top floor.

  Four days later I am sitting in Kate and Hugh’s house with a stack of divorce forms when I get an email.

  Orlov@IDARA.com

  Gabby, I need you in Karachi. Is that enough? Do I need to explain? Will you come? I will arrange everything. Sergei.

  My hands shake so much with excitement it is hard to reply. I do not care what anyone thinks. I am going back to Pakistan.

  Sergei, it is enough. Of course I will come. Gabby.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  London, 2010

  My bed is strewn with clothes. Everything has to go in one bag and one rucksack. I fold shalwar kameez, jeans, cotton shirts and four dupattas. I pack sandals, a pair of plimsolls and some slip-on canvas shoes. I spend a fortune in the pharmacy on medicines.

  I go to my surgery to check the date of my inoculations. Abigail, the nurse who gave me my inoculations before I went to Pakistan, advises me to take malaria tablets. She shows me the map of Karachi. It’s coloured in a great swathe of red for a malaria danger zone. Mike and I had lived safely in the hotel so we had a cavalier attitude to malaria. Now, I listen to Abigail. She also suggests tablets to purify drinking water in case there is no bottled water and she manages to obtain an emergency antibiotic from one of the doctors for me.

  ‘How long are you going for?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m not sure, for a few weeks at least. I have no idea what I am going to do yet.’

  ‘I expect it’s helpful that you have lived in Pakistan for a few months and speak a bit of Urdu.’

  She surprises me by telling me that she was once an army nurse and served in Iraq and Afghanistan before she got married, had a child, and needed to stay safe. ‘One thing I learned fast is that to help others you have to look after yourself or you’re useless. Stomach bugs and contaminated food are always the worst enemy. As with any major disaster, disease spreads quickly so you do need to take care of your own health …’

  I laugh. ‘You would be far more useful than me in Pakistan. I have no nursing experience or NGO training.’

  ‘You have writing and language skills. You’re a communicator. You
can help advertise the plight of those poor people. All things I can’t do … besides, someone thinks you’ll be useful or you wouldn’t have been asked to go.’

  She places my malaria pills in a bag. ‘I imagine one of the most difficult things for charities is going to be obtaining financial aid for Pakistan. British soldiers are coming home severely wounded and in body bags and it’s a difficult time in the UK when it comes to giving money to a country that appears to shelter terrorists, despite obvious sympathy for the flood victims.’

  She smiles at me. ‘Good luck. Take care of yourself and never, ever get complacent about safety. Never ever think, It couldn’t happen to me. Believe me, it can.’

  I notice for the first time the heavy scar running down the inside of her arm and over the pad of her thumb. As I go home on the tube, I wonder how she got her injury, how it changed the direction of her life. All the most fascinating throwaway lines seem to be uttered at moments of leaving.

  I am woken from a dream by a blackbird singing her heart out in the bay tree next door. I turn on my back and listen to her sweet song. Sadness creeps into the space left by my dream. The small room is filled with the rosy dark of early morning. Slowly my dream drifts back. I am looking down on a beautiful garden of tropical shrubs. There is a man holding the hand of a little girl in red shoes. There is a woman laughing. They are full of joy as they stand in that garden surrounded by high walls and a large iron gate. I know danger lurks behind that gate. Terrible danger. I shout at them. I wave my hands but they cannot hear me. I open my mouth, but no sound comes. Then I know I am dreaming. They cannot see me. They cannot hear me. There is just sadness and the threnody of a blackbird.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  London, Heathrow Airport, August 2010

  The doors of the plane close and the service vehicles roar away. There is no going back, no escape from the route I’m taking. In the dark, the orange lights of the runway flicker and stretch ahead like a magic road as we slowly lumber along to the top of the queue for take-off. The plane is packed, full of journalists, NGOs and various news and aid agencies. I’m lucky to have a window seat.

  The engines roar, the plane seems to gather itself in as if it were animate and alive, like a crouching cat, and then we are speeding along the runway and airborne. I look down on the flickering lights of London below me and take Sergei’s email out of my bag and read it again.

  Gabriella, I have spoken to Kalif at Heathrow, he will help you check in and give you an IDARA identity tag and a mobile phone. I have arranged security for you, so switch the phone on as soon as you land in Karachi. Wear your identity tag when you disembark so you can be recognized. If I cannot meet your flight at Quaid-e-Azam airport on Friday, someone will be there to meet you. Do not worry, all will be organized. Safe journey. I am looking forward to having you with me as a right elbow.

  I smile. Does he mean right hand or having me at his elbow? I lean back and close my eyes. Dominique had been angry when I told her about Mike, but more upset about my plans to return to Pakistan.

  ‘Gabby, it’s mad, irresponsible to go back on your own. Your marriage has just unravelled. You’re not thinking straight. There will be plenty of professional people rushing out there who are trained to cope with international disasters …’

  Exactly, I told her. I will be with a recognized charity. There are journalists and NGOs travelling back and forth to Pakistan all the time. There is a female foreign correspondent living and working in Pakistan. I did not tell her I had probably been in more danger walking around Karachi. In the end my sister accepted that nothing on this earth was going to stop me going back.

  I am so happy, Massima had emailed. I always knew you would come back to us. Gabby, there is so much you can do here to help. People need to know the scale of this disaster and the incompetence of this government to help the flood victims in any meaningful way …

  Shahid had written, Despite the circumstances, Birjees and I are looking forward to seeing you again. It is like a family member returning home.

  I had expected Will and Matteo to be incredulous and try to stop me when I told them, but strangely and wonderfully they did not. They heard me out, and then Matteo Googled both IDARA and Sergei Orlov. Reassured by Will that Sergei was sound and that IDARA was a respected international charity, both my sons became rather proud and encouraging.

  My case was helped by the fact that Will and Matteo were furious with Mike because he was pushing me to start divorce proceedings. His rushing me was the last straw. Both boys told him, unequivocally, that they did not want to see him, so Mike had delayed returning to London.

  ‘Go away and do some good for a few weeks, Mum, it will take your mind off things. Let Dad stew,’ Will said.

  ‘Just don’t take risks or we’ll be orphans!’ Matteo added.

  ‘Don’t be silly, your father isn’t dead.’

  ‘Just missing, presumed brain dead,’ Will said. We all giggled and I promised them I would not take risks.

  ‘Everything feels raw at the moment,’ I told them, ‘but you won’t always feel this way. He’s your dad and you love him and you will eventually forgive him.’

  ‘Debatable,’ Matteo said. ‘I’m not entirely convinced that both my parents are not having a mid-life crisis.’

  I instructed a lawyer to start divorce proceedings, despite the fact I would be out of the country for a few weeks. I told Emily she ought to start looking for somewhere else to live, as it was possible the house might have to be sold in any divorce settlement.

  Emily had been horrified, for me. ‘Surely, Mike can’t take your house from you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I may be able to … I can’t think about it at the moment, but it’s what happens when people get divorced, Emily, their assets are split. Please don’t mention this to the boys …’

  Kate and Hugh were shocked that I could even think about returning to Karachi on my own. It had been impossible to convey to any of my friends the depth of my friendships in Pakistan. Returning to help went deep. I had a little bit of an unfinished life there. No five-star hotels, this time I was going to be a long way from my comfort zone.

  On my last night in London I had gone out with Emily and Kate and most of the office. I enjoyed this short replay of my life, but I was no longer the same person. When we all parted to make our separate ways home, I knew with certainty, that part of my life was over. I would work remotely with my authors but I did not want to pick up the same life in London again.

  As Emily and I walked up the road to the house she dug out her house key and automatically put it in the lock first. I realized, not only was she more at home in my house in London than I was, I was unsure where home was any more.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Karachi, August 2010

  We are coming in to land. I can see the sea and the cranes and the roofs of bright mosques. My heart hammers, my fingers holding the landing card shake. Neither Mike nor Mahsood will be waiting for me when the cabin doors open. What if I have to negotiate the chaos of immigration on my own, find my own way through the teeming airport?

  Sergei texted me he was arranging transport and security for me and that his driver would be waiting for me outside the terminal. But this is Pakistan; it does not mean anyone will necessarily meet me on time.

  I gather my belongings from the overhead locker and find my dupatta. I switch on the mobile phone that Sergei’s contact, Kalif, had given me at Heathrow and pull on my identity tag. The doors open and I’m jostled forward. The flight attendants smile goodbye and I am out of the plane.

  There are two airport officials holding up placards with names on them. My name is not among them. I walk up the swaying walkway and think of all the people who must have to negotiate Karachi Airport on their own, but my heart is hammering.

  Then, before I reach the first escalator, two young men puff towards me with hot faces waving a piece of scrappy paper with the name, Mrs Gabriella Stratton. I smile and wave, letting my bre
ath out in relief.

  ‘Mem! Mem! This way please …’

  They are as relieved as I am at finding me. One takes my hand luggage and the other my landing card and passport and I stay close, terrified of losing them in the crush of bodies. The barriers, checkpoints, immigration, customs and iris-check are speedily negotiated and we wait at the carousel for my luggage.

  People jostle and argue, shove and push to find their bags. Parcels of food and battered suitcases start to roll off the carousel. I feel hot, dizzy, disorientated. I peer at one of the men’s name badges.

  ‘Faisal, do I have a driver waiting?’

  He nods. ‘Yes, mem. All is arranged for you. Driver will take you into Karachi. Please, you tell Mr Orlov we meet you on time and all good here at airport?’

  I smile. ‘Of course.’

  My two bags appear and are grabbed, and we are off again towards the exit. There is no lovely Noor to meet me this time. I am guided towards an enormous four-by-four where a small plump driver with a bright red beard waits. My heart quails as my bags are put into the back. I feel abruptly foreign and alone and this could not be a more conspicuous vehicle.

  I once drove through Karachi with Liz, the American diplomat, in a great four-wheel truck like this one and I had felt hideously exposed and vulnerable. Every time we stopped at traffic lights people stared in at us, two rich western women in a great tank of a vehicle. Mike had always insisted on driving in a small, nondescript car.

  I am thanking the two security men when there is a yell from behind me. Massima runs towards me in a flurry of red dupatta, kurta and black jeans.

  I shout with surprise and we turn wide circles, clutching each other to the amusement of people around us.