Divinity Road (16 page)

Nuala is unaware of all of this, still struggling to digest, to formulate a coherent response. As she’s led out to Teri’s hatchback, her first reaction is to head straight for her children’s school, to haul Beth and Sammy out and gather them close to her. But she knows this is silly, that they will have their own Before/After moments to face and that the longer they postpone that experience, the better.

It’s only when Nuala gets through her own door that she feels a little more galvanised. At Teri’s suggestion, she makes a list of people to contact. At the top of the list are her own parents in Wexford, her sisters in Dublin, the brother in Cork, Greg’s father in Leeds, his sister in Bristol and brother in Huddersfield. Teri gets her settled in an armchair, produces another cup of tea and hands her the phone. The next sixty minutes are spent repeating to these people what little information she’s been given. She finds it easier to talk about the news than to think about it, and each time she repeats the details they seem more distanced. Everyone’s reaction is similar – initial shock, then expressions of hope.

One after the other, her relatives and friends offer to come straight to Oxford, to stay with her, and each time she politely refuses. You’re at the end of a phone line, she tells each of them. If I need anything, I’ll be sure to ask. In the meantime, she has her children to look after, she explains. She’ll have her hands full helping them over the coming days.

She’s made six or seven calls and now she stops to take stock. In her trouser pocket she has the card with the emergency number that the policeman gave her. She takes it out. She has a sudden urge to fly out to Africa, to be close to where Greg has gone missing. She dials the number. The female voice that answers is mellifluous, the lilting Geordie tones reassuring. Nuala is asked a number of security questions – names, dates of birth, postcode – before she satisfies the speaker that she is who she claims to be. There’s some new information, she’s told. They’ve managed to pinpoint the position of impact using the plane’s emergency locator transmitter. The woman tells Nuala the name of the country, of the area too. Nuala scrabbles around for a pen, writes down this detail. Meanwhile the woman is telling her that the story has already broken on national news, so she may be contacted by journalists once they get hold of the passenger list. The speaker advises Nuala to say nothing to the media, then takes Nuala’s contact details, promises to call as soon as they learn anything new. It’s only when she hangs up that Nuala realises she doesn’t even know who she’s been talking to.

Nuala checks the time, suddenly panicking that the children will need picking up from school. It’s not yet two o’clock. Teri’s trying hard to conceal the fact that she needs to be somewhere else, and Nuala feels an abrupt desire to be alone so she puts her out of her misery. She tells her she’d like to lie down, that she’ll be fine. Teri promises to call in the evening, then makes her exit.

The phone rings. It’s her line manager, Feroza. She’d been away at a meeting when the police had visited the staffroom, is phoning to find out if Nuala has had any further news. She isn’t expecting Nuala back at work in the foreseeable future, she tells her, and has already organised cover for her classes. She should, of course, take as much time off as she needs. Nuala thanks her and hangs up.

No sooner has she replaced the phone than it begins chirruping again. This time it’s a representative from the airline, a man’s voice, a slight drawl, a long-exiled Aussie or Kiwi, she guesses. She tries to take in what he’s saying but a paralysing shock is creeping in, it’s information overload, and besides, it soon becomes clear that this man knows nothing that she doesn’t. He is merely making contact, a supposed reassurance that the company will do all it can to assist the families of all those involved in the accident.

The standard procedure, he tells her, is for all close relatives of the passengers to be brought to a central location in London where they can be fed the news directly by the authorities, shielded from media intrusion. She is invited to join the others.

The thought of imminent travel helps pull Nuala’s mind back from paralysis. She considers this offer. She’s torn between a desire to protect Beth and Sammy and the urge to fly straight out to the crash site. This proposal seems to satisfy neither of these demands.

She can hear the man’s breathing at the other end of the line.

For the first time that day she feels a needling twinge of frustration, a need to rebel. She tells him she wants to stay at home for the time being, asks him to arrange a flight out, that she will ask a relative to take care of the children at her own home. He seems momentarily flummoxed, uncertain how to respond. He promises to talk to his superiors and get back to her as soon as he gets a response. In the meantime, if she is unwilling to come to the central London rendezvous, he asks her to remain at her house and promises that they will contact her as soon as they receive any further news.

This time, when she puts the phone down the silence that descends is prolonged, and Nuala is forced for the first time to face up to the calamity that is unfolding.

She tries to conjure up the last time she saw Greg, her last conversation with him on the phone. He has been gone a week, but she’s picked up snippets of his news through texting and hurried calls on his mobile. He’s given her a brief description of Robbie’s funeral and they’ve talked about how Farai and Rose are coping.

But now her mind is muddled and she can’t even remember for sure where exactly he was flying to from, Cape Town or Johannesburg or one of the other airports. She decides she needs to find out this detail, that her ignorance is a sign of neglect. She logs onto the web, finds a record of his flight on an email sent by the site he’d used to book the ticket. It was to and from Johannesburg that he’d flown. She’s still not satisfied, feels the need for more physical evidence of where Greg’s journey has taken him. She stumbles over to the bookcase, hunts for an atlas. With a large map of Africa open in front of her, she finds Johannesburg and traces a line due north: Botswana, Zambia, Congo, Central African Republic, Sudan, Chad, Libya. It is comforting to sit there, the atlas on her lap, her finger marking out the flight path. It somehow brings her closer to Greg, and makes her even more determined to fly out there, to be nearby.

She recalls the last time she’d seen Greg. His departure time had been at an unseemly hour and he’d been packed and ready the night before. He’d set his alarm for half four in the morning and had left the house just after five, planning to catch the half past coach to Heathrow. She’d stirred as he carried his bag out of the bedroom and had forced herself awake just long enough for a sleepy goodbye kiss.

Safe journey, she’d said. Take care.

I’ll phone you when I arrive, he’d answered, anxious to get on the road.

And that had been it. They might as well have been business associates. Pathetic, she thinks, and feels the first cracks in her heart.

And now her last phone call. Again it had been all too brief, early evening, catching Nuala as she spread the mashed potato topping onto a shepherd’s pie.

The flight’s not ‘til tomorrow evening, he’d said. I get in before seven. Should be home for a late breakfast.

I’ll be at work, she’d answered, matter-of-fact. I’ll see you when I get in.

A few seconds of silence, the gentle purr of long-distance phone line in the background. Then,

The kids OK?

Sure. They’re upstairs. Want to say hi?

No, I’d better not. My mobile’s playing up so I’m using Farai’s. Must be costing him a packet. Just tell them I love them.

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.