Kingston, Jamaica
1966
I took hold of the padded paper bag. In both hands.
‘Yu alright?’ she asked.
I nodded.
She crouched down in the aisle at the side of me. Knees held firmly together by her navy-blue pencil skirt. Steadying herself with one hand on the seat arm.
‘First time?’
I nodded again.
‘Nothing to it,’ she said. ‘I fly up and down, up and down, week in week out. Not nobody ever lose the contents of their stomach yet. Even if sometimes they feel like they want to.’
I smiled.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Captain Byfield know what he doing. Got his wings in the Royal Air Force no less, so that should be good comfort.’ She patted my forearm lightly. ‘And I am here to tek extra special care a yu.’
Then she stood up and walked away with her BOAC pillbox hat perched on her head.
I replaced the bag in the seat pocket and sat back, wanting to be reassured by what she’d said to me. Forcing myself to believe that everything was going to be OK.
Gazing out of the window I could see the traffic moving on the ground below. The grey metal staircase being retracted. The dusty flatbed of the retreating luggage truck. The refrigerated wagon now empty of its preprepared food.
But even as I watched all of this, the vision in my mind was of him. Doing the thing I knew he would do. In the haven he knew best. The cathedral. Lying face down, prostrate on the cold marble tiles in front of the altar. In the darkened gloom. His arms outstretched like the figure hanging on the cross high above him. That was the picture I couldn’t shift.
And then there was a sudden lurch and we started to move as the stewardess walked back through the cabin checking that all our seatbelts were securely fastened. She smiled at me briefly, encouragingly. A moment later, a crackling on the Tannoy followed by the captain’s instruction: ‘Please prepare for take-off.’
Palisadoes airport flashed at me as we taxied along the runway. I breathed in deep and slow, because something in my heart knew that this was not farewell. It was goodbye. That is how final it felt. No more lush green hills and gushing waterfalls. No more coconut palms or Bamboo Grove or Fern Gully. No more bougainvillaea or hibiscus or wild orchids. No more lignum vitae. No more squeezing between my toes the warm, white sands of Dunn’s River, or listening to the clicking legs of crickets as evening sets in. No more feeling the salty sea breeze on my face, or tasting it on my lips. Or smelling the sweet, tangy scent of the eucalyptus. No more Negril sunsets witnessed from a cottage high on the West End cliffs. That was all going. Creeping past me frame by frame through the aeroplane window. Low-rise concrete buildings, shrubbery, scrubland, dry and brown and brittle under the Caribbean sun. Fading. Evaporating, like the musty dampness of rain lifting off a hot afternoon lawn.
I remembered the card I had posted to Gloria Campbell. The one I’d written days ago and dropped into the mailbox just before the departure gate. In the middle of all the commotion. A regular tourist postcard. With a picture of the Jamaican flag, yellow, black and green, and Dunn’s River Falls and a sunset on Negril beach. Look after him. You were always more of a wife to him than I ever was.
The engines roared as the plane lifted its nose into the air. The wheels losing contact with the ground. First the front one, followed by the others. Taking me away from Jamaica. So beautiful. So vigorous. So ripe with promise and possibilities. This land of mine that I so loved but did not know how to help. Trained as I was for nothing. Apart from being on the wrong side.
Then there was a sudden surge as we rose above the Blue Mountains and headed north. Away into the clear blue sky. I thought of the half-written letter in my bag. Not a blue prepaid aerogramme but actual white airmail paper and an envelope that I would have to stamp and post when I landed. That was the least he deserved.
The ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign flashed off. I reached down to unbuckle my belt and saw the paleness of my hands. Too light to be black. Too Chinese to be white. I shrugged off a shiver. Too late now. I was on my way, having done the only thing I could do. I had made the decision to live.