Page 92 of The First Time I Saw You
‘All flights are grounded for the next six hours. Your ticket will be refunded, of course.’
‘Can I book another one for tomorrow?’
‘Certainly, sir, just transferring you to ticket sales.’
‘Never mind, I’ll do it online,’ I say and hang up. ‘Shit!’
‘Calm down, it’s only a day. Why don’t you ring her? You’ve got her number.’
‘No. I need to see her, if you know what I mean; I need to be able to tell her everything face-to-face. It’s not the type of conversation you have over the phone.’
‘Fine,’ she sighs, ‘have it your way.’
‘Sammy!’ Da shouts.
‘I’m blind, not deaf, Da.’
‘The flights have been delayed.’
‘Yeah, I know, I’ve just called.’
‘Not to worry, eh lad? I’ve booked us on another flight for tomorrow night. The forecast says Storm Russell should have fecked off by then.
‘OK, thanks, Da.’
‘Now then, Mrs McLaughlin is off to the chippy, what are you having?’
I try to sleep, but Russell has been dragging wheelie bins down the street and pulling trampolines from gardens. Now he seems to have got bored of our street; he kicks a tin can out of the way, slams a gate and moves on to the next road. I feel along the edges of the braille watch Mam bought me for fake Christmas and ‘see’ that it is half-three. My hand reaches out for the bedside lamp out of habit rather than need . . . will I still do this once the tunnel is blocked up for good? I speak quietly into my phone and ask Google to connect me to Belfast airport.
‘Hello, I was wondering if you could tell me if there are any flights to Cardiff scheduled, or is everything still grounded?’
‘I’m afraid all flights to Cardiff are still grounded. The storm is set to hit the west coast in the next few hours.’
‘How about England?’
‘Most flights to southern parts of England will hopefully resume shortly.’
‘Could you tell me if there are any spaces on any flights that are leaving in the next couple of hours?’ I ask. I stand up and begin taking off my pyjama bottoms – or lounge pants, as Mam has recently discovered they are called.
‘Just one moment while I connect you.’
‘Hi, are there any spaces available on any flights to England in the next few hours?’ I feel my watch again and reckon I could get to the airport and checked in by breakfast time.
‘There are spaces on the EasyJet eight-fifteen flight to London Gatwick, or the—’
‘I’ll take it.’ I give out my card details while stepping into my jeans. I can’t risk taking the later flight with Da; the storm might still be raging.
The taxi arrives. I shrug on my jacket and leave a quick note to Da telling him I’ve got an earlier flight and to wish me luck. At least I’m hoping that’s what it says. I’ll send him a text when I’m on the way.
The airport is filled with boredom and impatience. Children are crying, couples are arguing, and strangers are snoring on awkward chairs, using bags for pillows.
I book a train ticket from Victoria station to Aberystwyth while I wait for my flight, and Michael takes me to a fast-food restaurant. I replay the images from last time I was here: the woman in the orange puffer jacket; the tired children swinging from their parents’ hands; the garish holiday shirts; the crumpled business suit hanging over the arm of an overweight man. I replay the scene on a loop because all that the end of the tunnel lets me see are flashes of colour passing me by.
The flight is quick, the airport busy and Michael has a hard time guiding me through the sea of disgruntled travellers, their bags on wheels tackling Michael whenever they can, but we make it.
The Gatwick train waits for me with a hiss and a grumble and carries me to Victoria station. My shoulders rock with the motion of the commute as the wheels grind beneath me on the track, but the familiar hum inside the carriage does nothing to cushion the panic that begins to prickle inside. I start tapping my pockets for my phone. I check the seats around me, I ask for help, but nobody can find it. Then I see it: sitting next to the sink where I had washed my hands after the toilet in the airport. I see it flashing with a picture of Da’s face as it vibrates off the porcelain and smashes on to the grey-tiled floor.
The train arrives at Victoria, exhaling the doors open while Michael and I wait for the tribe to pass; the surge that smells of sweat and irritation, of perfume and half-eaten sandwiches. The tribe that I once belonged to – the pushers and profanity users, the suits and briefcases and newspapers folded into armpits, their hands clutching designer coffees and twiddling with earphones – pass me and Michael by, and move on as one.
