We left her babies on the stoop. They were crying too
- the four-year-old because granny was going and the one-year-old because his
brother was upset. Right next to us a Cape Turtle Dove hunkered down on her
nest observing the farewells with a wary eye. Frangipani flowers were
crushed into sickly perfume beneath our wheels as the huge iron gate
clunked behind us.
Maria and Willem with Teddy
I am alone for the first time in two weeks. My sighs subside and I am intrigued by the intricacies of human interaction in an airport lounge. Everyone in an airport wants to be somewhere else so eyes are alert, glancing at screens and elbows are used as weapons to secure a seat against the probability of delays. Most nationalities speak in stage whispers, conscious that they are sharing a tense and sacred space. The English and the Americans do not.
In front of me a couple of Londoners plonk themselves down. She produces an encyclopaedic size hardback which she scratches open with her talon-like nails painted in holiday cerise. She does not get the chance to read her tome, however, because he has just purchased the latest copy of Hello! magazine. She is a listener, which is just as well. In that irritatingly loud rasp used by people who enjoy the sound of their own voice, he begins to regale her, the woman in the sari sitting beside them, an elderly Afrikaans couple and me with the latest in celebrity and royal gossip.
I have chosen NOT to buy the magazine precisely because I do not care that John Torode is engaged and what will they eat at the reception or whether Kate Windsor is broody again and how many nannies it might take to manage her growing family but I'm going to hear it all anyway: Doesn't that Charlotte look just like the Queen and what kind of a name is Louis, isn't that French, oh yes Mountbatten, came to a nasty end, those Irish!
I shift my attention to the next aisle. A mother moves purposefully towards her young teenage daughter who is clinging on to summer in her jersey shorts, her feet on the seat under her, legs splayed. Her mum feigns interest in a phone while gently nudging the girl's knees together. A protective gesture. The girl complies but does not know why.
Confusion reigns as passengers begin to surge away from Gate 6 to Gate 5. Which one? The flight is already late. There is no announcement but an African albino employee with burnt blotches on his face holds his phone close to his eyes and gestures vaguely. It appears that both gates are open to speed up boarding. I am all for that.
In Johannesburg I am lost. The airport is huge and famous for misdirecting luggage. I get my case and finally manage to find the drop off. Heathrow here I come! When we arrive at Terminal 5 in the wee hours, I walk cautiously along the jetty. This is the exact spot where I suffered pulmonary embolisms four years ago but this time the tight socks, the midnight meanders and the dreaded Clexane have done the trick.
I am in BA's North Lounge for eight hours! I decide to have a shower. I remove my watch and then discover that my bracelet is missing. I rush back to security where I know I have left it in the tray because it always sets off the beeper. I wish I'd just beeped, because now I am bereft. The manager looks but finds nothing. Report to missingx.com. I lose perspective and weep my way along the concourse. It's not the financial loss, it's the sentimental value of the little charms which remind me of my grandchildren - a kind of rosary: a bow tie for the sartorial Finlay; a flower for green-fingered Edith; a jewel the colour of God for Jasper; a red rose for Eleanor Rose; a bee for Bea; a South African flag for Sebastian and a teddy-bear for...Teddy!
In front of me a couple of Londoners plonk themselves down. She produces an encyclopaedic size hardback which she scratches open with her talon-like nails painted in holiday cerise. She does not get the chance to read her tome, however, because he has just purchased the latest copy of Hello! magazine. She is a listener, which is just as well. In that irritatingly loud rasp used by people who enjoy the sound of their own voice, he begins to regale her, the woman in the sari sitting beside them, an elderly Afrikaans couple and me with the latest in celebrity and royal gossip.
I have chosen NOT to buy the magazine precisely because I do not care that John Torode is engaged and what will they eat at the reception or whether Kate Windsor is broody again and how many nannies it might take to manage her growing family but I'm going to hear it all anyway: Doesn't that Charlotte look just like the Queen and what kind of a name is Louis, isn't that French, oh yes Mountbatten, came to a nasty end, those Irish!
I shift my attention to the next aisle. A mother moves purposefully towards her young teenage daughter who is clinging on to summer in her jersey shorts, her feet on the seat under her, legs splayed. Her mum feigns interest in a phone while gently nudging the girl's knees together. A protective gesture. The girl complies but does not know why.
Confusion reigns as passengers begin to surge away from Gate 6 to Gate 5. Which one? The flight is already late. There is no announcement but an African albino employee with burnt blotches on his face holds his phone close to his eyes and gestures vaguely. It appears that both gates are open to speed up boarding. I am all for that.
In Johannesburg I am lost. The airport is huge and famous for misdirecting luggage. I get my case and finally manage to find the drop off. Heathrow here I come! When we arrive at Terminal 5 in the wee hours, I walk cautiously along the jetty. This is the exact spot where I suffered pulmonary embolisms four years ago but this time the tight socks, the midnight meanders and the dreaded Clexane have done the trick.
I am in BA's North Lounge for eight hours! I decide to have a shower. I remove my watch and then discover that my bracelet is missing. I rush back to security where I know I have left it in the tray because it always sets off the beeper. I wish I'd just beeped, because now I am bereft. The manager looks but finds nothing. Report to missingx.com. I lose perspective and weep my way along the concourse. It's not the financial loss, it's the sentimental value of the little charms which remind me of my grandchildren - a kind of rosary: a bow tie for the sartorial Finlay; a flower for green-fingered Edith; a jewel the colour of God for Jasper; a red rose for Eleanor Rose; a bee for Bea; a South African flag for Sebastian and a teddy-bear for...Teddy!
I see a gangly man dancing towards a cluster of people and I actually hear him announce excitedly 'OMG, I love y'all, I am American!'
Back in the lounge I lunge towards a young mother battling with a crying toddler, a buggy and a mound of bags. I ask her if she is travelling alone. She gestures in contempt at a good-looking but useless man tapping on his phone, oblivious to his wife's struggles. I melt into my seat as he lifts the screaming infant and tries to walk manfully down the aisle pretending to be a father.
Young men in suits sit at a glass shelf with computers connecting them to a better world while the colourless morning presses against the window. Above the drinks stand are suspended plastic curved train tracks, glittery pink like something in a pre pubescent girl’s bedroom. A woman tries to pour a glass of wine but struggles to extricate the bottle from its metal holder and so lifts bottle, holder and all. Making a meal of it.
Beside me there is a family reunion: a loud curly-haired little boy is the centre of attention. Can I have a hug, an aunt gushes. No. Pushed back. She remembers and is embarrassed. The boy is not. He is clutching an oversized iPad, housed in a bright blue soft-edged plastic cover, supplied no doubt by the education authority. He is listening to something through red headphones. He should be wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Please Do Not Touch Me. It would save a lot of trouble.
We sit on the tarmac and wait. The man who operates the pushback tug has broken his headphones. The pilot cannot hear him. We cannot move. I gaze out at the grey mizzle. Who rubbed out all the colour? Africa is big and scary but bright and beautiful and I yearn to go back to its wonder. Nature's Valley on the east coast is a paradise of amber lagoon, raging seas and fynbos that kisses the tide. Port Elizabeth is a bustling port with towering cranes like huge giraffes astride the beach. Lots of wet but no water for a bath. They live there; I do not.
Belfast is the same as ever - familiar and smelling of mouldy earth. Home.
Sebastian
Back in the lounge I lunge towards a young mother battling with a crying toddler, a buggy and a mound of bags. I ask her if she is travelling alone. She gestures in contempt at a good-looking but useless man tapping on his phone, oblivious to his wife's struggles. I melt into my seat as he lifts the screaming infant and tries to walk manfully down the aisle pretending to be a father.
Young men in suits sit at a glass shelf with computers connecting them to a better world while the colourless morning presses against the window. Above the drinks stand are suspended plastic curved train tracks, glittery pink like something in a pre pubescent girl’s bedroom. A woman tries to pour a glass of wine but struggles to extricate the bottle from its metal holder and so lifts bottle, holder and all. Making a meal of it.
Beside me there is a family reunion: a loud curly-haired little boy is the centre of attention. Can I have a hug, an aunt gushes. No. Pushed back. She remembers and is embarrassed. The boy is not. He is clutching an oversized iPad, housed in a bright blue soft-edged plastic cover, supplied no doubt by the education authority. He is listening to something through red headphones. He should be wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Please Do Not Touch Me. It would save a lot of trouble.
We sit on the tarmac and wait. The man who operates the pushback tug has broken his headphones. The pilot cannot hear him. We cannot move. I gaze out at the grey mizzle. Who rubbed out all the colour? Africa is big and scary but bright and beautiful and I yearn to go back to its wonder. Nature's Valley on the east coast is a paradise of amber lagoon, raging seas and fynbos that kisses the tide. Port Elizabeth is a bustling port with towering cranes like huge giraffes astride the beach. Lots of wet but no water for a bath. They live there; I do not.
Belfast is the same as ever - familiar and smelling of mouldy earth. Home.
