Sample

Chapter 1

Sweet Suburbia and Beyond.

The deep purring of the engines droned on. Cabin lights were out and my neck ached from being scrunched up against the window. A large man in the next seat had over-spilled his airspace and lolled into mine. An intense quiet reigned. At 35,000 feet, three hours from Johannesburg, the stark reality of the journey began to sink in. I was actually on my way to South Africa.

Four unforgettable days of activity had brought me to this point. Gradually, as waves of exhaustion brought the first respite, anxiety began to recede. In its place, a feeling of great excitement. There was no going back.

Propelled into the inky darkness, my head rest became a feather pillow, and sleep played tricks in my mind. Then another pitch black night where no star shone, came from memories long ago in another place.

Cradled in gentleness, soothed by the singing of lullabies, someone held me and protected me from the thing they called war. The eldest of three sisters, I remember being taken by my mother, from my warm bed into the dark shelter - because the siren had sounded from the pit. Coal industries and steel factories were known targets of bombing raids in the West Riding of Yorkshire and running for safety in the blackout scared the wits out of hundreds of ordinary families.

The slag heaps of Bentley Colliery were the mountains of my childhood Even in the daytime, through the half light of slate skies, a heavy mist rose from the coal tips. The acrid smell of smoke stung the nostrils and grime from pit chimneys relentlessly smeared soot across the rooftops.

Muck was part of life. Porridge tasted of it, clean washing smelled of it. The sound of heavy boots crunching on the yard and the slack sliding from the sacks into the coal bunker, belonged to the miner and his family. In every colliery village, men walked home in the early morning, through the back streets of a million terraced houses. Sleeping children were woken by the sound of the night shift coming off. Women peered through net curtains to see if their man was on his way.

My grandfather arrived home from the pit, black from head to toe. He took off his boots, knocked the coal from each one on the stone step, enough to fill a shovel, before placing them on clean newspaper by the scullery door. After the long tiring night shift, we children were shooed outside while the soaping ritual took place.

The back yard playground boasted a brick air raid shelter, an outside lavatory, furnished with the Doncaster Gazette hung in squares on a nail behind the door, and a square patch of dirty grass - the size of a twopence ha'penny stamp. Against the wall leaned a great iron mangle with rubber rollers.

We waited for the steam to drift out of the scullery window as my Grandmother poured jugs of boiling water from the copper into a wide stone sink. Dirty water came splashing onto the stone flags around the grate, and we knew that he would soon come and shout us.

"You can come and kiss me now bairns," yelled a hearty voice, "where are my beautiful girls?" And we would run into his arms.

* * * * *

The adjacent passenger turned over, shifted his gut about ninety degrees, moved his head and released my shoulder, until now pinned into a six hour crease. A thread of cotton light of the palest blue coming from the east, made running stitches onto the black sky. The thread became wider as the aircraft sped alongside, keeping a steady distance, like a flight of geese over a Norfolk marsh. Soon, a quiet line of pale yellow light, criss-crossed the tinges of blue, hemming under and over, as delicate as lace on a pillow. Luminous pencils of light, constantly changing; purple, pink, gold, ran along - folding, plaiting, stitching a tangle of colours onto the last traces of darkness.

Suddenly came the first glimpse of the sun, pushing back the edges of the night, spreading like fire through the cabin. The red ball rose fast, bleeding through the sky, filling the aircraft with orange light, scorching the faces of sleeping passengers. Blinds were thrown back. Children awoke. Daybreak erupted across the heavens; shining, perfect, as each new morning gone before.

In my excitement, I reached for my diary. '30th June 1996 - have just seen the sun rise over Africa.'

The Ivory Coast, the Great Zambezi River, the Kalahari Desert - I pictured the blots beside the magic names of Africa in my school atlas; the elephants, lions and snakes scribbled in Indian ink in the margin next to the page of Equatorial Rain Forests - images conjured up by previous pupils of 3A at Percy Jackson Grammar School. Africa was about as unknown in the fifties as the North Pole today. How would we ever know if the countries of our dreams truly existed?

Was Johannesburg really the 'City of Gold'? Was South Africa really a Rainbow Nation? The thrilling prospect of my journey stretched every nerve in my body. The Maluti Mountains of Lesotho, at that moment, meant no more than a tiny pink dot on the map of the African Continent.

* * * * *

What if he wasn't there? I hardly dare to think about it. Still clinging to the hope that he would come to meet my flight - I went over the previous four days in my mind yet again, just to be sure.

Last Tuesday, one of my students had been taken ill, allowing me a free morning. Walking up the High Street alone, for no other reason than to search the library for maps, a poster for a bargain holiday caught my eye in a travel agent's window - nothing special. I went inside. Addressing the girl behind the counter, I heard this voice came out of my mouth.

"How much is the fare to Johannesburg?"

"When do you want to go?" came the smart request from young lady, looking at me with great directness.

"On Saturday," came the commanding voice inside me. That was four days away. In a blinding flash, with the rare conviction which comes once in a lifetime, my future was sealed. If the girl had answered me, telling me the cost of the fare, I would still be sitting in my garden waiting for my lovely man to come home.

"You will have to book your ticket within the next twenty four hours if you want to travel on Saturday; by four o'clock tomorrow."

"That's perfect," the calm voice answered. "Thank you."

My spontaneity was having a field day, as though nothing mattered except an air ticket to the southern hemisphere and filling myself with typhoid vaccine. Moments later, passing the local jewellers shop, my unsteady legs took me inside. The bell on the counter rang and my friend Theresa emerged from her little office behind the dark glass panel where she worked.

"Theresa - I'm going to South Africa on Saturday!"

Her glasses fell off her nose and her mouth fell open.

"What will Barrie say?"

"He doesn't know I'm coming! Don't even know where to find him! I've got three days to get ready!"

The listed injections for South Africa were Typhoid, Hepatitis B, Tetanus and Polio. On an emergency appointment, the surgery nurse administered all four together in one afternoon. Lying on the couch, mobile phone in one hand and sharp needle dug into left buttock, I yelled happily at the girl at South African Airways.

"Yes, I would like to confirm my single ticket to Johannesburg on Saturday. Yes, I know it's almost four o'clock. Couldn't ring any sooner! When am I coming back? I don't even know if I'm coming back!"

The hallway became awash with suitcases and trolley wheels. My whole wardrobe was thrown onto the bed, while trying to guess the right things to wear in South Africa in mid July. There was always the possibility that the typhoid would get to me before there was time to contact Barrie, to ask him if he would come to the airport to meet me.

Reaching someone by phone in Lesotho requires a small miracle. The highly- strung telecommunications system works successfully if it isn't prevented by snowfalls, heavy rains, tribal warfare or strikes. One of those is applicable most working days. Barrie's job in Lesotho was up in the mountains on a huge contracting site and his office situated in a small town called Leribe. His company helped me to locate him, but with difficulty, as there was a major strike on and he had been sent to another part of the site for safety reasons. Threats against staff were taken seriously and it took many persistent attempts to track him down. Two whole days in fact.

Barrie had no idea what my plans were. His plans were always logical informed choices. He had taken his departure to Lesotho, leaving behind a contented gardener with watering can to match. His overseas assignment offered a three week unaccompanied posting, possibly longer, with courier mail address in case of emergencies.

From his office in a remote mountain hideaway, caught up in the furore of hundreds of striking tunnellers, his reply was somewhat sharp.

"How on earth did you manage to find me?"

"Nine attempts Barrie - I'm coming to Johannesburg on Saturday

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