I was simply going as far away from London as I could with what money I had, away from ecstasy and the dull blur of alcohol, away from the office job that was never as exciting as people pretended it was. I was twenty-one years old, going to work the land, sweep clean my mind. I was going for an adventure. And if love came around too; well, that would be a bonus. Anna was eighteen, had three months before starting nursing training. She wanted to go to Nepal with a lad she fancied, sold everything she had in a car boot sale but didn’t make enough money so joined the Sheffield kibbutz group instead. But they didn’t fly for another month and she wanted to leave straight away. The London group agreed to take her but needed to check availability, then quickly responded with the news that there was just one seat left on the plane. Anna got it.
On such small details whole lives and families are created.
A large cemetery came into focus as we descended, tiny rectangles of gravestones in orderly rows, trees greener than those in England, streets and fields drier, white buildings illuminated in a land used to fierce sun. Over a busy dual carriageway and down to a runway and a round of applause that brought bemused looks from nine young Brits. Past the suspicious questions of customs, the furrowed brows of armed soldiers, through a dark alley with railings on either side, staring people crushed outside, arms and legs flailing through. And into a waiting minibus.
The driver didn’t speak much, just straightened his gun on the dashboard, pressed down on accelerator. I sat next to Anna as we bounced on hard seats, looked out at wide streets, people drinking coffee outside cafes, white and pale modern buildings, military camps with high walls. Leaving the city behind, we journeyed through camel coloured fields, past clusters of houses as seen on tv, hitch-hiking soldiers and ancient gnarled trees. Shirley passed forward a Motown tape. Giggles turned to song. The driver looked in his mirror and smirked. Past Jenin and through Afula we went, round the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee as the last of the sun fell away behind us. Then, the tape finished, we drove up, up, up into the darkness of the Golan Heights. Aware we were on occupied territory the minibus fell into apprehensive silence as we started to wonder about our destination; Kibbutz Afiq. The woman at Kibbutz Representatives explained it was the nearest settlement to both Jordan and Syria, saw our concerned faces and said, ‘Don’t worry, there’s an army regiment based there the whole time.’ Eventually we reached the top and continued over flat land and what seemed like nothing else until we sighted small lights on our right beyond high barbed wire fences. The driver slowed. And we pulled up at large gates in front of a manned and armed watchtower, highlighted by our headlights in the darkness.
•
I push the trolley down the aisle looking for cooking chocolate. I push back the tears as well, as some cliché ridden pop song plays softly over the speakers, a song I would have ignored two days earlier, probably mocked.
She wants to stay positive she says, as we walk down the beach hand in hand.
I leave her at six thirty a.m. to drive to work, leave her for the first time since the news, leave her with both children because Joe has a temperature, is too unwell to go to school. I feel guilty but she wants everything to be as normal as possible, and anyway we need the money. And if I don’t go to work, I don’t get paid. I can’t focus; just stand there while everyone else makes small talk. Those that know why I was off two days ago come up and then push back their own tears while I find myself reassuring them. We’re not thinking worst case scenario I say. It doesn’t bear thinking about. It slips in now and then but we shove it back out, slam the door shut. And then I cross my fingers and hope the same is true of Anna back home.
Sometimes I get a feeling in my stomach like a cramp that folds over, that twists tighter and tighter, squeezes nausea upwards like bile through internal tubes. I eat my breakfast and chat to oblivious children. I don’t ask what Anna gets. Then I telephone my Mam. I’ve been putting it off. When someone’s on the vulnerable and rocky road to recovery themselves, and they don’t know if they have the energy, then it’s the last thing they need. The phone’s engaged. She’ll be on the Internet looking for inspiration, searching for techniques. Googling medication.
I’ve nearly finished the seventh pint before I can bring myself to do it, before a quiet moment allows. It’s not an easy thing to just slip into conversation. We’re outside The Free Trade pub, looking down at the Tyne, the Baltic, the Sage, the Millennium Bridge. They’ve been at our house all day and they haven’t got a clue. I wanted to tell them over the first pint, give it time to settle. But they were so happy, the atmosphere so good. We don’t meet up that often these days. One shrugs in drunken sympathy, declares she’ll get through it. The second says nothing, just listens, then talks about something personal he’s been through. The third freezes in all but eyes, unable to speak, rooted into paralysis as he remembers a past family member. I take another sip and apologise for not telling them earlier.
Everyone’s gone. The kids are in bed. She’s outside looking at the stars as the tears slowly roll. It’s harder at night-time, away from children that think everything’s normal, away from work and its distractions. We cuddle but I can’t think of anything to say that hasn’t been said a dozen times already. I tell her I love her once again, make sure I don’t cry with her. I have to be a rock; that’s what people say. I can crumble into pieces when she’s not present. But I have to be solid when she’s nearby.
It lays further down, in the unconscious, smothering everything else. Dominating. It’s been pushed down there but tiny droplets seep out. This isn’t a tap that can be fully turned off, perhaps ever. Music is its gateway, or at least it is this time. It seems wrong to be driving to work, to be driving away from her, but we need the money and she’s at work herself for the time being. I tire of Radio 4's company, the aid to Gaza advert, the reclassification of cannabis (again), the scandal of corrupt politicians (again). So I put a cd on. It starts gentle enough but when the guitars kick in I feel the first signs of movement inside tear ducts. I feel my foot pressing harder on the accelerator, picture myself driving wildly. Then I picture myself on stage, smashing my guitar, smashing my fist into someone’s face. And then finally I picture myself at home in the kitchen, smashing my fists off cupboards, throwing things off the shelf, destroying the place. I pull into the prison car park surprised to have arrived in one piece and completely unaware of the last half hour’s drive. Perhaps my unconscious is not completely smothered after all.
Six-twenty a.m. and I’m downstairs in the kitchen making sandwiches. I hear Anna asking Joe to go to the bathroom and get washed and dressed. Joe growls, stamps his feet like a baby elephant, shakes the ceiling above me. Anna plays things exactly the same way she always does; calm yet firm. But Joe screams at his Mammy and so I shout upstairs. Anna tells me she’s dealing with it, go walk the dog. I leave the house and wonder how I would cope on my own, how I would manage to get everything done. I wonder how a five year old boy and almost three year old girl, both of whom adore their Mammy, would cope with her death; whether their beautiful, funny, self-absorbed little minds would crack like eggs. Or fill like dirty sponges. And I let a few tears slide down because I can. I’m on my own, and it’s still dark.
•
“Straight out the gates. Keep going. Turn right at the dead cow”
We were off to find the ancient ruined city of Piq, following directions we got from three nervous German girls we met at the volunteer houses. We never saw the cow, walked out over flat dusty land, the occasional green rectangle of orchard sighted in the distance. We stood on a deserted road, watched the sun set deep orange over mountains that could have belonged to Israel, Syria or Jordan for all we knew then. And then we turned back to Afiq, our new home.
All the girls except Anna and Helen were still downbeat about our accommodation. Jane physically gasped when we arrived at them. Although ours were the same as all the rest from the outside; small, white, single story and very basic, the inside gave a new meaning to minimalism. One living room with a couple of tatty couches,
