A hand presses onto her shoulder. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ellie. Good grief, what happened to you?’
Ellie nods at the tall Newfoundlander, whose long, handsome face is drawn into an expression of deep remorse. ‘George, this is Thomas Parsons. Thomas, this is my fiancé, George Parry. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to powder my nose.’
Chapter 7
Gander International Airport, Newfoundland – 12 September 2001
The school buses inch along the tarmac. They look like a line of fat orange and black caterpillars, Sophie muses, as she clutches the handrail of the metal staircase they’ve rolled up to the aeroplane. She blinks at the morning sun. The autumn grass is yellow around the runways, and a forest of trees so dark that they appear almost black ring the patchy fields and the nondescript grey buildings of Gander International Airport. Yawning, she rolls her head from side to side. Her calf muscles spasm. She could’ve done without the night in her economy seat, cramped between the window and Mike’s spreading bulk. It’s added a year to her age, she’s sure, and at thirty-eight, that’s something she absolutely can’t afford.
She follows the other passengers onto a bus, pulling her carry-on case behind her. All around her, thousands of other travellers – their expressions disoriented, upset, puzzled, worried – climb down the staircases from their aeroplanes and file into the waiting buses.
Inside the terminal building, the yellow vinyl airport seating has been shoved into clusters against the beige walls of the cavernous 60s interior. Under a stylised Mid-Century mural, Canadian immigration officers in short-sleeved white shirts sit at rows of tables, processing the exhausted arrivals. High up on another wall, above a portrait of the Queen, large brown letters spell out CANADA, flanked by flags of Canada, the UK and an odd, multi-coloured flag that looks like a modernist Union Jack.
After an hour in the immigration queue, Sophie finds a space by a pillar. She tries her mobile phone again, but the signal is still blocked. Slipping her phone into her shoulder bag, she scans the terminal. Its brown and beige terrazzo floor is virtually obliterated by the passengers sitting, standing and lying down wherever they’ve found space. She wanders aimlessly into the crowd. At a large sculpture, she reaches out and grasps the head of a bronze bird, the touch of the cold metal grounding her. She spots a queue in front of tables staffed by local women handing out plastic bags of provisions. Pulling her case across the terrazzo floor, she joins the queue.
A middle-aged woman with a tight brunette perm drops an Oh Henry! chocolate bar and a bag of ketchup-flavoured potato chips into a plastic Foodland bag. ‘It’s not much, duckie, but I hopes it’ll take the edge off till we can gets you sorted out with a hot supper and a bed for tonight. You gots yourself all sorted out over there in Customs and the Red Cross? Janie Brinks at the Salvation Army’s sorting out beds over at the legion hall. We’ve gots the colleges and schools chippin’ in too. I hears a bunch of you’ll be off to some of the other local towns. We’re only nine thousand, give or take, here in Gander, and it looks like we’ve doubled the population today, so we had to call round for more places for everyone to stay.’
‘What do you mean you’re looking for places for us to stay? Aren’t we leaving later today? I’ve got to get to New York. I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow.’
The woman drops a bottle of water into the bag. ‘Oh, no, not today, duckie. The planes are all grounded. They’re sayin’ it’ll be two, three days most likely. Could be more. Don’t you worry. You’re all welcome here, duck. I’d have you at my place, but I’s already got some newlyweds stayin’. They were off on their honeymoon to Las Vegas. I’m chuckin’ my husband onto the couch and I’m bunkin’ in with my daughter to give them some privacy, if you knows what I mean.’
She holds out the Foodland bag to Sophie. ‘They’re sortin’ all the buses out there now. Who’s goin’ where, when, all that stuff. Logistics, y’know? God help us. We had a bus strike goin’ but they cancelled it today. It’ll probably start up again once you’re all gone, but thank heaven for small mercies, is what I says. Mavis over there can set up you up with a hot coffee or tea, if you likes.’
Sophie’s heart thumps around her chest like a loose spring. ‘Is there anywhere I can make a phone call? I’ve got to call New York. My phone’s not working.’
‘Nobody’s phones is workin’ just now, pet. There’s just the payphones over there by the stairs. There’s only one workin’, but it looks like half the country is waitin’ for it. And I hears you can only make local calls. They should’a fixed the phones ages ago, but they’re talking of tearin’ down this place, so there didn’t seem much point, did there?’
Sophie steps away from the table, clutching the plastic bag against her chest like a protective pillow as she stands in the middle of the crowded terminal. Okay, okay. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. Bloody hell. Frig.
I’ll have a cup of tea and find a phone. I’ll get to New York somehow. I have to get to New York.
She joins the line at the tea tables behind a group of agitated Italians, and has to duck several times to avoid their gesticulating limbs.
‘Your turn.’ A tap on her shoulder. ‘Your turn.’
She turns to see a tall man in leather biker gear behind her. His lean face is shadowed with stubble, and his black hair looks like it could use a comb. He gestures towards the tea table with his bike helmet. ‘Your turn. You must be thirsty or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I am thirsty, but I’d actually very much prefer not to be here—’ she waves her hand at the heaving terminal ‘—wherever here bloody is.’
A line creases the man’s forehead as he grins. His face is brown from the sun, and the fine lines at the corners of his brown eyes deepen. ‘Oh, you’ve come to the best place on earth. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘Yes, m’love, I’m Mavis,’ a woman in a purple tracksuit and pink-rimmed bifocals says from behind the table. ‘What’s your fancy?’
Frowning at the biker, Sophie turns to Mavis, who’s now tugging at the cellophane covering a bag of cookies.
‘Tea, please.’
‘We’ve gots a shedload of teabags in from Foodland,’ Mavis says as she dumps the cookies onto a yellow plastic tray. ‘Runnin’ thin on the ground with the Nescafé. Those Americans all loves their coffee.’
‘Tea’s fine. Thanks.’
Mavis holds up a can of Carnation Evaporated Milk, her fingernails the same bright pink as her glasses. ‘Milk, duck?’
Sophie stares at the canned milk. She shakes her head. ‘No. Just black. Thanks.’
Mavis pushes the plate of cookies towards her. ‘Have a cookie, duck, while I pours your tea.’
‘No, thanks all the same.’
‘Oh, no, no, no. You’ve got to have a Jam Jam.’
Sophie turns around and glares at the biker. ‘What?’
He points to a tray of beige, jam-filled cookies. ‘A Jam Jam.’ Leaning past her, he grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth. ‘Thanks, Mavis,’ he says, wiping crumbs off his face with his fingers. ‘Anything else you need? I’ve got the Warriors on standby out in the parking lot.’