Girl on a Plane (22 page)

“Oh, OK.” I must just be patient.

“Hassan,” Mrs. Hamilton calls, “would you show Anna to her room?” Then, to me: “He'll carry your case for you. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll wake you in good time, at about four a.m.”

I follow Hassan as he pads barefoot down a long corridor in his crisp white uniform. We walk away from the main reception rooms and pass an open door to what looks like a study. Inside, a tall, gaunt man with trimmed white hair is writing at an antique desk. Mr. Hamilton, perhaps.

We arrive at a room at the end of the corridor, still on the ground floor. It's painted white, with a wooden bed in the middle covered with an embroidered blue bedcover. There's a shuttered window on one wall and tall French windows on the other, and a door at the end of the bed that leads to a small bathroom.

When Hassan has gone, I stand and look at the deep white bath and its taps with mouths like French horns. The carved basin has soap, talcum powder, toothpaste, shampoo, and a pot of cream on the shelf above it. The shiny white toilet flushes. I check.

In the soap dish is a transparent lemon-shaped soap wrapped in tissue paper. I turn on the tap, fill the basin with hot water, and wash my hands, rolling the lemon over and over, making loads of froth. I wipe the suds all over my face and then splash myself, letting the water run down my neck and all over my shirt. I dry myself with the little white hand towel, burying my face in its freshly laundered softness. I hear a faint burst of gunfire far off. It's so frequent that I hardly notice it anymore, and Mrs. Hamilton didn't say anything about it, so I suppose it must be OK. The only thing she did say was that I should keep my windows firmly shut, but maybe that's because of mosquitoes.

I lean over and look in the mirror. My face is clean. Really clean. I lean in closer, look into the eyes.
Who are you? Who are you now?
I don't recognize the girl staring back. She looks different. Her eyes are wild and a bit frightening. I back away. What have I become?

I feel a great wave of fatigue and go and sit on the end of the bed. And that's when I realize how very alone I am. It's the first time in days. It feels so easy with no one else around to complicate things, but I also feel in turmoil, as though I'm churning around inside an enormous wave of emotion. God knows what will happen when it hits the shore.

I have to try to be calm. I'll take a bath.

But I'm starving again, and I really don't want to have to get dressed after my bath and eat in the kitchen. I want to stay here. I pluck up the courage to ring the bell by the bedside and wait, sipping water from my bottle.

When Hassan arrives, I ask if I can have my supper on a tray in this room.

“Certainly, miss.” His deep-set eyes rest on my splashed shirt. “And if you like to put clothes for washing overnight outside your door . . .”

“Oh, yes. Thanks. That would be great. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thanks, nothing else.” He closes the door quietly behind him, and I wonder whether he was a Palestinian refugee too when he arrived at Mrs. Hamilton's ten years ago, whether he lives here or in a Jordanian refugee camp. I think of Jamal and the Giant back out there with the planes and wonder what they're doing, how they are, whether they're safe. And I feel so sorry not to have said goodbye, not to have ever said how brave I thought they were.

I put my book and my badge and Marni's letter on the bedside table. Then I undress, wrapping myself in the luxurious white cotton dressing gown I find hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I turn on the bath taps, take my dirty clothes and put them outside the door in a neat pile; then I go outside and sit on one of the wicker chairs on the veranda. The garden feels good, full of life, fertile, after the desert. The cool air smells of jasmine and of the wet, irrigated earth below the pink and white oleander bushes. As I breathe it in, I feel some of the tension disappearing.

I sip the rest of my water, hoping that Hassan will bring me more with my supper, and listen to the minarets around the house take up the call to evening prayer.

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar . . .

Above the distant noise of running water, I hear cars arriving on the gravel drive. Doors slam; there are murmured greetings. And as the shadows lengthen, piano music drifts from the house.

I'm lying in the bath with soft water lapping around me. I've longed for this moment, but now that it's here, it feels odd. One minute I'm shut up in a plane riddled with explosives, and the next I'm luxuriating in a hot bath. No wonder I'm confused. I wonder where David and Tim are, and Rosemary, the captain, Jim . . . I'm missing them. What's happening to Jamal—​and the plane?

It's not that I
want
company. I definitely don't want to make polite conversation with Mrs. Hamilton and her guests or to spend any more time with strangers, but I feel oddly exposed without the others, without the solid shape of the plane around me, holding me safe. And who would be able to understand that—​and what it's been like—​but them?

You want to be alone. You want company. You want to be free. You want to be back on the plane. What's wrong with you?

You don't know what you want.

Yes, I do. I want Marni and Dad and the boys to be there tomorrow.

Tomorrow! I sigh and feel my shoulders relax.

I close my eyes and let the peace in the bathroom seep into my bones. Even the sporadic gunfire has stopped.

After a while I add more hot water and decide to read Marni's letter again. It's the perfect moment, so I climb out of the bath, dry my hands, and trail watery footsteps across the paved floor.

I shiver and pad back to the bathroom with the letter. When I'm back in the bath, I open the envelope, drop it onto the floor, and unfold the page.

My darling Anna,

By now you'll be safely back at school . . .

My eyes run over her words.

. . . Until then, my precious girl, missing you and loving you to distraction,

Marni xxx

Will I really be hugging her tomorrow? Really?
My treasure.
That's what she calls us, her treasures. And the word means so much more, because she's always hidden surprise treasures in our rooms: a heart-shaped stone, a piece of sea-smoothed glass, driftwood shaped like a spoon, a velvety seedpod. They're her sign. They say: Be amazed by this. Know that I thought of you.

“I'm free, Marni.” I try the words out. “I am no longer a hostage.” The words sound truthful, and I feel powerfully relieved, but I still can't get my head around the idea. I know they say I'm free and am going home tomorrow, but I can't trust myself to completely believe it. Just as I wouldn't believe it if someone said
Tomorrow you're going to be hijacked.
Somewhere inside my head, the switch that makes sense of everything has been turned to Off, and it feels awful. It makes me feel sad about everything, as though I've been permanently cut off from reality.

One evening, to distract me when she was going out, Marni left me her old blue and gold copy of
Alice in Wonderland.
It has thick card pages, with tissue paper over the bright illustrations. One of the pictures is of Alice swimming in a pool of her own tears. That's what I'm doing now.

I eat every bit of the meal Hassan brings on a tray: the slice of melon cut into cubes and sprinkled with ginger and sugar, the roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans trickled with gravy, and the apple pie and ice cream, melted by the time I get to it. And I feel wonderful.
Replete.
Dad's word. I can see him sitting back in his chair and saying, “Thank you. Now I am perfectly
replete.
”

Despite the warm bath, Marni's letter, and the wonderful food, I'm still edgy and anxious, because the gunfire has started up again. And now I can hear the occasional muffled
whumph!
of heavier guns—​or are they mortars? Surely someone will come and warn me if there's something serious going on. Won't they? I wonder if David and Tim are worried too. Where are they now? What are they doing? I bet they haven't been split up. And Jamal and the Giant? Are they out in the middle of it all?

A loud burst of gunfire sets my heart racing. That sounded close. I sit on the bed, my heart thumping, wishing I could go home
right now.

I'm desperate to speak to Marni, but there's no point asking if I can call. I have no idea where they all are.

The clock on the bedside table says eight o'clock. I wander to and fro restlessly, past the yellow beam on the wall cast by the bedside light. And that's when I see them. In the white plaster above my bed are two holes, two small excavations. I push my finger into one of the craters. It looks just like a bullet hole.

Has a bullet ricocheted in here? Where from? Through the little window, through the French windows—​or has someone been shot in this bed?

Will anywhere ever be safe again?

I sit on the bed, wondering how on earth I'll get through the night now.

A bird calls urgently from the garden. I sigh and surface, leaving sleep behind. The bed feels soft but strange. Then I remember. I'm going home today! I struggle upright, reach for my watch, and squint into the light. Mrs. Hamilton said she'd wake me at four. It's five to. As I yawn and try to shake myself awake, I hear footsteps in the corridor outside.

“Hello. Good morning! Anna?” Mrs. Hamilton taps on the door.

“Hello, Mrs. Hamilton. I'm awake.”

“Good girl. I'll see you by the car in twenty minutes.”

“OK.” I climb out of bed, find my newly pressed clothes outside the door, wash, and get dressed. Then I put the last few things in my suitcase, and my book, badge, and letter in my shoulder bag. And I close the door on the little blue room.

Outside, the first light in the sky begins to brighten the bougainvillea by the front door.

Mrs. Hamilton is standing by the car in a floral dress and pale-blue cardigan. “You look like a different girl this morning,” she says, casting an approving eye over me.

“Do I?” I'm still so sleepy.

“Just goes to show what a hot bath, clean clothes, and a good sleep can do,” she says, lifting my suitcase into the trunk and slamming it shut.

Soon we are humming along through the outskirts of Amman. I wind my window down a little. The air smells of spiced earth.

Mrs. Hamilton chats about her dinner party, how well it went. How relieved she was that the guests didn't stay too long, what with the early start.

“Thank you for the lift,” I say as two women in headscarves cross at the traffic lights.

“Not at all. It's the least I can do, especially when . . .” The car vibrates to a distant
thwump
from behind, sounding like a huge fall of earth.

“Oh dear.” She changes gear to overtake a truck laden with dates. “Someone's really caught that one.”

“There seemed to be a lot of gunfire last night,” I say.

“Yes, parts of the city are in absolute chaos. Not near to us yet, but even so . . .”

“Aren't you worried?”

“Oh, we've been in this kind of situation before in various hot spots around the world,” she says matter-of-factly. “Even if the Syrians on the border don't invade, the whole of Jordan may very well collapse into civil war.” We pass a man sitting side-saddle on a donkey, herding sheep in a cloud of dust.

“What if the fighting gets much closer to you?”

“Then I expect the British government will advise us to leave. But I don't believe my time is up yet.” She glances quickly at me before slowing for a roundabout. “Oh, bother—​I keep forgetting to tell Hassan to prepare the Red Room for Mother's visit.”

Suddenly I spot the word
Maani
written above a shop and ask Mrs. Hamilton if she knows what it means.

“It's a Jordanian name,” she says. “ ‘From the south,' I think.”

A clot of white doves rises suddenly from a rooftop, and my heart soars as I think of seeing Marni and Dad at last.

Mrs. Hamilton strides past a woman sweeping the shiny airport floor with a wide broom. The concourse seems unnaturally quiet. Perhaps everyone else has checked in already?
Checked in?
I go cold. I can't check in! The hijackers still have my passport.

“Mrs. Hamilton! My passport! I haven't—”

“It's all right, my dear,” she says, coming to a halt. “I've got the necessary documentation. They gave it to me yesterday. It'll get you onto this flight to Cyprus and then the connecting RAF one to London-Heathrow.” Relief, then an intense weariness, wash over me. I just want to go back to sleep.

“Saba cal care,”
Mrs. Hamilton greets the man at the check-in desk.

“Saba cal noor,”
he replies, and the check-in goes smoothly.

As we turn from the desk, I thank Mrs. Hamilton for everything.

“It's been a pleasure, my dear,” she says briskly.

At the departure gate, I instinctively put my arms out to hug her goodbye, but she just bends down and proffers me a cool cheek. I kiss it lightly. She smells of rose water.

“Now, off you go.” She smiles at me briefly. I pick up my bag and walk toward the gate, where I turn to wave. She's still there watching, looking, I think, alone and sad. I show the official my documentation, turn, and wave once more, but she's gone.

The room beyond is lined with seats and is full of faces that look familiar but seem quite different. Mr. Newton is cleanly shaved. Mrs. Newton's hair is restored, and she's in a mauve dress. Maria, the bald man, and the blond girls stand chatting in a circle, all looking abnormally fresh in clean outfits. Susan and her mother, both wearing stripy blue dresses, have shiny, clean hair. They're laughing with Sarah, who is feeding her newly scrubbed baby from a plastic cup. There's no sign of the crew.