A familiar feeling
The view down there was so familiar. But the green of it, the absolute greenness of it still surprised. Of course, it made sense. Not quite a tropical island, but an island nonetheless, a tiny lush and living landmass thrust from the depths of water, water everywhere, slipping through streams, puddling into marshes, pouring down rivers, and all of it quenching the land into this greenery.
Simon reached out to push up the beige, plastic window-blind, despite having tried several times over the course of the eleven-hour flight. And, still now, the blind wouldn’t budge any further but three quarters of the way up the little, oval window. They can make metal fly above the clouds, but making a window-blind that opened appropriately was a step too far. Resigned, Simon pressed his face against the thick glass (or was it plastic? Some kind of special glass/plastic that could withstand the heady powers of the sky), and did his best, under the circumstances, to take in the view far below.
A grid of sequin green, an ancient and chartered map. Hunter-green fields and lemon-green squares, mint quadrilaterals bordering parsley acres, forest green and pine rhombi. Each square carefully cultivated, naturally hydrated, coolly lit under perma-grey sun. The familiarity warmed him like a long sip of brandy. God, he loved it, this ridiculously green island. It was a marvel, really, that he loved it so much. Strange that he loved this island’s dirt and fields and trees as if they belonged to him. That he could look down on a mass of land, like any in the Northern Hemisphere, as if returning home.
The lady in the next seat cleared her throat. This was a signal that she was about to make some disturbance by scratching around in the bag between her feet.
She’d been a good flying companion in all. She’d pushed her knees to the side and leaned her pink-jacketed back well into the seat when he’d had to pop to the facilities. In the dark, stuffy hours, when he’d put on the light to read, and the spotlight had beamed right into her dozing face, she’d politely smiled. And there had been no noise from her the entire flight, confined as they were to close proximal intimacy. That is, other than that one gargling snore around three am, or the occasional clearing of her throat to prepare him for some sort of movement.
They’d introduced themselves, naturally. Jocelyn. Jocelyn from Northamptonshire. He’d told her he was Simon, Simon from Suffolk. Lovely part of the world, she’d said. He’d agreed. She’d added that she’d just been visiting her son in Cape Town. He’d said how nice that was, and, feeling the pressure of reciprocation, explained that he’d been over there to see a girl he once knew. A reunion with an old friend from school, he’d quickly clarified. She’d nodded, considered asking more, and decided against it. So, they’d gone back to sipping tea from their plastic cups.
He looked back out the window now, she having located her glasses and phone. A girl he once knew. True. An old friend from school. Not so true. If he was being honest, it was not true at all. He felt bad about lying to Jocelyn, but it was easier at the time. And expected. Appropriate, even.
When he thought about Maggie it was always the same image that came. Her in that big straw hat. She was on the beach. The white sand was shiny in the background. In her hand was a bottle of cider, the other hand wiping a stray strand of long red hair from her freckle-tanned, smiling face. It was the smile she always gave him when he took a photo. A kind of stoic upturning on the left of her lips. Just take it already, she’d said. And he had.
J March 