51. Carl
51. Carl
Six hours until Sarah’s train arrives in Leeds.
Five hours until I leave to pick her up.
The lost hours between then and now feel like the agonizing hours back on Camp Bastion, counting down the minutes to our next patrol. We’d pass the time in the gym, or playing football or volleyball. There’d be a lot of banter and jokes.
But at a certain point I’d see the bravado slip from everyone’s face. Glimpse the fear that burrowed away deep inside us all. The fear that we might not make it back. The fear that our lives would never be the same again.
All of us nervous. All of us pretending not to be.
That’s exactly how I feel right now. Except suddenly it occurs to me that, this time, it isn’t fear that my life will never be the same again. It’s hope that my life will never be the same again.
Because this is everything I’ve dreamed of, and something I never thought I’d have. The chance to be with Sarah, to share my world with her.
Back then, counting down the hours to an operation, I’d sneak away for a walk around the perimeter to get my head together. And that’s exactly what I need this morning. A long walk across my beloved moors.
We set off on my favourite route, the one I’m going to bring Sarah on for her first glimpse of this magical place. I can’t wait to share it with her. For it to be just me and her out here, and not another soul for miles around, as if we are the only people in the world.
For once, it’s just the four of us – me, Elsa, Mungo and Mr Jones. We skirt around the moorland, bracken crunching beneath my feet. It’s not too steep a climb this way – just a gentle uphill trail across farmland – and we keep on going, Mr Jones zipped safely inside my coat, until we reach the ancient burial ground where I finally set him down.
The prehistoric tombs rear up behind him, great mounds of heather-covered earth and stone, and I wonder, like I always wonder when I’m here, about the people buried beneath them, and if they have found their peace.
The rock feels cold as I run my fingers across the Palaeolithic art, the carved circles that run out towards a cup, with a second cup close by. The stone is wet today, which makes the image clearer. It almost seems to move beneath my hand – is it trying to tell me something?
Is it a story, like the tattoo art on my back? And if it is, whose story is it? I hope it belongs to the king and queen of my imagination. I hope the cups were a symbol of them toasting each other. A toast to their happy ending.
Here on this spot of moorland, it could still be the Stone Age. Nothing has changed. It makes me feel insignificant – and the things that have happened to me insignificant – and I find that consoling.
Everything about this place I find comforting. The ancient, wild heathland. The huge sky that stretches for miles around, the silent birds that swoop overhead. Being embraced by the only type of wilderness that manages to quieten the hubbub of my mind.
Feeling calm now, the first part of the exercise is complete. Now for the second part of my Camp Bastion pre-patrol routine. To anticipate what might happen and prepare my kit accordingly.
In other words: make sure the cottage is ready.
On our way back, I stop off at the farm to chop some wood. Enjoying the familiar thwack of the axe, I do an extra load, enjoying the rise and fall of the blade, until there is too much wood to carry and I have to take it home in a wheelbarrow, with Mr Jones perched happily on top.
Extra logs , I tell myself, so Sarah won’t be cold .
After their long walk across the moors, the dogs sleep while I change the bed sheets and clean the shower. I wash the mugs stacked in the kitchen sink and wipe down the surfaces.
I sweep the floor and make sure there is toilet roll and a clean towel in the downstairs loo. I’d plump the cushions if I had any to plump.
And then, it’s time. I want to leave early, in case of Christmas traffic. Grabbing my keys, I take one final glance around the kitchen.
Everything is perfect. The flowers with their curly white petals and shocking orange pollen are in the middle of the table, and the Christmas cake is in pride of place on the counter.
I flick on the lamp, just in case it’s dark when we get back – I don’t want Sarah coming into a gloomy house – and then I pull the door shut behind me.
The van struggles to get going in the cold, but eventually the engine turns over and, as I indicate to turn on to the main road into Leeds, I relax in the knowledge that I’m fully prepared for ‘Operation Sarah’.
At 1.30 p.m. I park the van.
So far so good.
At 1.45 p.m. the arrival board flutters into life. The train from Cardiff will be arriving at 14.05 on Platform One.
At 1.50 p.m. I wait in line to buy two steaming cups of coffee in red paper cups decorated with pictures of snowflakes and gingerbread men.
At 2.00 p.m. I go to stand by the metal barriers that separate Platform One from the station concourse.
At precisely 2.05 p.m. the train slows to a halt, its high-pitched brakes screeching down the tracks. Doors fling open like collapsing dominoes all the way down the train as passengers pour out.
Within seconds the platform is entirely swallowed up by people. They start streaming through the barriers, their tickets being gobbled up and spat out again, releasing gates that swing open like saloon doors in a cowboy film.
Suddenly I catch sight of a woman with blonde hair and a bobble hat, and my heart leaps into my mouth, but a moment later she turns her face towards me.
She isn’t Sarah.
Urgently, I scan the remaining passengers making their way towards the barrier.
None of them are her.
At 2.20 p.m. I glance down the platform one last time. There is no movement of passengers now, just a team of cleaners, laughing at one another as they clatter along with their buckets and their mops.
At 2.30 p.m. I accept it. Sarah isn’t coming.