When I awoke on the Sunday there was a text message waiting for me. I was told there would be a taxi waiting for me and that it had already been paid for. I was to look out for my name when I came out of immigration. That was thoughtful of him. I was concerned how I would get to the house; how much cash I would need, and how long it would take. Those concerns were lifted from my shoulders.
I packed my suitcase and weighed it using some scales Jane had lent me. It was too heavy. I unpacked and repacked it, leaving out some of the items I had originally selected. It was still too heavy. I tried but couldn’t lift it. Twice more I unpacked, omitted some items and repacked. It was now at my weight limit. I looked at what was now discarded and almost wept. Some of my favourite clothes were in the pile.
Everything came out again. This time I consciously selected things I could mix and match easily. I hated wearing the same thing two days running, but by changing a top or a pair of trousers, I could make myself believe I was wearing a new outfit. I was even able to swap some of the clothes I’d previously packed for some I’d discarded and still stayed within my limit. And I could lift the case – just.
By a quarter past two I was in the taxi taking me to the bus station. By three, I was on the coach taking me to just outside Heathrow; to a hotel where I would stay the night. I hadn’t expected to be as excited as I was. My expectation was that I would be nervous travelling so far on my own. I didn’t feel nervous, but I didn’t sleep well. All through the night I was thinking what I could do to help when I arrived; imagining scenarios in my head and attempting to find the right words and do the right thing. So maybe I was nervous.
As I had to be at the airport by 6:30, I was up early – too early for breakfast. I caught the shuttle bus, arrived at the airport and went to collect my ticket. Thankfully there was no queue at the Air Canada desk. I joined the queue at check-in, which opened as soon as I arrived. Through Passport control and I was in the departure lounge with over two and a half hours before take-off. I wandered round the duty-free shops. I wanted nothing for myself, but I wanted to buy something for Oliver, Eleanor and the boys. It was difficult, not knowing what they liked. In the end, I bought another big bar of Cadbury’s chocolate for Oliver, a tin of Highland shortbread for Eleanor and a big bag of mixed sweets for each of the boys. And I did buy myself something: a litre of Bacardi rum. I knew Oliver liked it and I hoped Eleanor might like to share it too.
On the plane I was seated next to an old couple. The man slept, and snored, intermittently the whole journey. Edna, the woman wanted to talk. They were visiting her daughter and her family who had emigrated eight years ago. She hadn’t seen them since. She was so excited. I heard her life history and the life history of her daughter and son-in-law and the life history of her other daughter and her husband. Earlier, I’d wished I had someone to talk to; now I wanted just to have some rest, yet I couldn’t be rude to her.