again it felt as though I’d had my hopes raised only for them to be dashed. And as yet more months passed by without any news I felt lower and lower and lower.
I couldn’t have known it then, but I was far from the only person feeling that way. And as things turned out it was only going to get worse.
Four
A Place Called Mercy
S chiphol airport seemed huge. It’s actually only the fifth biggest airport in Europe – and even lower in the wider international rankings – but because of the way it’s built you wouldn’t know it. Unlike other major airports its departure and arrivals terminals – three of them – are all housed in one massive building. Nearly 50 million passengers pass through Schiphol every year, constantly scurrying from one end of the terminal to another, in search of flights, food or the person meeting them. If you look down on it from above, it must seem like a vast ant hill, with constant and seemingly random motion.
It was September 1995, and there I was: little Sarah Forsyth from Gateshead in the midst of all these thousands of people from all over the world. I was in my best clothes, neatly made-up, excited and, as I walked through the concertina contraption that connected the plane to the arrivals hall, just a little nervous. For me, this day – a day like any other for all the thousands of other passengers, I supposed – was to be the first day of my new life.
It had all begun a few weeks earlier. Chris and I had finally parted. No bitterness, no hard words, just the realisation for both of us that we weren’t meant to be together and that the more we tried, the more we’d get on each other’s nerves. There was only one thing to do and, with little or no fuss, we did it.
I did feel, though, that in some indefinable way I’d failed. My first real grown-up relationship hadn’t worked out, and my lovely home – the place I’d dreamed of having all through the cold, lonely years in Care – was going to be sold to someone else. I felt terribly, terribly sad. Still, I knew I had to get on with it. I went to the building society and told them we were going to sell the house and that we’d pay off the mortgage as soon as the money came through. Then I went to see my mum.
I didn’t feel ready to look for another place of my own – and anyway I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the sale to go through. Until it did I couldn’t afford a new deposit, much less think about taking on a new mortgage all on my own. So, Mum’s it would have to be. I don’t think either of us was altogether thrilled about the arrangement. We’d not spent that much of my life together, and I knew she found me difficult and pig-headed.
She made me promise that this time I’d behave myself: no stopping out till all hours, no wild partying. I was happy enough to agree. I wasn’t much in the mood for men and I’d decided that it was time that I got my life sorted out once and for all. Still, I did rather resent the feeling that I was being treated like a naughty child, kept back after school for extra classes when all the other kids were allowed home. And at the same time, rightly or wrongly, I still partly blamed her for what Dad did to me. But when all’s said and done she was my mum and she had agreed to let me move in with her.
It wasn’t just my address that changed around this time. A month or so before Chris and I split up, I’d been offered a job working with old people in a nursing home and I’d agreed to take it. Looking back, I’m not entirely clear why I did so. I loved looking after children, and though the old people were lovely and the place I worked was pleasant enough, somehow I’d managed to move away from the career I really enjoyed. Taking care of the needs of little kids was one thing; cleaning up after incontinent old men and women was quite another. Yes, they too had needs and were often deeply grateful for everything I did, but I couldn’t escape
I couldn’t have known it then, but I was far from the only person feeling that way. And as things turned out it was only going to get worse.
Four
A Place Called Mercy
S chiphol airport seemed huge. It’s actually only the fifth biggest airport in Europe – and even lower in the wider international rankings – but because of the way it’s built you wouldn’t know it. Unlike other major airports its departure and arrivals terminals – three of them – are all housed in one massive building. Nearly 50 million passengers pass through Schiphol every year, constantly scurrying from one end of the terminal to another, in search of flights, food or the person meeting them. If you look down on it from above, it must seem like a vast ant hill, with constant and seemingly random motion.
It was September 1995, and there I was: little Sarah Forsyth from Gateshead in the midst of all these thousands of people from all over the world. I was in my best clothes, neatly made-up, excited and, as I walked through the concertina contraption that connected the plane to the arrivals hall, just a little nervous. For me, this day – a day like any other for all the thousands of other passengers, I supposed – was to be the first day of my new life.
It had all begun a few weeks earlier. Chris and I had finally parted. No bitterness, no hard words, just the realisation for both of us that we weren’t meant to be together and that the more we tried, the more we’d get on each other’s nerves. There was only one thing to do and, with little or no fuss, we did it.
I did feel, though, that in some indefinable way I’d failed. My first real grown-up relationship hadn’t worked out, and my lovely home – the place I’d dreamed of having all through the cold, lonely years in Care – was going to be sold to someone else. I felt terribly, terribly sad. Still, I knew I had to get on with it. I went to the building society and told them we were going to sell the house and that we’d pay off the mortgage as soon as the money came through. Then I went to see my mum.
I didn’t feel ready to look for another place of my own – and anyway I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the sale to go through. Until it did I couldn’t afford a new deposit, much less think about taking on a new mortgage all on my own. So, Mum’s it would have to be. I don’t think either of us was altogether thrilled about the arrangement. We’d not spent that much of my life together, and I knew she found me difficult and pig-headed.
She made me promise that this time I’d behave myself: no stopping out till all hours, no wild partying. I was happy enough to agree. I wasn’t much in the mood for men and I’d decided that it was time that I got my life sorted out once and for all. Still, I did rather resent the feeling that I was being treated like a naughty child, kept back after school for extra classes when all the other kids were allowed home. And at the same time, rightly or wrongly, I still partly blamed her for what Dad did to me. But when all’s said and done she was my mum and she had agreed to let me move in with her.
It wasn’t just my address that changed around this time. A month or so before Chris and I split up, I’d been offered a job working with old people in a nursing home and I’d agreed to take it. Looking back, I’m not entirely clear why I did so. I loved looking after children, and though the old people were lovely and the place I worked was pleasant enough, somehow I’d managed to move away from the career I really enjoyed. Taking care of the needs of little kids was one thing; cleaning up after incontinent old men and women was quite another. Yes, they too had needs and were often deeply grateful for everything I did, but I couldn’t escape
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