Across the Coral Skies- The Coral Route

PROLOGUE

Belfast 1949

The rain pummelled the streets as the double-decker trams forged their way through the deluge, their lights cutting through the sheets of water falling from the sky. The "ting ting" of the tram heading up Queen's Road was barely audible over the roar of car engines and the splashing of puddles. Women huddled with schoolchildren in shop doorways, standing soaked and shivering in their short trousers and dresses, waiting for the downpour to ease. The wind whisked leaves around their ankles from trees mostly bare after an already long-forgotten summer. Even though it was only 4.30p.m., the sky was already darkening.

Jack ran along the pavement, jumping over puddles, one hand holding his trilby and the other his umbrella. He bounded into the doorway of the Junction Arms, closing his umbrella and shaking off the excess water. He took off his hat and pulled a comb from his pocket to smooth down his ebony hair, a habit he no longer noticed.

The pub, named “Holy Joe’s” - a nod to the landlord’s clergy training- was a welcome port in the storm. Jack could see the lit fire through the condensation- lined windows and the warm glow of the bar. He pushed hard against the cold brass plate and was immediately hit by the smell of Guinness, cigarette smoke and burning peat, along with the damp wool of the patrons' wet clothing.

The pub was still quiet, with just the regulars. Jack hung up his brown gabardine trench coat and put his umbrella in the empty barrel by the door. Excited by his arrival, the pub dog, Flan, came up to him, wagging his tail and sniffing Jack’s pocket enthusiastically. Of mixed ancestry, but predominantly Irish Wolfhound, he was the perfect height to detect delectable titbits from the pockets of locals, and Jack didn’t disappoint. He licked and sniffed Jack’s hands as he pulled out the remains of a sausage roll from lunch, wrapped in a handkerchief.

Jack removed his hat, placed it on the bar, and waved to Maureen, pleased to see his usual stool was free.

“Name of Mercy, Jack, c’mere and get yourself dry! I see that rain's not stoppin’ anytime soon. The usual?”

“Aye, ta, Maureen.” Jack replied returning her smile.

Maureen was an attractive middle-aged woman who had worked in the pub for years. She always wore a smile and made everyone feel like a million bucks, even though she had her own troubles at home. Once you'd had a chat with Maureen, everything was right in the world.

As Jack waited for his Guinness, his attention moved to a copy of The Belfast Telegraph lying on the bar. The headline grabbed his attention: British jet airliner averages 450 MPH. He read about the record-breaking flight from Tripoli to London in a De Havilland Comet and then thought about the Short Solent he was working on. His flying boat merely flew at a top speed of 160mph, and it was estimated it would take them twelve days to reach Auckland on the upcoming delivery flight. His aircraft already appeared to be consigned to the annals of history.

“There you go luv.” Maureen said, passing him his Guinness.

Jack smiled and took a sip, savouring the moment of pure contentment with his eyes closed. As he licked the cream moustache from his upper lip, he scanned the other headlines but saw nothing of interest. Over by the fire he saw his father’s old friend, Bert.

“Alright Bert?

Noticing that Bert was nursing an almost empty glass, he signalled to Maureen to pour him another. Grabbing a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar she topped up his glass. Bert cheered up slightly.

“How are things? The wife and those grand bairns keeping you out a trouble?”

“Aye,” said Bert, gently swirling the liquid gold in the heavy-based glass. Bert was a man of little emotion. Mostly he wore an expression of disdain, although his expression of elation was not dissimilar. Trying to read Bert was like trying to solve a crossword.

“I hear you’re leaving us. The first in the family to leave the yard, apart from your brothers, that is. God rest their souls, and the rest of those poor buggers in the Second Ulster.”

As Bert was talking Jack could hear the wail of the sirens marking the end of the shift at the dock. In a few minutes, thousands of workers would be rushing out of the mighty dockyard gates, like pike swimming through the locks of Lagan Canal, many heading to the pub for a swift pint before making their way home.

There was the sound of women’s laughter outside, and Jack’s attention soon moved to the door as three young women entered hastily, laughing as they dashed in from the rain. He recognised all three. They worked in upholstery, and he had a particular fondness for one of them, Bettie, who had tight dark curls and porcelain skin. Jack raised his glass and smiled, and Bettie blushed slightly, a smile tickling the corner of her mouth before she looked away, embarrassed.

“Excuse me, Bert,” Jack said loudly over the din, with a twinkle in his eye, he headed towards the young women.

Bert nodded, without a word, thinking it would either be the grog or the girls that would be the ruin of Jack. He watched as Jack sat down at the table with the confidence of the landed gentry. But what Jack couldn’t see from behind, that Bert could, were the nervous eyes of the girls and the horror on their faces as a punch landed square on Jack’s jawbone, seemingly out of nowhere. Jack fell backwards with such force that the chair broke beneath him.

Bert took another sip of whiskey, confident in his initial prediction that it would be the booze or the women that would lead to Jack’s downfall- possibly both.

Chapter One

Waiheke Island, Aotearoa New Zealand, November 2018

Jean

Jean carried her breakfast tray to the veranda. The tray jangled and shook like the shell wind chimes she had made with her granddaughter the previous summer. She placed the bone-handled tea strainer over her teacup and poured the tea, holding the teapot with both hands to keep it steady. She put down the pot and carefully added the milk. Taking a bite of toast, Jean looked out to sea.

The whirring hum of the De Havilland Beaver could be heard before it came into view, lowering itself into the bay like a giant dragonfly. The seaplane kissed the millpond water as it landed, like an expertly skimmed stone. These visits punctuated Jean's days, as dependable as the tides, and had kept her going over the past year. She had now made it through 382 dawns and 764 low tides, and life was getting a little easier. As the plane came to a halt, the pops from its nine-cylinder engine slowed like popcorn bursting erratically, before silence settled over the bay.

A tūī perched on a flax plant below the veranda, the rigid leaves standing proud. Jean watched as the bird lapped sweet nectar from the flame-coloured flowers. It glanced at her before returning to its meal, the sun catching its iridescent green and blue plumage, flecked with bronze.

Jean had planned to write her Christmas cards and still had time before meeting a friend for coffee. She stood, steadying herself against the glass table, and carried the tray back to the kitchen. As she walked through the living room, it was filled with a kaleidoscope of rainbow stars cast by the crystal decanter in the sunlight. She picked up the silver photo frame from the bureau and gently brushed away the light dust that had settled since yesterday.

Two attractive young people smiled back at her, blissfully happy, with the world ahead of them. In the photograph she wore a beautiful but simple white tea-length dress with capped sleeves and a nipped waist, while Piri looked dashing in his Air Force dress uniform. A Fijian wedding hadn't been their plan, but Laucala Bay had become as much a home to them as anywhere.

Replacing the frame, Jean opened the bureau and took out the Christmas cards, a pen, and her well-worn address book. She began at "A" and, by the time she reached "J", had crossed off the names of three friends she had lost that year.

She picked up another card and looked at the pōhutukawa, known as New Zealand's Christmas tree. Its vivid red flowers bloomed like pom-poms each summer. Piri believed the spirits of the dead travelled north to Cape Reinga, where they descended into the underworld along the roots of the ancient pōhutukawa before returning to Hawaiki, the homeland of his ancestors. She hoped he had made that journey safely and wondered which friends would join him in the coming year.

As she neared the halfway point of the address book, where most of her friends resided, her anxiety grew. She was rescued by the chime of the carriage clock marking the half-hour. It was time to leave.

Jean checked herself in the mirror, put on her sunhat, and stepped through the front door, the flyscreen slamming behind her. The heat was already strong for the time of year, and she paused briefly as she climbed the steps to the road. Once she caught her breath, she continued along the main street, waving to a few neighbours before arriving at the Dolce Vita Coffee Shop.

Jean greeted the efficient barista as she worked the coffee machine like a conductor leading an orchestra. The hum of the grinder, the double bang of the portafilter against the knock box, and the rich aroma of coffee hit her all at once. Not unpleasant—just sudden, like the unexpected embrace of a grandchild.

She made her way to their favourite table on the deck, where it was quieter. Most of the customers weren't locals; the fine early-summer weather had brought the tourists sooner than usual.

Jean looked out over the turquoise and opaline water. The warm breeze embraced her, drifting across the Pacific on whispers of ukulele and song. Tilting her face to the sun, she felt the dappled sunlight warm her closed eyelids.

Life, indeed, was sweet.

****

It was 10pm and the belt of Orion was rising higher in the night sky, accompanied by Betelgeuse, Rigel, Aldebaran and the Dog Star, Sirius, following behind like a faithful companion. Jean fell asleep as soon as her head the pillow, but at 3am she awoke from a bad dream, the content of which she had already forgotten, though she knew it had disquieted her. She sat up to compose herself and take a few deep breaths.

For another hour, sleep would not come and dark thoughts filled her mind like dive-bombing sea birds. There was not much time to right wrongs, and she felt she could no longer push those memories to the back of her mind. After all, the secret wasn’t hers to keep. In that moment Jean decided she would write the letter in the morning.

A feeling of relief came over her, and she felt a sense of calm she had not felt in a long time. As she rested her head back on the pillow, she heard the first clicks and whistles of the tūī; within seconds, the melodic sounds filled the air. The chance to sleep was now likely lost as the Goddess Aurora rose to greet the new day.

Bournemouth, England, November 2018

Maia

The drone of the photocopier lulled Maia into a trance. In the distance, she could hear the “tap, tap, tap” of the music teacher’s baton getting increasingly frantic as the evening wore on. The orchestra had only improved marginally since the beginning of term, and as the Christmas concert neared, Mr Grove grew more exasperated with every rehearsal.

Maia leafed idly through an old edition of National Geographic Traveller. She flicked through worlds she had never visited: ice-caves, ancient Inca monuments, Pacific islands, coral atolls, and mourned the life she might have lived- the one she had once believed was waiting for her.

“No, no, no!”

Snapped back to reality, thanks to Mr. Grove’s protestations, Maia picked up the photo-copying, warming her hands briefly on plate tectonics and inhaled the metallic smell of ink. She placed the sheets in her tray for Year 8’s lesson tomorrow, then slung her Cath Kidson bag, stuffed with every stationary item imaginable, over her shoulder. With her laptop and marking balanced in her arms, she rummaged inside the bag, using her hand like a whisk to find her jangling keys.

Outside, it was dark and cold. Wind and rain lashed the large timber-framed windows. Maia didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t want to stay either. Since her father died, the house had felt lifeless- a museum of memories.

She pulled on her old raincoat, wrestled briefly with the jammed zip, then decided to give up and ran for the car. The red mini flashed a welcome as she pushed the key fob. Freezing rain soaked the front of her jacket before she slammed the door shut behind her.

Traffic was heavier than usual. Drivers were frenetic, eager to get home, and the reflection of lights in puddles was disorientating. As she left the town behind, the road eased and her thoughts returned to the day's news: her maternity cover post was being cut short. The regular geography teacher wanted to return early, unable to face another maraca shaking coffee morning, she had insisted on coming back before she became the "babbling entity" her son already was.

It was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating. For years she had cared for her parents, first one, then the other, sometimes both at once. Soon her father's estate would be settled, and with it a financial independence she had never known. Her friends’ lives had taken them all around the world to new lands and adventures, yet she had lived her life, for the most part, within five square miles.

She had begun teaching in the 1980’s, in the long decade Thatcher was in power, which began with a Royal wedding and ended in the Poll tax, and in between lay the Falklands War, Miners Strikes and Live Aid. It was a time when huge hair and mighty shoulders took over the staff room. Die-hard exercise fiends who had jazzercised in their spandex leggings and neon leotards to Mad Lizzie on breakfast television, made the rest of the staff reassess whether they should give in to the temptations of Walnut Whips, Chocolate Orange and Pyramints. In the corridors Body Shop’s “White musk” and “Dewberry Perfume Oil” hung heavy in the air like an intoxicating fruitily floral stink bomb and little glass pots of kiwifruit lip balm, passed like contraband, under wooden flip top desks spread cold sores faster than playground gossip. Maia didn’t miss the teased perms, power suits and rah-rah skirts, but she missed the comradery of those days.

She turned into the drive, switched off the engine, and hurried to the door. A pile of post waited on the mat, all addressed to her father. Mostly bills, although there was one that caught her eye. It had elegant cursive script and a brightly coloured stamp with an exotic bird in flight. She picked it up, and set it aside. Another person who did not yet know he was gone.

After heating last night’s left-overs, she abandoned her marking and went upstairs. The electric blanket was welcome but still sleep refused to come. Her mind filled with tasks; paperwork, the house, her father's things- and then, inevitably, her own life.

She lay awake, listening to rain on the window and distant cars splashing through puddles. Noticing it was 12.44 am, she leant over and switched on her father's old Bush radio, which was set to Radio 4. Immediately soothing her was the distinctive rising and falling of the woodwind arpeggio “Sailing By”. A disquietude of insomniacs was no doubt united by this reassuring, iconic slow waltz which ebbed effortlessly into the lyrical reading of the shipping forecast.

And now the shipping forecast issued to the MET office on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency at 0048 on Monday 19th November. There are warnings of gales in Viking, Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Plymouth, FitzRoy, Sole, Lundy, Fastnet...

Solace for some and a lifesaving counsel for those at sea, the forecast was a poetic reminder of her island home. And within moments, Maia was drifting across the ocean.

Irish Sea,

Shannon,

Rockall,

Malin,

Hebrides,

Bailey,

Fair Isle,

Faeroes

and Southeast Iceland…

To sleep