The Aftermath

Both of the men I met that morning were polite, courteous and charming. The chairman was Libyan, surprisingly. Having read his company’s brochure many times in the previous weeks, I thought that he might be Lebanese. Together, the men presented the job requirement well and I gained the impression that the chairman ran a strong, well-established conglomerate in need of additional Western know-how. As I sipped the black sugarless tea that I hoped would make me seem worldly, I had no doubt that I was one of the three people he sought in Britain that day. Reassured, I gave him a confident, enthusiastic, almost extravert performance.

On leaving the hotel, I recall thinking that there wasn’t much else I could have done or said to impress the chairman and his English advisor. I looked at my grandfather’s gold wristwatch and couldn’t believe that a whole hour had past since shaking my new umbrella outside the hotel foyer. My first priority now was to find a telephone box and call Allie. She’d just begun her Easter holiday from school and was waiting impatiently at home, desperate for news. ‘Yes,’ I told her excitedly, ‘It had gone very well, very well indeed.’ So well that I hadn’t felt the need to ask for a refund of my travel expenses. Still, what were a few pounds given the enormity and potential rewards of the day’s events?

After the telephone call, with litres of adrenaline still coursing round my veins, I didn’t feel like getting back onto the Underground and returning home straight away. Instead, I wandered deliriously round Central London in my smart Crombie overcoat, with my black briefcase and neatly furled umbrella. To the tourists passing by, I must have been the archetypal English businessman.

Mentally and physically sound, my spirits soared. I felt good about what had just happened and very optimistic about the outcome. Such was my euphoria that I cannot tell you where I walked that morning, or how long my journey took. I do recall however floating past the Albert Hall and Science Museum at least once. Eventually, I sobered up and caught the Tube near Harrods back to St. Pancras.

I couldn’t settle during the train journey north either. I couldn’t even focus on my favourite computer magazine that I’d bought on the station concourse. Instead, I tried gripping reality and controlling my emotions by pinching my legs from time to time, whilst browsing some of the additional corporate material the chairman had distributed at the interview. These swanky brochures looked wonderful and phrases like, ‘prestigious offices overlooking Limassol’s sea front,’ stirred me, along with the glossy photographs of various sun-drenched locations. Some of the words I found difficult to fathom at first and I quickly gave up on them, probably due to my child-like excitement.

From the manner of Allie’s greeting on my arrival home, it was clear that she too was beside herself with anticipation and concern. Although I was more composed by this time, we both shared a sense of weightlessness. It seemed as if we were trapeze artists swinging high above a circus ring with nothing to catch us should we slip and fall, which was so exhilarating!

To erect some sort of safety net, I decided to fax the chairman at his hotel. I thanked him for the interview and summarised my strengths in a way that hadn’t been possible verbally. In short, I reiterated my huge desire to work for him in Cyprus. Such a communication might have been counter-productive, if I’d thought through the consequences fully. However, such was my desire for a new life for my family in the sun, that I thought it necessary to ask for the job again in a forthright manner.

A week or so elapsed and, horror of horrors, yet again nothing happened. Did the chairman not appreciate the torture he was putting us through? With the appointment decision deadline mentioned at my interview passed, I again took matters into my own hands. I couldn’t bear the apparent indecision and tardiness. I needed an answer, one way or the other, so that my family and I could get on with our lives. Therefore, I faxed the chairman again, this time in Cyprus, asking him directly if the job was mine.

Within an hour, back came a faxed reply. The first paragraph said clearly that I was the prime candidate for the consultant’s position! On reading this paragraph several times over, to identify whether it was a job offer and not just a position statement, Allie and I convinced ourselves it was the former. Oh, what joy! We’d won the lottery and the football pools on the same day. We’d achieved out ultimate dream, maybe.

Those who know me will confirm that I am not disposed to unfettered outbursts of emotion. However, on that very special morning, my wife and I literally danced round our study, whooping and whistling for many minutes. Once our jigs had subsided, we read beyond the first paragraph. As we did, it was as if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over us, for the chairman went on to request a written assurance from me that I could start work for him on Wednesday 1 June. The third paragraph was even worse. It said that my assurance would then trigger a formal job offer and my acceptance of that would see us on our way south.

The chairman’s condition presented me with a terrible dilemma. It meant having to ask my current employer for early release from my contract, specifically my obligation to give three months’ notice. In doing so, it also meant jeopardising my family’s main income, without an absolute guarantee of alternative employment. On the other hand, if I didn’t comply, I risked jeopardising our beloved dream.

Within the hour, I sent another carefully worded fax to Cyprus. In it, I thanked the chairman for his candour and pointed out courteously that I wasn’t willing to risk my present job without any safeguards. Later in the day, he faxed me a formal ‘Offer of Employment’. With this in my possession, and believing the chairman to be an honourable man, Allie and I felt confident about approaching our respective employers.

Allie’s head teacher understood our ambition instantly and said that she would support us if we decided to move on. She made it clear though that she would be sad to loose such an excellent teacher.

My boss was similarly accommodating. He understood fully that this was probably a ‘once in a lifetime’ opportunity. Not only did he reduce my notice period by two months but he also gave me some sound advice. He recommended that I take a week's holiday, to visit my new employer in Cyprus and form a first-hand impression of what might lay ahead. If I still wanted the post abroad after my reconnaissance, then my month long notice period could begin on 1 May. If, on the other hand, I changed my mind, then all I would have lost was a week of my holiday entitlement and a few hundred pounds in flight and hotel expenses. At least, I’d be making an informed decision and wouldn’t be spending the rest of my life agonising over, ‘If only(s)...’

Taking my employer’s advice, I faxed the chairman again asking if I could visit him in Cyprus during the following week to clarify a few matters. At this stage, I hadn’t accepted his job offer formally, neither had I handed in a written notice to the video company. All of my options were still open; my family was safe. ‘Yes,’ came the reply, ‘The chairman would be in his office between Monday and Thursday.’

Before leaving for my week long reconnaissance, a friend with recent experience of living and working in the region said that it would be necessary to double my English salary to make living there worthwhile. My heart sank with this news, since my gross salary in Cyprus was going to be about the same as it was in England. That is, with offshore employee salaries being virtually tax-free in Cyprus at the time and me being a top rate taxpayer in England, I’d be less than forty percent better off. He also said that my family and I should expect at least one return airfare to my ‘point of origin’ each year, as well as adequate furnished accommodation, educational assistance, medical cover, personal effect shipping expenses and excess baggage allowance. Further, I should opt to spend three months out there alone initially, before even thinking about asking my family to join me.

Arrogantly, I hoped that my reconnaissance would prove him wrong on all counts. In the back of my mind though, the probable shortfall in my salary as well as the lack of education and personal effects provision now lurked. They seemed to be stalking my grand plans, possibly in readiness for a messy ambush. For the first time in the whole affair, the veil of blissful innocence obscuring my vision slipped, and I began to feel foolish and exposed. A little common sense would have told me to seek more advice from friends of a similar calibre, and to seek it early to identify and overcome my mounting doubts. However, I wasn’t being sensible. I was young and full to the brim with self-confidence and belief. Impervious to concern, criticism and advice thus far, I knew what I was doing, or so I thought.

Since my prospective employer gave no indication in his reply that he would support or arrange my visit, I booked my own flights and accommodation. Such was my state of mind at this time that I thought little of the additional cost I was about to incur, or the fact that I would be spending some of my family’s savings for its annual pilgrimage to the sun.

Perhaps I really did see my trip as an investment, not a cost; an insurance premium, to safeguard the tangible and intangible riches that we had squirreled away over the years. If the company was worthy and I accepted its offer, the returns would justify the investment. If the reverse were true, then the cost of the premium would far outweigh the losses we’d make in friendships and material wealth.

On the face of it, what I was about to embark upon was a confidential trip to establish the bona fides of my prospective employer and the job that we had in mind. Consequently, I wanted as few people as possible to know about my trip so that, if I decided against taking job, I could carry on as if nothing had happened. What I didn’t want therefore, was to meet two colleagues from work at Newcastle Airport on the morning of my departure. What I really didn’t want was to hear that they were about to go on a two-week holiday to Cyprus, on the same flight as me! I cursed my luck. This, unlike the Hercules’ antics some weeks ago, was not a good omen.

I had no idea beforehand that they were going to the same destination as me on that particular Saturday morning. I recall mumbling awkwardly something about needing a week’s break in the sun, to recuperate after a particularly hectic period at work. Not that this piece of fiction explained fully why a married man was travelling alone, apparently. Perhaps that’s why my colleagues kept scanning the Departure Lounge, looking for a sheepish young woman who wasn’t my wife, also in need of ‘rest and recuperation’!

Fortunately, my colleagues were staying at the eastern end of the island, near Protraras. With me heading in the opposite direction on leaving Larnaca, planned meetings were unattractive and chance encounters unlikely in the days ahead. Fortunately too, we checked in for our flight at different times and found ourselves sitting at opposite ends of the cabin. This meant that I could enjoy the four and a half-hour flight, without the need to embellish or substantiate my wafer-thin cover story any further. A third piece of luck was that they were on a two-week vacation and I was coming home after seven days. Therefore, we wouldn’t be meeting at Larnaca Airport on our return.

My seat was well forward in the cabin, near the cockpit and next to a couple in their mid-50s who’d booked a one-week package tour to Larnaca. Anonymity, and the improbability of them striking up a deep discussion with my colleagues, meant that I could confide in them the real reason for my trip, as a means of releasing some tension. They proved to be wonderful listeners and were genuinely excited by the thought of someone trying to break free of gloomy England, to fulfil a life-long dream. They’d been running their own plumbing company for many years, and had never been able to entertain such a wonderful idea as, ‘Let’s up-sticks and head for a new life in the sun.’

On the evening of my arrival at Larnaca Airport - Saturday 23 April, my daughter’s birthday - I was disappointed to find that no one from the company was there to greet me. Although I’d faxed my flight and hotel details to the company a day or so before, there wasn’t even a prepaid taxi to drive me the hour or so west to Limassol. This seemed odd given my experience of business in England, especially where overseas visitors were concerned. In hindsight, it seemed even more odd given the image that I’d formed of the company and the management position I was about to fill.

After ten minutes of forlorn hunting for a taxi driver’s board with my name on it, I shrugged my shoulders and put the oversight down to, ‘Things being different here.’ I was very upset, in truth, and wondered if I shouldn’t have stayed at home for Anne’s birthday party instead.

Seeing my dilemma, the wife of a RAF corporal approached me. We’d had a casual discussion in Newcastle’s Departure Lounge, possibly causing some nudging between my colleagues at the time, and probably even more so now. She kindly offered me a lift to Limassol, since she and her daughters were en route to RAF Akrotiri, and there was enough space in her husband’s car for me. The detour to my hotel via the sea front road would only be a short one.

Not long after leaving the airport, somewhere near the adjacent salt lake, I bombarded the corporal and his family with a hundred and one questions that I needed answers to. Vital questions about mundane issues such as the winter climate, the cost of living and typical salaries. No doubt, within ten minutes of squeezing me into their car, they regretted having offered me a lift.

The corporal said that we’d all need pullovers and bed duvets later in the year, because it did get cold on winter nights. I found this difficult to believe in late April, but scribbled the observation down in my notebook nonetheless. He also said that locally made goods were cheap, but generally of poor design and manufacture. Shoddiness often meant clothes and shoes falling apart, sometimes within a few days’ of purchase. On the other hand, good quality imported items were expensive. Children’s clothes were a good example apparently, and he illustrated the point with a pair of Clarke’s shoes that he’d bought in Limassol recently, at three times the price in England! I made another note in my book to buy several outfits for us all before emigrating, if I took the job.

The way of life in Cyprus, the corporal confirmed, was marvellous. His working day started and finished early because of the heat. That left lots of spare time for sport, recreation and barbecues in the afternoons and evenings, especially during the summer months. Eating out at taverns was good value too, especially away from the tourist traps. At last, some positive things to tell Allie and the children.

During the short breaks that I allowed during my interrogation, I looked out of the car’s windows at the countryside. We were on a dual carriageway gouged out of light brown rock that bore little vegetation. Gone were the lush green grass and flower-laden kerbsides on view from England’s M6 motorway. This was Mediterranean summer garb, and I loved it.

As we turned off the two-lane road, towards the five star hotels gracing the eastern fringes of Limassol, we left behind a steady stream of soccer supporters. They were heading for a local match in an assortment of cars, their team’s yellow and green colours streaming from every point that they could tie or wedge a scarf.

Apparently, between the upper class hotels and Limassol itself lay the gaudier end of town. The corporal thought that I ought to see it, to give me an impression of what might be our new home, since most of the cheap accommodation was there. Apart from broadening my education, the corporal wasn’t too sure where my hotel was: only by travelling slowly along the tourist strip and keeping our eyes open might we find it unaided. With all of us looking for my hotel and me still burbling questions however, we almost collided with a Mercedes taxi and then two mopeds. We also very nearly disappeared down what appeared to be an unmarked tank trap in the middle of the road. The corporal told me not to worry. He was used to wayward drivers and the town’s latest sewer excavations.

Having found my hotel, the corporal stopped his car outside. However, either the vehicle was very low due to the weight it was carrying, or Limassol’s pavements were very high, or both. Whichever, as I opened the door its lower edge made an awful scraping sound as it made contact with the kerb. I looked for shards of paint, but couldn’t see any. Realising that this wasn’t the best way to say, ‘Thank you for the lift,’ or to make new friends, I forced a few pounds into his hand to cover the petrol cost; I didn’t have enough money for a re-spray. Fortunately, we left on good terms. So much so that the corporal’s wife even invited me to Sunday lunch, the next day. Roast beef with all the trimmings, I hoped. If so, how appropriate being at RAF Akrotiri.

Having waved off the family from the kerb, I realised how tired I was. I suppose that all the adrenaline and excitement had to take its toll sometime. Consequently, I dragged my suitcase across the busy coast road, over the pavement on the other side, and then into the hotel foyer. Only a night porter was on duty. He’d been expecting me and duly handed over my key in exchange for a signed registration card.

Across the foyer, I found the lift. Although the porter warned me that it had been temperamental earlier in the day I couldn’t face the stairs, so I took a chance hoping that luck was indeed with me. The gamble paid off, and I didn’t spend my first night in Cyprus since 1991 in a small aluminium room with no bed or toilet. On reaching the third floor, I turned right and found my door.

Mentally and physically drained by this time, I unpacked and put away most of my clothes before retiring. The rest, I hung on a hanger, ready to wear the next morning. This was a familiar ritual from my professional life in England, since I liked to fall asleep knowing that everything was in place.

With my living space neat and tidy, most of me collapsed onto the bed. I say ‘most of me’ because the bed was too short for my almost two metre frame. Clearly, I would have to make space for my feet further up the bed for the next few nights, if I was to avoid bites from any mosquitoes.

As I lay awake patiently waiting for sleep to arrive, I consulted the scribble in my notebook. Then my thoughts turned to Anne’s party. I hoped that she’d received the fax that I’d sent her from Newcastle Airport earlier in the day. Eventually, I dozed off with the aid a gadget described in the room as ‘full air condition’.