Decision Time

In the closing days of my reconnaissance, with significant reluctance, I convinced myself that our proposed life in Cyprus would be worse than our current one in England, even if the former did guarantee year round sunshine. Indeed, it would be much worse given that we’d lose so many of our friends and so much of our wealth. I recall confiding my concerns in an English stranger that I met midweek. He said that, in similar circumstances, he wouldn’t expose his young family to so much risk and uncertainty, no matter what the potential gains.

Despite my prospective employer’s well-appointed offices and pleasant staff, and the undeniable career challenges that lay ahead, three things concerned me most about the new job. One was the amount of time that I’d spend overseas on business trips during the year, leaving Allie and our children to fend for themselves in a foreign land. Another was the probable lack of specialist support in two disciplines that were unfamiliar to me: marketing and accounts. The third and most alarming concern was our financial viability, if I was the only breadwinner for a long period.

After I’d taken into account all of our on-going financial commitments in England, to life insurance policies and the like, and the probable living costs in Cyprus, it was undeniable that our expenditure was going to exceed our income, at least initially. Although we’d have lower direct and indirect tax bills - as well as gas, water, refuse collection and electricity charges – our bank account would definitely decrease month on month. One further unknown was telephone costs. Even if local calls were cheaper than in England, international ones were certainly not. I knew that we’d miss our family and friends, and need to ‘phone home at least once a week, more often if we got into bother.

The information that I’d gathered during my reconnaissance proved what my friend had told me before it began: that the reward package currently on offer wouldn’t suffice. Truly, I did need to double my British salary, to make emigration to this part of the world worthwhile. If only I’d asked for this friend’s advice more closely. Then, I would have saved the cost of my weeklong trip. I would also have saved my family and current employer a lot of heartache. The trick now was not to compound the problem. Consequently, my head grabbed a firm hold of my heart, to stop it making any more damaging mistakes.

Now fully aware of what my well-informed friend had been telling me all along, I realised the awful truth that our standard of living was going to plummet shortly after a move to Cyprus on the terms currently envisaged. Even if Angie secured a teaching job with SCEA in the autumn, the signs were that she’d have a lower salary than the one she currently enjoyed in England, for doing exactly the same work.

When hidden fringe benefits in England - like State subsidised mortgages at the time, ‘free’ State schooling and health care – were factored into the equation, there was only one rational answer. Our actual quality of life in England had a higher value than our potential quality of life in Cyprus. The many penalties we’d suffer simply didn’t justify the better climate we’d gain. I was heart-broken, but I’d always believed in the maxim, ‘If in doubt, don’t.’

In a way, my adventure thus far was like having someone place a big bowl of sumptuous red cherries before me. Only after sampling some exquisite morsels from the top layer however did it become increasingly apparent that the ones beneath were mouldy. Hence, my initial expectation of a highly pleasurable experience was dashed, something I didn’t want but probably deserved, having not listened to sound advice earlier.

On the last working day of my reconnaissance – Thursday 28 April, because the Orthodox Easter Holiday lay ahead - I talked frankly to the chairman about my concerns, particularly those related to money. To be fair, he did increase the value of my package, but not enough to cover the schooling and housing costs that we’d incur. He also reminded me of the bonuses that I could earn, if I performed well. By this time though, I knew the enormity of the challenges that lay ahead and the likelihood of achieving such objectives early on. Therefore, the chairman’s promises of ‘jam tomorrow’ had very little impact on the important decisions of the day.

Without accepting the chairman’s offer, verbally or in writing, I left his office in dismay to ponder the situation further. Not that there was much left to ponder. If I was mad enough to accept his offer, we’d have to take a big gamble on Allie finding a SCEA teaching post in September. The teaching jobs in Limassol’s private schools just didn’t pay well enough.

We’d originally hoped that Allie would be able to take a few months off after our arrival, to settle the children into their new surroundings. Such a notion would be out of the question, if I listened to my excitable, talkative heart and not my logical, almost silent head. If I accepted the chairman’s offer and Allie found work, Rob and Anne would begin a demanding socio-cultural survival course with little support from their parents. My heart said that they’d cope, they might even benefit from it, but the circumstances would be far from ideal, my head reminded me.

On my way back to the hotel, I found the first available telephone box and called Allie. It was an expensive time of day, but I had to appraise her of how things stood and ask for her advice, just as I’d done after my interview in Knightsbridge. Allie’s counsel had always been sound in the past. Several Phone Cards later, over crystal clear lines, we agreed that there was only one sensible conclusion. This was not the right opportunity: it had too many flaws. I should return home in a few days time, ask my employer for my old job back with humility, and tell the chairman that I was staying in England after all.

I spent my second Good Friday of 1994 (the Orthodox calendar usually being one week behind the Church of England’s) by the swimming pool of my hotel. Despite the bright sunshine, the day was a sombre and somewhat irritating occasion, spoilt by the imminent postponement, perhaps cancellation, of our plans for a fresh start somewhere warm. My mood was a reflection of the local television channels that day. They were awash with elaborate church services and classic religious films about Christ’s crucifixion.

By early afternoon, I’d had another touch too much of the sun. Consequently, my heart managed to wrest control of my head again and mount a serious challenge to the previous afternoon’s calm collected conviction that we should stay in England. I agonised all over again in minute detail whether, or not, we should and could accept the chairman’s offer. My heart pointed out truthfully that I wanted to spend the rest of my days in the sun, and that there’d been no similar job advertisements in the three months leading up to December, and none in the four months since! This, indeed, might be my one and only ‘chance of a lifetime’ to live and work in a warm climate.

Occasionally, my head would interrupt and have its say, reminding me of all the rational reasons for rejecting the job offer. For example, we’d have to make far too many personal and financial sacrifices. Then some bright Mediterranean colour, warm breeze off the sea, taste of a brandy sour, waft of sun tan lotion, or child’s shriek of joy from the pool would overrule all those very sound reasons for doing the ‘sensible thing’. The highly charged sensory cues that afternoon colluded with the passions deep within my heart, clearly both knew how to play this game long and dirty. I wanted to live and work for the rest of my life in a place that felt like my annual two week holiday in the Med’.

Returning to my hotel room in the late afternoon, perplexed and bewitched, I collapsed onto my bed. The place was stiflingly hot because I’d left the thick curtains open. Switching on the air conditioner, my next instinct was to soak in a cool bath, to numb some of my pain, physical and mental. The hotel had supplied several miniature bottles of bathing foam, but an anomalous sign nearby said that the island had a water shortage, and something about the amount of water it took to wash one towel. I was used to England’s water problems, and opted for a fragrant shower instead. How agonisingly good it felt to play a jet of water onto the swollen mosquito bites on my feet, legs and arms and the sunburn over most of my body.

Towelling myself dry, I caught sight of a reddish brown man in the mirror, much more red than brown in truth. Turning towards the man and looking at him more closely, I could see silly white frown marks on his forehead, from not wearing dark sunglasses enough. The doppelganger stared at me, and I stared back.

Allie would be envious of my tan, particularly if I could turn those red and white bits brown during the one day that remained of my reconnaissance/holiday. My tormentor heart reminded me that I could have a tan all year round, if I took the chairman’s offer. It said that I need never suffer from SAD again, and that I could achieve all of my career ambitions, just by the stroke of a pen.

By comparison, my head put its case feebly and, once again, I found incontrovertible fact losing ground to doubtful emotion. However persuasively my heart expounded its points of view though, it couldn’t persuade my head totally. It knew that Allie would opt for fact and logic every time. Eventually, my heart and head had to agree to differ. The opposing views were irreconcilable. There was no single right answer; no black or white solutions. In reality, this was a matter for unhurried judgement, based not only on personal values, beliefs and wishes, but also on hard fact, logic and reason.

After a short nap, I woke and stumbled back into the bathroom. My heart was still there, waiting for me, staring at me from the mirror. To my amazement, it capitulated though. Having cooled off, my heart agreed reluctantly that the venture must end when the chairman went back to work on Tuesday next. I was thankful for the harmony at last and we set off for the tourist strip together, for a ‘boys’ night out on the town.’ We were determined, my heart, my head and I, to have another full mezé before leaving the island. The way things were, it might be our last chance to experience one of those fabulous multi-course meals for a long while to come.

Such revelry was out of character for me, since my normal idea of a good time was a quiet night in with Allie and our cats, in front of the television. However, that’s the nice thing about being on holiday. The strangers you meet don’t know or care much about what you’re normally like. You are free to behave out of character if you want, and participate fully in all-manner of crazy antics with few regrets the following morning. In short, you can let go of life’s normal controls.

I was determined to enjoy myself in Limassol’s taverns, bars and clubs that last Saturday night. My need to ‘make whoopee’ stemmed directly from knowing that I wasn’t going to take the job (probably), and a desire to gain more than half a suntan from the money that we’d invested in my trip. I had such a good time in fact, that I arrived back at my hotel around four in the morning. When I woke after a few hours’ sleep, to keep a now unnecessary appointment with a man who’d found me some suitable accommodation, my tormentor had gone. All was tranquillity. My head was back in charge.

Having abandoned the entire venture (well almost), my initial interest in this man’s ‘find’ was minimal. All the accommodation that I’d seen so far were either dire, ridiculously expensive, or both. The chances of this one being different seemed minimal. However, I was pleased that I kept the appointment, for I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw that Sunday morning. It even restored some of my faith in Cypriot charm and hospitality.

The accommodation was in the old part of town; about ten minutes walk from the fickle charms of the chairman’s foyer. Proximity to my workplace would have been important, if I’d taken the job, since cash flow problems would have precluded buying a car between June and August. I hated taking loans you see, and preferred to live within my financial means, if at all possible. Anyway, there’d have been no point owning a vehicle that just collected dust whilst I was away on the many long business trips planned for the holder of my post that summer.

One big, bright, second-floor room with air conditioning really appealed to me. From one window, I could see the minarets of the town mosques. From another, through the heat haze, I could make out the RAF’s two white radar domes high up in the mountains. With a little effort from yet another window, I could see Limassol Bay and the ships at anchor waiting to enter the port. All these sights were so exotic compared to the ones on offer from the windows of my landlocked house in suburban England.

I had to agree with the excited man who’d introduced me to one of the proprietors. This place was indeed special, much better than any of the over-priced palaces and shanties that I’d seen during the previous week. At last, I’d found somewhere clean, presentable and inexpensive to live. I’d slotted the last awkward piece of the jigsaw into place. What a shame that I wasn’t taking the job! Instantly, my heart started berating my head again, about the conclusion it had reached with some reluctance the previous afternoon. I silenced it temporarily with a firm reminder that, even if our accommodation was attractive and affordable, we still couldn’t bear the school fees.

To save embarrassment all round, I made a loose arrangement with the proprietor to rent the room of my dreams from Wednesday, 1 June. Secretly, I planned to telephone him the day before, on the Tuesday of the following week, after having spoken to the chairman, to reverse my booking. He’d soon let my room out to some other lucky person.

As I shuffled despondently back to my hotel, doubt welling inside me once more, I decided to skirt the Limassol shoreline one more time. It was a customary thing for me to do on the last day of Mediterranean holidays. Taking my shoes and socks off, I shut out the offending noise and smell coming from the coast road. Lost in thought, all I could hear was the rhythmic ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ sound that my feet made as they pushed aside the loose shingle, the ‘cr-r-rush’ of small waves breaking nearby and the ‘sizzle’ of their receding foam. The sea breeze smelt fresh and warm.

This was what I wanted, a lifetime of such idyllic moments. So, why was I about to deny myself them? I felt so cheated. How could life be so cruel as to place such apparent perfection before me, hand it to me a plate almost, only for one brief taste to reveal its many flaws?

As the water lapped in and out, I spied several brightly coloured stones that would make ideal souvenirs. Unfortunately, as they dried in my hand they lost their lustre, so I tossed them back into the water for another dreamer to enjoy. Instead, I’d buy Rob and Anne a tacky T-shirt each, one that they’d probably hate and never wear. The decision to stay in England wouldn’t disappoint them. A T-shirt each from Dad would be unnecessary compensation. Deep down, I think that they craved the stability offered by the life they knew.

The gentle on-shore breeze eventually pushed me up the beach, towards the road with its gaudy shops and their seaside trinkets. As the ozone and spray gave way to diesel and petrol, I said quiet goodbyes to the speedboat drivers, water skiers and sunbathers. Not one of them heard, of course. Not one of them cared that I was going away and might never come back.

Some hours later, I arrived at Larnaca Airport and met the couple that I’d sat next to on the outbound journey. They were keen to hear the upshot of my investigation and were as excited as I had been seven days earlier. Apparently, they’d been speculating favourably all week about the final outcome. They were crestfallen therefore when I told them that we wouldn’t be emigrating after all. It wasn’t the verdict they expected, or wanted, to hear. In fact, the news was something of a conversation killer.

The huge disappointment partially behind all three of us, we booked in for our flight to find that ‘technical reasons’ had had the bad grace to delay our departure. An hour passed slowly and, after a second even slower hour of rumour, counter rumour and counter-counter rumour, the airline representative finally appeared. From behind a convenient parapet, she announced that our flight wouldn’t take off now until the next day. Panic and hysteria ensued as disgruntled passengers headed in all directions to make frantic telephone calls.

Like an inexperienced Welsh Collie trying to regain control of startled sheep, the representative tried desperately to manoeuvre us through various gates as a flock. Shocked and confused, some of the more excitable sheep tried jumping out of their pens, until a few bitten ankles from a more seasoned Collie restored order.

Once herded onto hastily-acquired buses, the flock’s alarm and distress returned as soon as it neared our overnight accommodation. The hotels and their associated restaurants were still boarded-up, like an English seaside town would be in mid-winter. Worse still, our accommodation was plainly to be in three rundown establishments just below the flight path, about 500 metres below it seemed. I’d seen enough rundown establishments over the past few days, and three more now were particularly unwelcome sights.


At this critical time, the inexperienced sheepdog chose to panic about the lack of keys. While she went looking for the holders, shrieking and waving her arms furiously, we sheep humped a week’s dirty washing and shoddy bargains off the buses, and stood around bleating about our misfortune. I thought about trying the front doors, to see if they were unlocked. However, I thought better of it. This sheep knew its place.

Slowly, slowly, key holders appeared and the inexperienced rep allocated us to various rooms. My cubby-hole had a mysterious smell. In seven short days, I’d become quite an expert on Cyprus’ mysterious smells. Mustiness and decay had never been one of my favourites in isolation, yet alone together, so I threw open the windows and went to find a telephone box. Allie needed to know of the delay.

After the call and a long walk, I found a lonely looking café offering stark comfort. The place would have blended well into any out-of-season seaside resort back home, the kind that still made Horlicks frothy with jets of steam and hadn’t moved on since the 1960s. The general ambience evoked familiar memories from childhood holidays: memories of chipped Pyrex cups, uncomfortable melamine furniture and damp pack-a-mack coats.

Having evaded my fellow travellers, I had further time to reflect upon the correctness of my decision not to emigrate. Meanwhile, the café’s ‘chef’ conjured up some food from goodness knew where. He couldn’t have known I was coming that evening. As far as I could tell, I’d been his first customer for months.

By the end of yet another two-hour reflection, that included the old couple’s disappointment from earlier in the day, I wore a new polka dot outfit on my legs and arms. The latest mosquito bites causing the blotches were the size and colour of red table grapes. If I hadn’t enjoyed my meal at the café, the mosquitoes had certainly enjoyed theirs. Was I so lost in thought, that I hadn’t noticed the furtive attack? With no bite cream in my shorts’ pocket, I’d just have to scratch and suffer until I got back to my room.

This latest affliction brought me back to my senses. In fact, sobering physical attacks of this sort were the perfect antidote to my wild, intoxicating dreams. I retired to my hotel room only to find that, in letting out the mysterious smell, I’d let in yet more mosquitoes. I shut the windows again and embarked on a wild killing spree, using the magazine that I’d bought for my journey as a weapon of mass murder.

I could only hope that Larnaca Airport didn’t allow night flights in early summer. I was to learn a short while later that I hadn't lost my ability to misplace optimism: noise and vibration punctuated my sleep every half hour or so.

The next morning, with the last rigours of impromptu airline hospitality (Continental Breakfast) out of the way, we made for the airport. As our aircraft tracked north west, high over the gorgeous Akamas coastline, I felt sad about having to call off our great escape to the sun. The sea looked so beautiful. So many wonderful shades of blue, green, turquoise and white. In an instant, Cyprus was gone. It was time to move on.