"Ill Wind," Radiohead
Blasted by a new virus after an Efterklang concert, Marguerite packs up her shrine and plots a narrow escape from Bristol.
Hello! You’ve found Faye’s Wing, a series of multimedia scenes about the creative quest for fulfilment beyond a fixed spiritual identity. It comes out every Wednesday, and features music and visuals from contributing artists. If you are new here, I suggest you start at the beginning and read the story sequentially. You can also check out my project overview for more info, or view the list of scenes you might have missed.
Keep your distance
Then no harm will come
No ill wind
Will blow1
A few days later, the US blocks all travel from Europe, and I am coughing violently. There are now 500 declared cases of Covid in the UK. The Teacher urges us all to reach into our toolkit of practices and recite the Kavacam as we go about our days. An 'armour' of mantras for each part of the body, these prayers are meant to guard us against every kind of human or supernatural affliction, be it affecting our body, emotions, mind, or spirit. I am struck by the timing. Having accomplished the prayer barely a month earlier, the verses are still fresh in my memory and I hang on to them like a raft in choppy waters.
In my eight years in England, I have only been to the doctor’s once, for a wellness visit, lucky to shake ailments through rest, hydration and, at worst, a couple of sessions with an acupuncturist. With a fever still raging as another week draws to a close, I ring our neighbourhood practice.
‘Have you filled out the online questionnaire?’ asks the nurse on call.
‘I did, but it dismissed me because I haven’t been to China or Italy recently.’
'You’re fine, then. Take some paracetamol and remember to drink lots of fluids. Try lemon and honey for your cough.’
I’ve been doing precisely that and more, for over a week, with no improvement whatsoever. I have never experienced this much coughing before—relentless, bruising, leaving me gasping for air.
‘You can see how healthy I am from my records,’ I continue. ‘There are times when the coughing is so bad, it feels like drowning.’
‘You can’t possibly have Covid, you haven’t been to the two clusters. We’re not seeing patients with coughs, but you can come in to test for strep throat.’
‘Call it what you like—I need medical attention,’ I insist, just about managing to keep my cool.
‘Call back after our lunch break, and we’ll look into your cold.’
When I call back an hour later, the call goes straight to voicemail. There’s a lot of background noise on the recording, and the receptionist sounds breathless, rushed.
‘The surgery has closed until further notice...’
Another coughing fit takes over, so violent that Sacha rushes in.
‘Are you okay, Mom? Do you want me to call someone?’ If only there were someone to call, I think. His eyebrows scrunch together as he watches me gasping uncontrollably. Finally, a wisp of air returns to my raw lungs. Wiping my tears away, I stroke his cheek.
‘I’m okay, honey, it’s just a bad cough.’
The whole situation is absurd. ‘Come if you have another illness, but we can’t test you to find out…? You can’t have the malady, but you may come to have your non-malady cough diagnosed?’ How can they possibly tell what’s what over the phone? I reach for the phone to report back to the Teacher.
Me: Schools in France have closed. My brother-in-law says we should join them in the countryside until this thing has blown over. I trust the health services over there. I’ll call the removal people in the morning and ask them to bring everything forward. And I’ll send the boys on to safety and stay behind to pack.
Teacher: Keep the boys with you to help pack and clean. You are sick and need support. Together gives you support.
All hands on deck. All hearts together. One family.
Our travel date is set for February 24th. She urges on:
Teacher: Sooner. More travel bans will come and you will be stuck. Go quickly, quickly.
You must calm your cough. Have your homeopathic remedies arrived? What about masks, gloves, sanitiser?
Pack up your shrine. The liturgies are the most important.
Me: I’ve got all that, but I do feel wobbly… I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours.
Teacher: Food, please. Now. Toast. Protein. Soup. You need strength for this transition. Please. Ask your boys to make sure you eat.
In the afternoon, another text comes through.
Teacher: France is shutting businesses. Monday will be too late. Get the movers to pack up for you and get across the border. If it closes, it will be months and months.
Can I post a prayer request for you?
The Goddess has got your back, She will open doors.
Go tomorrow? You can do it.
Me: My family thinks I’m crazy to be leaving so fast. Parisians are still sitting in cafes over there.
Teacher: It’s okay. Let them think what they think. Follow the Goddess, She is your guide now.
On the phone, my sister can’t understand my determination to leave England.
I use what voice and energy I have left to shout into the phone, ‘We’re leaving as soon as I can get a flight out of here, whether you help me or not.’
There’s a silence and I am suddenly very calm, every detail in the living room crystal-clear—the devastation of it all.
‘Fine,’ Sophie replies. ‘You focus on packing, and we’ll find flights leaving tomorrow. Julian is looking into a big house for us all to share near his office in Bordeaux. We’ll try to join you as soon as possible. Get some sleep.’
But there’s no time to sleep. It’s 10pm when I hear that a flight from Gatwick has been secured for the next morning - at least three hours away by car. Sacha is in a strop because it will mean missing having his friend for a sleepover. The penny isn’t dropping. No matter how many times I tell him that, ill as I am, we would not be hosting anyone even if we were staying, he cannot let his disappointment go.
‘But you promised! Why can’t we just get a takeaway, while you stay in bed?’
Over in Cambridge, Ben doesn’t understand the rush, and is reluctant to join us.
‘There’s not long to go until Easter break, Mom. I was going to stay on and hang out with friends.’
His bafflement isn’t surprising, since I’m now operating in full fight or flight mode, with the fight component entirely directed at my condition.
I keep giving him contradictory instructions. ‘Meet us in Bristol. No, at the airport. Unless…’
In the end, we decide that he will catch the last coach to the airport, sleep there, and wait for us.
Luke surprises me the most. He is usually the most phlegmatic of the three, forever keeping us waiting as he messes with his hair, phone, or homework, with a tendency to play devil’s advocate. But, as his brother cranks the same complaint again, his impatience gets the better of him.
‘Sacha, shut up and go to bed if you’re not gonna help. You’re pissing Mom off and slowing us down. I don’t want to leave, either, but you know Mom when she has a crazy ass idea…’ I see him morph into being a highly efficient carer. ‘Mom,’ he says, ‘how ‘bout I make you some shmeta?’
The incongruity of his “shmeta,” an invented concoction of melted feta and herb slathered in olive oil, in the midst of panic, brings a welcome dose of normality, especially since no one is usually allowed to come near his stash of cheese.
‘Oh, I’d love some, Lukey, but there’s still so much to do.’
I scan the living room, which looks like it’s been hit by a tropical storm. All over the flat, enormous suitcases lie in semi-packed latency, awaiting action alongside shoes, books, linens, thermals. Though I can’t imagine that my shivering will ever stop, spring will come sooner in southern France, I think. Should I pack for now, or for warmer weather? How long will it take us to find a proper home again, how long until our things are shipped over? And I mustn’t forget all our paperwork, the boys’ school records… And the cat! Damn it, can he come as carry-on, will he need…’
‘Mom, Mom!’ Luke snaps his fingers, bringing my attention back to the room. ‘You’re flaking out. I’ll make you a sandwich, and you’d better eat it.’
He comes back as I am trying to yank out the box of Christmas decorations from the top shelf of a cupboard.
‘Here’s a cup of tea and a—’
The box ruptures, spilling baubles and garlands everywhere.
‘I can’t flipping believe it!’ I say, scrambling to pick up what I can before a bauble is stepped on and embeds shards of paper-thin glass into someone’s foot.
Luke tugs gently at my shoulder, turns me around, and leads me to the kitchen.
‘Sit. Eat. Now. And tell me how I can help.’
After my snack, our downstairs neighbour, Hannah, comes upstairs for removal instructions and goodbyes. When I hand her the keys, she addresses me in flawless French and I break into floods of tears. For four years, I was homesick and all we exchanged were polite stairwell greetings in English. Now that we are leaving, she tells me she used to dance with Maurice Béjart, whose Boléro I adore, and evokes a world of beauty and grace that we could have shared. Instead of being friends, she will kindly buzz in Gumtree and Freecycle takers for our like-new beds and sofas. My heart breaks at the irony.
Around midnight, as I’m packing up the last of my shrine, Julian rings. Our plan has gone out the window.
‘You’ve all got flights to Bordeaux, but…’ He pauses. ‘Your sister won’t leave Paris without Milo, who won’t leave without his girlfriend—and she’s staying behind to look after her elderly parents. We’re going to wait it out a bit longer. Hopefully, things will shift soon. I’ve had to let go of the reservation we made on the house. So, where do you want your Airbnb? Near us, if we make it down, or where you were intending to move to in the summer?’
Trouble is, nothing was set in stone. I had narrowed things down to four towns along the Atlantic, and was still scouting out high schools. Distant memories of salty spray wash over me. I pluck a name from the night sky and out spills, ‘Biarritz. Please find us a place to land in Biarritz.’ The ocean will keep us safe, I think.
© “Ill Wind,” Radiohead, 2019.